Becca
Chapter 28
Becca
48 Days Dead
Every time I close my eyes, it’s her I see—hair tousled, sheet pooled around her waist. The silver of the moon reflecting off her platinum hair. I’m sick to my stomach with the way I crave her—her touch, her kiss, her body. That rabid need overpowers all rational thought.
I know that I shouldn’t want her to touch me between my legs or harshly tug at my nipples.
I know that I shouldn’t want to slip my tongue inside her and pluck needy moans from that filthy mouth of hers.
I know that I shouldn’t want to ask her to hold me and listen while I let her see all the scars life has left on me.
But I Can’t. Stop. Thinking. About. Her. It’s what drives my hips forward over and over as I hold this pillow between my legs hoping that at any moment, I’ll actually be able to get anything resembling friction. The more I try, the more frustrated I get. There’s nothing in this world that makes me feel. Nothing but her.
“Stasi.” The name slips from my lips as I pinch my nipple, trying to replicate that savory pain that she’s so good at eliciting. “Oh, yes, right there. Stasi—“
“I’ve been summoned?”
Hoping she didn’t see anything; throw the pillow across the room like a guilty child and attempt to act natural…without any clothes on and the taste of her name still on my lips. Shame is the closest thing to warmth I’ve felt in a while as I pull the blanket hastily over my naked body. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I was just coming to make sure everything was okay. That our little ritual worked.” She smirks down at me. “I see mine have.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” I blurt out.
Her laugh is mocking. “Oh? Because what it looked like was you humping a pillow wishing it was my leg.”
I shake my head, my impending humiliation rendering me speechless.
But Stasi pays me no mind as she snatches up the pillow from where it was abandoned on the floor and brings it to her nose. Her inhale is almost a snarl. “Fuck, you have been a dirty girl .” Holding eye contact, she’s a lion watching the injured gazelle across the pond as she drags her tongue across the fabric, lapping up the blood that’s been left behind by her prey. “Mmmmm,” she groans, the primitive bass of it sending an echoing throb to my clit. “Such a sweet little cunt to keep all to yourself.” She drops the pillow to the floor and comes closer. “So wet and needy, crying out for my touch.” She takes another step closer. “Now that’s not very nice, is it?” She leans down and clasps the back of my neck tightly as she reaches the bed. Tongue invading my mouth, I’m forced to taste myself, the heady mixture of her saliva and my essence is like a shot of high-proof alcohol into my bloodstream. It’s intoxicating and dangerous, and I immediately need another just to feel something.
My hands slip into her messy pink and blond hair, as if I could have any control over what she’s not willing to yield. The illusion sends another flood of arousal between my legs. My ego bends like putty in her hands. “Touch me, please.” All pretense of pride falls away like the blanket that drops from my chest. I can meet her halfway. I can do this.
“So eager,” she taunts with a laugh. “Be careful, I might start to think you’ve missed me.” She talks over me before I can spit out a lie. “But don’t worry, I have no intention of pushing you into doing anything you don’t want to do.” Three fingers punctuate her sentence. “Scout’s honor.”
An embarrassing whimper escapes me at her promise.
“Why don’t you show me all the horrible things that I make you do to yourself? I want to see what I do to you.” Hand on my chest, she encourages me to lay back, then grabs the pillow off the floor, and walks over to the desk chair, resting her head on the back like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Sitting up on my elbows, I shoot her a glare. “You’re serious?”
“I interrupted you, it’s only fair that you get to finish. Wouldn’t want to take anything else from you, after all.” There’s that Cheshire cat smile. “What’s wrong, Crybaby? Do you need me to talk you through it?” Her tongue swipes over her lip. “Open your legs.”
My self-control cracking, I cave and part my knees, revealing myself to her.
“I’ll never get tired of that sight,” she sighs longingly. “Look at you, swollen and ready for a good fuck, a thing of beauty like that can’t go to waste, just wouldn’t be fair. And we know what a proponent of fairness you are.”
In protest, my legs start to shake as the desperation building inside me becomes unbearable. “Do you have to stare at me like that?”
“You’ll be lucky if I even let myself blink.” Stasi runs a hand through her hair, her eyes intent on my exposed pussy that throbs anxiously for her touch. “Now put that pillow back between your legs and finish what you started.”
A sigh of relief leaves me as I straddle the pillow and grind my hips. The pressure is insignificant, barely more than a slight brush of the fabric, but her eyes on me caress me in all the ways I yearn for. The pillow is simply a prop at this point, her presence the thing that’s pushing my pleasure higher and higher.
“How does that feel? Is it enough for that lonely little cunt of yours?”
Despite myself, I shake my head.
“That’s what I thought.” She stands and the adrenaline rush I get from her proximity is dizzying. “Turn over.” I don’t have much of a choice as she rips it from between my legs. Once I’m on my back, her hands curve around my knees and push them up gently. “Do me a favor and put one of your fingers inside.” Overcoming my self-consciousness, I do as she says.
As I slide in, she rolls my hips outward, eliciting a surprise gasp from me.
“You’re doing so well.” Her nails dig into my skin as her gaze remains fixed between my legs. “Do you hear that?”
“What?” I groan.
“Your pussy begging for more?” Stasi’s hands slide down my inner thighs, holding them open. “Add another.”
In and out, in and out, I drive my fingers inside me, mostly focused on taking in her facial expressions as she watches me.
“One more, sweetheart,” she coaxes. “Just one more, trust me. But let me help you first.” Leaning forward, she allows spit to spill from her mouth and onto my clit, where it drips slowly down my center. “There you go, that’ll make it easier.” I want to be disgusted but I can’t find an objection when it feels so damn good. “One day I’m going to wear you like a bracelet, when your body has decided it’s ready to be stretched and used by me. Would you like me to fill you up and call you my pretty little thing?”
Dragging my finger through the trail of spit, I insert it inside myself, writhing at the delectable fullness of it. “Oh—” I gasp. “Oh, shit, yes.” My hips rock chasing the sensation.
“How does that feel with those lithe little fingers creating such a nice stretch in that tight, neglected pussy?”
“It’s perfect,” I groan.
“Play with your clit and don’t let up.” My fingers circle it viciously, eager to show how badly I want her. The combined stimulation has my legs shaking. But just like every other time, the climax I feel myself approaching recedes, just as fast as it built. Once again, my orgasm falls away into the abyss.
“Fuck,” I groan and remove my fingers.
“It’s okay, Becca. You need to learn to trust your body again.” Stasi stays leaning over me, her long hair falling around our faces, making it impossible to think about anything but her as I rapidly come down from the high I was chasing. “We just need to be patient. But I’m not worried, we’ll get you there.”
I only have the energy to nod and wave Stasi off when she extends a hand. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around everything that just did and didn’t happen.
I need distance from her if I have any hopes of having a conversation with any substance, so I sit on my desk chair that I haven’t used in months. I sit facing her with my head resting on the high back of the chair, arms folded beneath my head. “Can I ask you something?”
“Why not?”
“How did you become so,” I search for words that won’t seem judgmental, “comfortable with your body? With sex?”
“Well, the alternative was hating it, I guess.” Her eyes flick up to the ceiling as she lays on her back. “I learned very early on that if I didn’t define myself, other people would, and they’d do it in a much harsher way. So, I took ownership of all the parts of my identity that could either be turned into weapons or shields. If I shaped my sexuality, my womanhood, my fatness, then nobody else could make them into things that would hurt me.”
“Who made you feel like you had to do that in the first place?”
Stasi’s knuckles turn white as she grips my comforter, but she doesn’t speak for what feels like forever. “People like me, fat, queer girls, we learn very early on that the world wants us to be anything but what we are. A lot of people tried to mold me to their liking. The thing about me, though, is I didn’t melt under their torches. I hardened into something stronger—something they couldn’t destroy with all the different tools in their arsenal.” She clears her throat. “And they did try. With chisels that tried to shape my body into something slender and toned. And then with saws that attempted to cut away the parts that they didn’t like. They did their best to nail me down and keep me in my place.” Her black and pink acrylics trace the matching bow on one of her thighs. “The thing they didn’t know is that heartbreak, the kind that I suffered, the kind that requires you to cut that bloody organ out, it’ll turn you into the walking dead. It turned me into a fucking zombie for years. I didn’t feel anything, they couldn’t hurt me.”
“That sounds brutal.” My weak words hang limply between us, but I don’t know what else to say in the face of such honesty. I’ve never been that truthful with anyone in my life, not even myself.
“She was.”
My heart aches for her. With all those arrows she’s shot at me—her insults and the constant whiplash of her shifting from lust and disdain, creating so many little holes—she somehow opened up a space in my heart that is just big enough to feel sorry that she’s been forced to live life on the defense. Where there’s sympathy, there’s also envy. While the world made me weak—afraid, conforming, and submissive—it made her strong and commanding. Stasi is brave and forward, and most importantly, herself. She’s a woman who knows her mind, something I’ll apparently never learn to be.
“Anyway,” she sighs. “Your turn.”
I snort a laugh. She says it like we’re trading cards or pogs, not fundamental pieces of ourselves.
My throat grows tight, like truthfulness is vomit instead of a deep breath that could settle something inside me. I push through it, the acid burning my throat. “I’ve always had a complicated relationship with my sexuality. I think part of it is my need to be accepted. I saw what my brother went through, always been different, being—” I swallow thickly, “queer. I didn’t want that. I wanted to be liked. I wanted life to be easy.”
“Living with everything locked up inside was easy?” The question isn’t accusatory, but it’s challenging.
“Well, that’s the thing, I didn’t really know I was suppressing anything. I didn’t realize that I was forcing myself to fit into any kind of mold until it was too late. It didn’t click until I became aware that I was being smothered. I panicked once I realized that I might be suffocating, but that only seemed to bring it on quicker, the end. I didn’t have the opportunity to sort through it all.”
“Sounds isolating.” There’s something like understanding in the melancholy of her voice.
“It was, I guess. For so long I didn’t mind conforming though. I saw the expectations modeled for me, and I fell in line pretty easily. When I was a kid, it was easy for me to fit in. Other people always liked me. I’ve always been pretty amiable. I tried to be kind; there were a few times I failed, big. I wasn’t too opinionated. I was always willing to go with the flow. I kept good grades, excellent grades even. I performed well at everything I put my mind to. But the last few months, I’m realizing that maybe that’s all it was, one long performance.”
“Isn’t that what we all do? Create versions of ourselves that help us retain the love of others?”
“Isn’t that sad that we’re expected to?”
“Unfortunately, that’s just how the world works.” Stasi runs a hand through her long hair that partially dangles off the bed. “I don’t know whether I pity or envy you that you’re just recently coming to terms with it.”
“Well, what I do know is that I don’t want to do it anymore. You were right. I’m tired of trying so hard to be everything to everyone. I’m tired of hiding from myself.”