I think about how he picked a video that prioritized female pleasure…and how it turned me on even more.
I think about the way he talked me through it as he touched my clit and my pussy. How rough and low his voice sounded.
How good his fingers felt, teasing my clit. How big he felt inside of me. How he knew exactly how to touch me.
How quickly he made me come. I didn’t think I could come that fast.
I wanted him to come too. Judging by the massive bulge in his pants, he was turned on too.
But when it was my turn to show him what gets me off, his whole demeanor changed.
The second he saw That Shirtless Guy’s account, he bolted. Maybe he really was weirded out by the fact that I get turned on by a headless guy’s Instagram photos.
Or maybe it was something else…
Maybe he was turned off by me. Yeah, he said it was hot that I got so wet, but maybe he was trying to be polite?
He licked my wetness of his hand though. He looked so aroused while he did it too. It seemed so genuine. So raw.
My head spins. I’m so confused. I must have done or said something to repel him. I just wish he would tell me what’s bothering him so we can talk about it and move on.
I look at our latest text exchange, when he actually answered me.
Me: Are you feeling better from when you were sick the other night?
Blake: Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve just been busy.
Me: Is there anything I can do to help?
Blake: No. Thanks, though.
Me: Hey, do you wanna grab lunch after you get back from your away game?
He never responded. He just left me on read.
I let out a sigh, feeling lonely and sad. Clearly, he needs space, but I can’t help but feel rejected. My best friend doesn’t want to be around me, and I can’t figure out why.
* * *
Something presses on my neck.
I can’t breathe.
My ex, Logan, is standing in front of me. His forearm is against my throat, pinning me between him and the wall.
Every muscle in my body tenses. Panic shoots through me.
I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but nothing comes out. I try to scream, but I can’t make a sound.
I try to shove him off of me, but I can’t. I’m too weak. He’s twice my size. Twice my strength.
This time, when I open my mouth, a choking sound comes out. I grab his arm and squeeze tight, silently pleading with him to stop. But he doesn’t.
He just keeps looking at me with that blank stare on his face. His eyes are glazed over. He’s drunk.
I pound my fists against his arm, his chest, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.
He shoves his other hand down my pants. Tears prick my eyes. That panic inside of me intensifies and sharpens. Dread slices through me like a knife.
