Breaking Sasha In (Backdoor Confessions #3)

Breaking Sasha In

I live my life by a simple rule—never let them see you sweat.

At work, behind the bar, it’s an art form.

My hands are a blur—shaking, stirring, pouring—but my face is a mask of cool, easy control.

Men lean on the sticky bartop, their eyes trying to undress me, and I give them a smile that’s all teeth and a cocktail that’s all business.

It’s a game. A dance. And I always, always lead.

It’s the same with Mark. Mostly.

Saturday was perfect. The sun was so bright it hurt your eyes, slanting through the blinds of our apartment, cutting warm stripes across the wooden floor.

I was making coffee, my hips moving on their own to some stupid, joyful pop song on the radio.

I was wearing a pair of old gray sleep shorts and one of his faded t-shirts. Comfortable. Safe.

Then his arms were around me, sliding under my shirt to splay hot and wide across my bare stomach.

His body was a familiar heat at my back, his chin resting on my shoulder.

And then his hands, as always, went straight for my ass.

They cupped me, his heavy thumbs pressing into the meat of each cheek, holding me like I was something precious.

I leaned back against his chest, my body melting into him.

“God, it’s a masterpiece,” he said, a low, morning-rough rumble against my skin.

I loved that. Loved the way he said it, like he was standing in a museum. I loved the way his hands felt—big, warm, and completely sure of themselves. With him, I could let the mask slip. I didn't have to lead. We were a team.

Later, the day was still perfect. We went to a street festival downtown. The air was thick with the smell of grilled meat, weed, and a thousand different perfumes.

We walked through the crowded sidewalks, his large, pale hand in mine, his thumb absently stroking my palm. Everything was easy. Everything was right. We were in line for tacos, him telling some dumb story about work, when a group of girls pushed past us, laughing too loud.

One of them … she was built. A black girl like me. Thick thighs, a tiny waist, and an ass poured into a pair of neon pink leggings that was just … a lot … undeniable. You could balance a tray of shots on that shelf. It was, objectively, a spectacular ass.

I felt it before I saw it. The tiny, split-second tightening of Mark’s hand in mine.

My eyes snapped to his face. He wasn't drooling.

He wasn't being a creep. It was just a quick glance—the kind of involuntary, magnetic pull a classic car or a loud noise gets.

An appreciative, half-second flicker of the eyes.

Then his gaze was right back on me, and he was smiling, finishing his story.

He didn't even know that he’d done it.

But I did. I saw it. And the perfect day cracked right down the fucking middle.

I didn't say anything. I smiled back. I laughed at the punchline of his story. I ate my tacos, the carnitas tasting like ash in my mouth. Because a new voice had woken up in my head. A cold, sharp, ugly little voice.

He looked.

He looked at her ass.

Is it better than mine? Is it bigger? Rounder?

We walked home, and suddenly the sun felt too hot, the music too loud. His hand in mine now felt like a chain. The ugly voice was whispering again.

It’s not you, Sasha. Not really. It’s just the meat. He’s an ass man. He likes them big and round and brown, and that bitch was bigger and rounder than you. Honey, you’re not special. You’re just a type.

The thought was a sickness. It took every compliment he’d ever given me about my body and twisted it into something cheap.

A fetish. All his worship, all his praise …

was it actually for me? Or for an archetype I just happened to fit?

Suddenly, I felt like a rental car. Mark was just enjoying the ride until a newer, better model came along.

For the next week, I was a detective in my own relationship, digging for clues to prove a crime I’d already convicted him of.

Him liking an Instagram photo of a fitness model.

See? Him saying Rihanna looked good in a movie we were watching.

Of course you think so. Every innocent glance was a betrayal.

He could feel me pulling away, feel the bitter chill coming off me.

He kept asking what was wrong. I kept saying "nothing," my voice tight and sharp as glass.

We had a stupid fight about him leaving a wet towel on the floor, and I almost screamed at him.

Because how do you say it? How do you say, "You looked at another woman's ass for half a second and now I'm questioning our entire relationship because I’m a crazy, insecure bitch?"

You don't. You can’t. You just let the poison spread.

Friday night. The silence in the apartment was so loud it was screaming.

He opened a bottle of expensive red wine—a peace offering.

I took my glass and downed half of it in two swallows, the alcohol burning my throat, a welcome distraction.

He was on the other end of the couch, watching me, his face a mess of confusion and hurt.

I looked at him. At this man I loved, this good man who had no idea he was on trial. And the ugly voice whispered its solution, poured it into my ear. It was a terrible, reckless, brilliant idea, born of pure fear and Malbec.

You want to be special? You want to be the one he never leaves? You have to give him something only you can give. You have to chain him to you. His obsession is your ass? Fine. Make it his whole world. You have to give it to him. All of it.

Was it the wine? I didn’t know. But every terrible, insecure thought was coming into a sharp, high-definition focus.

I watched him. The way his brow was furrowed, the way he kept looking at me, trying to solve the puzzle I had become.

Silence could be a weapon, and I had been beating him with it for a week.

He patted the leather cushion next to him. "Sash, come on. Talk to me."

I didn't move. I took another long, slow swallow of wine, the dark fruitiness coating my tongue. I had to do this. I had to end this cold war. I had to win.

Finally, I slid across the couch, the leather sighing under my weight.

I curled up against him, and he immediately wrapped his arms around me, pulling me in close, a gesture of pure relief.

His hand slid down my back, over the curve of my hip, and settled, exactly as it always did, on my ass.

He kneaded the soft flesh through the thin fabric of my leggings—a familiar, comforting pressure.

"I love this so much," he whispered into my hair.

Those words, just a few days ago, would have made me melt. Tonight, they were the opening bell for the main event. They were the entire problem, and the solution.

I tilted my head back, my heart a frantic drum beating against my ribs. The alcohol had burned away any hesitation, leaving only a resolve of raw, desperate nerve. My lips were an inch from his ear.

"You're always talking about my ass," I whispered.

My voice was husky, trembling just a little.

I could feel his body tense, listening. "Always touching it ... rubbing up against it ..."

I paused, letting the images hang in the quiet room.

"What if ..." My throat went dry. "What if I let you inside?"

He went completely still. For a full five seconds, he didn't even breathe.

Then he pulled back, his hands gripping my shoulders, forcing me to look at him.

His eyes were wide, a universe of shock and disbelief swirling in them.

Then, beneath the shock, something else ignited.

A hot, dark flare of pure, unadulterated lust.

I had seen him want me before. This was different.

This was a feral hunger that looked like it could swallow me whole.

"Sasha ..." he breathed, his voice cracking. "Baby, are you serious?"

His first reaction wasn't just raw need. It was concern. For me. And that tiny detail was everything. It was the crack of light in the dark room of my insecurity. He wasn't just a fetishist. He loved me. And the hunger in his eyes? That was for me too. All for me.

I nodded, a single, sharp dip of my chin. "I'm serious."

Then, the bartender—the woman who always ran the show—took over. "But you have to wait."

The words came out of my mouth, and for a split second, I believed that I was in charge, that I was the one setting the terms.

I slid off his lap, his hands falling away, and I walked to the bathroom.

I could feel his eyes on my back, on my ass, with every step I took.

And each step felt deliberate. See? I'm in control. I'm running this show.

It was a lie I told myself all the way to the bathroom door.

I closed it behind me. The click of the bathroom latch was the sound of a cage door shutting. My fucking cage. I was committed now.

The light in the bathroom was blinding. The vanity bulbs threw off a flat, unforgiving glare, showing me every single pore on my face, every stray curl of my hair. My hands were trembling.

What the fuck are you doing, Sasha Jones?

I was doing something incredibly stupid, I knew. This was a crazy, desperate, unnecessary gamble based on a half-second glance at a street festival. And now ... now there were logistics to care of.

I opened the cabinet under the sink, my movements stiff and jerky. I had to push past extra rolls of toilet paper, boxes of tampons, and an old bottle of expired sunscreen. And there it was. Pushed to the very back, sealed in a dusty Ziploc bag. The douche bulb.

I'd bought it over a year ago, on a whim, thinking ...

I don't know what I was thinking. That I should just have it, just in case.

It looked so clinical. So deeply unsexy.

A blue rubber bulb with a hard, white plastic nozzle.

It felt awkward in my hand, like a piece of medical equipment no one knew how to use.

I locked the door—a completely useless gesture—and turned on the faucet, letting the water run over my wrist until it was lukewarm.

Not too hot, not too cold. The mundane reality of it was absurd.

I was about to do the most intimate, transgressive thing of my life, and I was actively worrying about water temperature.

I knelt on the bathmat, the fibers rough against my bare knees. The position was humbling. Awkward, again. I filled the bulb, the rubber gurgling noisily as it sucked up the water. This was it. No turning back.

I lubed the tip of the hard plastic nozzle, my hand shaking so badly I almost dropped it onto the tile.

I took a deep breath, like I was about to dive underwater, and guided it between my ass cheeks.

The feeling of the cold, hard plastic pressing against my asshole was a shock.

It was a place that knew nothing of intrusion.

My body immediately tensed. It knew better than I did. It wanted to reject it.

Relax, Sasha. You wanted this, remember? This was your brilliant idea.

I pushed, gently. It slid past the tight ring of muscle. The feeling was ... weird. An alien presence. I squeezed the bulb.

The lukewarm water rushing into my ass was one of the strangest feelings I have ever known.

It wasn't pain, nothing like. It was a deep, internal pressure—a sudden, highly unnatural bloating.

I could feel myself filling up, a slow, gurgling inflation that felt profoundly wrong.

I eased the nozzle out and set the bulb aside, my whole body clenched tight in a panic.

Now I had to hold it. That’s what the instructions said.

I squeezed my muscles tight, planting my hands flat on the bathroom floor, my head bowed. I counted. One ... two ... three ...

A cramp, sharp and low, seized my gut. I bit my lip hard, trying to breathe through it.

This was the exact opposite of sexy. This was a biological chore.

Pure, unglamorous maintenance. All that confidence, all that cool bartender swagger I used to protect myself, was completely useless here.

Kneeling on a bathmat, my insides full of lukewarm water, fighting a bowel cramp—I had never felt less in control of my own body.

When I couldn't hold it for another second, I shifted quickly onto the toilet. Letting go was a messy, undignified, uncontrollable gush. It was the sound of a body doing what a body does, and it was deeply humbling.

I did it a second time. The process was less shocking, more methodical, but no less awkward and embarrassing. Fill. Insert. Squeeze. Hold. Release. By the time I was finally done, I felt ... empty. Scoured clean. And incredibly, intensely vulnerable.

I stood up on shaky legs and patted myself dry with a towel. I looked at myself in the mirror again. The fake bravado was gone. The fear was still there, but underneath I saw something else. A raw, fragile determination.

I was ready.