5
hannah
It should feel bad.
That word.
Defile.
I guess it does, actually, but it feels another way, too, a way that I don’t entirely know how to describe. Not good, not at all good, but it’s, um, it’s a feeling of being possessed and desired and useful, I guess.
For whatever reason, thinking of being defiled by him makes things twitch between my thighs.
We don’t talk about the conversation with my mother.
She calls back, and he tells me not to answer, and I don’t, but not because he told me what to do. Just because I don’t know what to say to her. I text her that I’m okay.
She texts that Ellis doesn’t seem stable, and that I shouldn’t let him disrespect me and that she will send a car for me if I text her the address.
I obviously don’t text the address.
We eat dinner in his living room. It’s stuff from his refrigerator, which is full of containers, and they have different things in them—pasta and chicken sausage, rice and salmon, ground turkey low carb lasagna with zucchini noodles.
He tells me he batch cooks, that he made all this himself and keeps it in a freezer and thaws out what he needs for the week.
I’m impressed, even if the low carb lasagna is really just tomato flavored cheesy mush at this point, since the freezing and thawing has been hell on the zucchini. It tastes really good, though.
He puts on more stand-up comedy but I end up not paying a lot of attention to the TV, watching TikTok videos instead.
After we’re done eating, and we take our dishes out to put them in his dishwasher, which he pronounces not full enough to run yet, he says, “So, you didn’t give me an answer on the soreness or on whether you were withdrawing your consent.”
“To defile me?” I say. It’s barbed, but it makes an odd, dark thrill go through me.
“Sorry,” he says. “But it’s getting late. I didn’t get much sleep last night, and I want to get to sleep at a good time tonight, so if you were up for it…?” He shrugs.
“For you having sex with me again,” I say.
“Just say no if you don’t want to,” he says, walking out of the kitchen, very matter-of-fact. “I will not be mad, I promise. I don’t need it from you.”
I come after him. “Well, I don’t understand why you want to do it at all. Did you even enjoy yourself?”
“Probably more than you did,” he says, and he’s heading up the stairs to his bedroom. “I mean, you didn’t come, and we should try to fix that, I think, because it’s not fair.”
I follow him. “But you don’t want me, so why are you asking?”
“I want your noises,” he says. “I want to record them.”
I stop at the top of the steps, clutching the wall. I can’t speak.
He turns and sees the expression on my face. “Not video. Just audio. We could fake it, but it’ll be better if it’s real, so if you don’t mind…?”
I’m still unable to say anything.
“Are you sore?” he says. “That might make it better, actually, if you’re not really, really sore. I have lube, too, so we can try to make it more comfortable.”
I am sore, but not there. It’s muscles in my stomach, in my arms and legs, and I don’t even understand how I was using them, but I guess I’m very, very out of shape, because they ache a little today. “What are you going to do with the recording?” I say. “Are you going to put it online?”
“No,” he says immediately. “No, just on my phone.”
“You want to play it for my brother,” I say.
“Maybe for her,” he says.
I chew on my lip. “Just to hurt them.”
“I feel like we keep going over this,” he says. “I’m not saying this is healthy or something. I know it’s not. This is the wrong thing to do. I know that. You don’t have to participate. You can get in your car and leave.”
But if I stay, he’ll fuck me again. And he just said he would give me an orgasm. And… he’s him. I’ll get to see him naked. Maybe get to touch him. There will be more kissing.
“Okay,” I say. “You can fuck me and record it.”
He comes across the room, pulls me right up against him and kisses me hard. “Good girl.”
I shudder, looking up at him.
He smiles down at me, his voice gentle. “That okay? I like it from alphas, but if you don’t like being called—”
“I like it,” I break in, but my voice isn’t strong.
He kisses me again. “Then be a very good girl and take everything off and get on the bed for me, hmm? Face down like last time.”
Is it always going to be like that? Will I never get to look into his eyes while he’s inside me?
He backs away and looks down at me. “Everything off.” He waits.
“I-in front of you?” I whisper.
“I’ve seen you already.” He’s whispering too. “When I took your virginity last night, you were all spread out under me.”
Yeah, but not my important bits, not my breasts and my… I guess he came in the room and I was lying there for him, naked.
“I’ll undress too,” he says. “You like my body.” He pulls his shirt off.
There’s his chest, all of it, his muscles, the dark chest hair, his stomach. I reach out, think better of it, pull my hand back.
“That’s all right,” he says. “You can touch me.” He steps closer and I put my hand to his bare stomach, to the little hair that grows under his belly button. It’s not so much a trail as it is a triangle. His skin is warm and firm. His hair crinkles, but his skin is satiny beneath it.
He stands there and lets me make the hair on his stomach stand up and lie down and he’s got that affectionate look on his face. “Take your shirt off, Hannah. We took pictures together with you only wearing a bra.”
A sports bra. It covered more. But I have no reason to delay, so I pull my shirt over my head, and then I shrug out of the straps of my bra and scoot it around to undo the hooks. I realize I’ve bared my breasts to him.
When I look up at him, after unhooking my bra, he’s staring intently at my bare breasts. “How’s your nipple sensitivity?”
“Uh… what kind of question is that?”
“You know, some people don’t have much sensation there, and other people have a lot. Some people can come just from someone playing with them here.” He reaches out and thumbs one of my nipples.
I let out a little gasp.
“So, they’re sensitive,” he says.
“I don’t know in comparison to anyone else,” I say.
He gathers up both of my breasts in his hands and intently manipulates my nipples stiff with his thumbs.
It feels good but odd, because he’s being strangely mechanical about it. Of course, now that I think about it, maybe the sex last night was mechanical, too.
“You’re not making noise,” he says.
“I…”
“Turn around.” He turns me. He reaches around me and finds my nipples again.
I let out a sigh.
He rains kisses up and down my neck. “See? Maybe facing away is better for both of us, hmm?”
I sag into him, my breath hitching, moans slipping between my lips, and it is easier this way to make noise and to let his fingers master me, but then maybe it’s only because I feel less self-conscious.
And maybe his fingers are less mechanical, maybe he’s stroking and teasing me in a more natural way.
“Will you get wet from this?” he asks me. “I want to get you very wet, Hannah. You were wet for me last night, and I barely did anything, but that was probably dumb luck. Does this work for you?”
I just moan. I feel too embarrassed to know how to answer.
“Come on, Hannah,” he says, breath hot on my ear. “Yes or no. Help me out here.”
“If you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to,” I manage breathlessly.
“I just said I want to get you wet,” he says. “Especially if you’re sore. Is there a better way to get you wet than this?”
“I don’t… know.” What does he think I do, make note of my own arousal like that?
Usually, I put the vibrator there, think about Sam Reid as Lestat, with the French accent, telling me that I have to tilt my neck further to one side because he wants to bite me and then, you know, it happens, usually pretty quick.
No, I have never really examined why I like to masturbate to someone killing me.
Blood drinking is basically metaphorical sex, of course, but I think the danger part makes it hotter for me or something.
Before Sam Reid, it was usually Ian Somerhalder as Damon Salvatore. I liked that show when I was a kid, even though my mother said I probably shouldn’t be watching it after she caught some of one episode. I was ten years old, and maybe that was too young.
Maybe that’s sort of why it’s always vampires, though? It got in me really young, right during my burgeoning sexual development?
He scoffs. “You don’t know?”
“I just use a vibrator and it doesn’t matter if I’m wet. It’s not like I insert things!”
He lets go of me.
I turn to face him.
His gaze gets stuck on my breasts, and I like that, like him looking at me with any kind of interest.
“Bed,” he says in a guttural voice. “Everything off, face down, now.” He tears his gaze from my body.
I don’t know what to make of that. I go to his bed. He’s got the upper drawer of his dresser open. He tosses little tubes out of it, onto the bed. I lean forward and realize it’s different kinds of lube.
“Get yourself ready for me,” he says. “And play with yourself. When I come back in here, I’m going to climb onto the bed and pull your legs apart, and I want to see your finger wriggling around on your clit.”
Okay, that’s hot, and I like that. But also, “Where are you going?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Pants off, on the bed, lubed and slippery for me, touching yourself.” He leaves the room.
I’m curious. I could go after him, but it is hot, and my nipples are tingling and so, I take off my pants and sort through the lube. I decide on the aloe vera one, applying it liberally to my vagina.
Ooh. I am sore.
I feel a little apprehensive, but I just put more lube on. I swipe it onto my clit, and that’s nice. I’ve never masturbated with lube before, but maybe I should.
I lay face down on the bed, one hand tucked in to touch my clit and another teasing one of my nipples, and I don’t think about Sam Reid, I think about Ellis.
I think about him saying, I’ll do better.
I promise. I think about him saying that I can stand in the doorway of his nest and be his magazine.