59. Writer In The Dark #2
“Now why you think that is, huh?” he asks. “Man ain’t stupid. He knows what happens when you ain’t got no one. So don’t think for one second he’s not makin’ moves, gettin’ ready for when you turn twenty-five.” His eyes slide back to me. “He’s gunnin’ for all your weak spots, Baby.”
His eyes cut down my body,
then back to my face.
“And you got a lot of those.”
I straighten my back. “You’re lyin’.”
He chuckles. “Okay. I’m lyin’.”
“Why wouldn’t you take that deal?”
Ben bites down on his lip,
eyes filled with a tiny bit of amusement.
Then lets he lets his lip go.
“Better the devil you know, right?”
For a moment our stares are a standoff.
Him on his knees,
me towering over him.
He may not know Raymond, but I do.
Raymond knows exactly how to control me, and this control over me gets him hard in ways I don’t wanna think about.
So spare me. I’ve been living on his chessboard for years. But he can’t flip the board without fucking up his own game.
If he takes me down, he goes down too.
If he exposes me,
and I lose the CEO position,
Raymond loses twenty-five million.
It’s a family-friendly arrangement.
One I’ll never entertain with Ben.
“Now on all fours,” I say.
Ben only has one hard limit.
He’s twisted in that way.
I’ve chainsmoked his soft limits until they broke him. But I’ve never needed to use his one hard limit.
I remind myself he chose this punishment. But he also probably never thought we’d end up here.
Ben stands tall, a tower rising, brooding over me with a half-second of intimidation, the other half a threat.
“What?” I say, twirling the dildo. “I’ll use lube.” His jaw locks up, two storms brewing in his eyes. I tap the head of the dildo against his chest. “You can use your safeword… Or you can get on all fours. Your call.”
He can barely look at me,
his fingers flexing into fists.
“Ben, why do you look scared?”
He rips his head sideways,
looks out the window.
“Oh, that’s right,” I say with a snap of my finger.
“You’re not the one who had to relive their trauma, lettin’ her Boy fuck her from behind ‘cause he pretty much blackmailed her when Brandon left.” I lift my hands at my sides.
“That wasn’t me needin’ you, Ben. That was me toleratin’ you ‘til I could get a replacement.” I bite down on my smile.
“Embarrassing. You gotta threaten a girl to have sex with you.”
“Baby,” he’s shaking his head. “Look, I’m sorry.” He’s breathing hard, mouth opening on the edge of the safeword.
I step back to look at him. “You’re serious? I gotta man up for you to keep you from walkin’, but you can’t suffer through once?” My brows lift high, almost taking me off my feet. “You really are a weak ass, aren’t you?”
That gets him to turn around.
I pace behind him, lubricating the dildo as he’s kneeling, same position he had me in not too long ago…
But then Ben fades away,
and all I see in my mind is me
on all fours
all over again,
ropes, straps, chains, spreader bars,
muscles pulled tight
as I’m being fucked.
By Ben.
By Cooper.
By Hunter.
Me crying, body shaking.
Me begging with a face full of hot tears.
Me never knowing sex to be anything more than this: you’re either the one in control, or the one getting fucked.
And now, here I am. On the other side.
The irony’s bitter,
and so is the laugh that leaves me.
“Ben, Ben, Ben… So completely helpless,
“so weak, and so fuckin’ pathetic.”
A sick part of me drinks in the sight of him. The rest of me wants to puke.
I have this boxer on all fours with tears in his eyes, this man who’s twice the size of me. This man who could overpower me, who could throw me through this window.
But it’s also disgusting,
to be anything like him,
to be anything like the others.
These two feelings collide in my chest,
making my heart feel
like a sledgehammer each time it beats.
‘Cause now Ben’s shaking, scared.
Like how I was shaking.
How I was scared.
Then he breaks formation
and falls back on his knees.
Panic washes over him,
and he’s gasping for a breath, as if he has his own demons to hide from.
Seeing him like this,
I don’t know whose are meaner.
When he looks back at me,
terror scars his face.
“Allison, I’m so sorry,” he cries,
safeword and apology at once,
and I hate him.
I hate that he’s here.
I hate that he’s looking at me.
I hate that he used his safeword
and I never did with him.
I hate that I hurt myself just to keep him.
I hate that I want nothing to do with him anymore, and that makes me hate myself the most.
And suddenly,
all this rage builds up inside me,
and I launch at him.
I shove him off the bed hard—so fucking hard he’s airborne for a split second—before he’s crashing into the black marble.
It’s a violent explosion, a sickening rush,
my anger tearing through me,
ripping me apart.
All these emotions rain down inside me like acid. I want to scream them out until my lungs collapse,
until there’s nothing left of me.
I want him to feel it all.
And I want him to break with me.
The scream rips through my throat
as if the world might somehow hear it,
as if someone might come save me.
But who am I kidding?
I’ve been crying out through every song,
and no one’s listening.
My fists are clenched so tight that my nails are cutting into my palms, but it’s nothing compared to this burn in my chest.
I can’t do this anymore.
I can’t be this anymore.
It’s all a lie.
This whole fucking thing’s a lie.
I can’t pretend to be in control when I’m falling apart.
“I need you to go.” The words come out in sharp, broken gasps, cutting me open and making me bleed as they leave. “Please. I need you to go.”
I can’t focus. I can’t think.
All I see is Ben—
a pile of skin and muscle,
looking up at me like I’m the monster.
I want him to stop looking at me.
“Do you not hear me?” I choke out,
my voice breaking.
“I said leave, Ben.
“Get out of my face!”
He’s frozen on the marble,
as if he's scared to move.
As if he’s waiting for me to take it back,
for me to stop.
As if I’ll fucking stop.
“Ben, go!” I say again.
“Allison—”
“GET THE FUCK OUT!” I scream,
the words ripping up my throat.
Finally, he stands,
stumbles toward his clothes.
He slams the door behind him,
and I’m left standing there, shaking, choking on the emptiness as the beat to this fucking song slams inside my head.
// 7 HRS 20 MINS OF SPACE, 7:22 PM //
I’m lying in my bed, hair still wet from the shower to get the puke out of my hair,
wrapped up in Andrew’s hoodie,
his stupid sweatpants,
even his stupid socks.
I said I’d never wear his hoodie, but it feels like his skin, his warm arms wrapped around me. And it smells like him, the scent of his cologne that lives on his collarbone. I want to live right there, in that dip where his throat meets his chest.
But no matter how much of him I layer on me, I’m still shivering while watching Grease 2—the superior film of the Grease franchise, a hill I will die on.
(The hill: Sandy, in her yellow cardigans, changing her whole identity for a man who sacrificed nothing for her?
Pshh… she’s an amateur. I’m a Stephanie girl.
Give me the Pink Jacket and a switchblade attitude that looks a guy in the eye, demanding for nothing less than a literal death-defying lunatic on a motorcycle.
Stephanie’s bored, bitter, sexy, and screams about independence while surrounded by a bunch of grease monkeys who want to possess her, telling the leader of the T-birds he’s a manchild.)
I look up at the ceiling, afraid to ask,
“What does ‘I need space’ even mean?”
I shove another spoonful of lukewarm Cream of Wheat into my mouth. It tastes like ass ‘cause I still can’t get the butter-to-sugar ratio right.
“Like seriously.
“I need an exact answer, Brooke.”
AI Brooke: “‘I need space’ usually means someone needs temporary distance before continuing.”
I roll my eyes. “Define temporary.”
AI Brooke: “Not permanent.”
I groan, dropping my spoon,
and it clatters in the bowl.
“I know that. I mean how long.”
AI Brooke: “Common ranges include several hours, several days, or several weeks. Common interpretations include: time to calm down, time to think, time to avoid saying something damaging, or time to reassess the relationship.”
“Reassess,” I mutter, my pulse dropping. “Sounds fatal.”
AI Brooke: “Reassessment is not fatal.”
“He said ‘from you.’
“‘I need space from you.’”
AI Brooke: “That indicates the space he needs is specifically tied to you.”
I raise my middle finger. “You got no idea how close I am to turnin’ you into a British man,” I mutter. “So how long do I wait before texting him?”
AI Brooke: “If someone requests space, it is generally advisable to respect the request and avoid contact.”
“So seven hours?”
AI Brooke: “Seven hours is considered too soon.”
“Eight?”
AI Brooke: “Still likely too soon.”
“Twelve?”
AI Brooke: “Better.”
“Twenty-four?”
AI Brooke: “Reasonable.”
“Seventy-two?”
AI Brooke: “Potentially respectful.”
“So I should wait seventy-two hours, then send him a text.”
AI Brooke: “I do not recommend.”
I hang my head.
“Then what do you recommend?”
AI Brooke: “I recommend waiting for him to contact you.”
“So…
“Andrew will come back to me, right?”
AI Brooke: “I am not saying Andrew will come back to you.”
“Say ‘Andrew will come back to you.’”
AI Brooke: “Andrew will come back to you.”
“Again.”
AI Brooke: “Demanding I say something does not make it true.”
“Can this be true: can my body literally get addicted to Andrew?”
AI Brooke: “Addiction is not described as being addicted to a person.”
“Okay. So listen to what happened to me just now—Ben offered to make me come. My body jumped at the idea, until it realized wait—no. Andrew’s not here. Then it shut down real fast. And I was able to say no. For like the first time ever, Brooke.”
AI Brooke: “That is significant.”
“Significant,” I scoff. “Be more relatable. I could really use a friend right now.”
AI Brooke: “That is like a big fucking deal, Allison.”
I drag a hand down my face. “Yeah… so this is what I’m dealing with.”