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As he increases speed, the pleasure continues to build until I’m gripping at the sheets and screaming into the mattress as an orgasm rips through me.
It only takes a few more hard thrusts and Brad grunts behind me, spilling his release into the condom I know he slipped on before entering me. He always makes sure to cover his tracks.
And this is when the shame comes back, the sick feeling that tells me that I am one fucked up individual. How anyone could enjoy this type of abuse is beyond me, and yet I not only enjoy it, I get off every single time.
It eats at me that not only do I let this man have his way with my body, but that my body betrays me by letting him pleasure it. Sure, Brad is only thirteen years older than me and, honestly, not that bad looking when he cleans himself up, but I should be disgusted that instead of fucking my mother, he’s fucking me.
I try to pretend like I am. Like I hate what he’s doing to me. But it’s an act. An act I put on for myself so I don’t have to face what kind of person that makes me.
“Damn, I might need to go another round tonight.” Brad slides out, disposes of the condom, and before I can even think to move is positioned behind me again. “You’d like that too wouldn’t you, dirty girl.” He slides his still hard erection down my butt crack and then sinks back inside me again, my body instantly humming to life once more.
I shoot up, gasping for air, my mind a blur of memories that I can’t seem to force down. I barely make it off the couch and to the bathroom in time to empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet.
I close my eyes and I feel him behind me, pushing inside of me. I heave again, tears boiling to the surface as I choke on my own sob.
I know what happened to me was wrong and that it wasn’t my fault, but when I remember specific things about the abuse I can’t help but feel like I’m suffocating under the weight of my own shame.
After moving here, I knew I needed to get my head in the right space. I started seeing a therapist not long after Jack was born. The postpartum made my past even harder to swallow, and I had a really hard time for a while.
Eventually, my therapist started making me see that my reaction to the sexual abuse by two of my mom’s boyfriends and the physical abuse from Blake was just my way of coping with what was happening. I didn’t know what else to do, so I trained myself to endure it and even enjoy it. I also learned that this is actually a pretty common response to abuse.
I made my peace with what happened to me a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still haunt me. It does. More than I care to admit. I just wish there was a way to keep the memories at bay. Reliving them, especially in the form of a very vivid dream, feels like I’m back there all over again.
Turning, I flush the toilet before sliding down onto my backside. Pressing my back to the side of the tub, I try to pull myself from this sleep-induced panic I seem to be caught under.
I hear a light knock at the door followed by the sound of Anthony’s groggy voice. “Bree, you okay?” I can hear the concern in his voice, and for whatever reason, that seems to be the unraveling of the final thread holding me in place.
The tears fall heavier, and the knot in my stomach coils so tightly I have to pull my knees to my chest in an effort to ease the pain coursing through me.
“Bree,” he repeats when I don’t answer him.
I want to say I’m fine. I want to tell him to go back to sleep. I want to say anything, but nothing will come.
“I’m coming in,” he finally says, pushing the bathroom door open without a second of hesitation.
His eyes find me instantly, and panic flashes across his face. He’s on his knees in front of me before I even register his movement, pulling me into his arms.
I don’t want him to see me this way. I don’t ever want anyone to see me this way. But I also don’t have it in me to push him away. Because the truth is I need him, and that might be the scariest revelation of all.
“What happened? Are you okay?” he asks, rocking me gently while I try to gain some semblance of composure.
“I’m fine,” I finally manage to say, my voice hoarse.
“What happened? One minute you’re next to me, the next you’re running through the apartment.”
“It was just a bad dream,” I say, finding it hard to meet his gaze when he pulls back to look at me.
“That must have been one hell of a dream,” he says, wiping my tears away with the pads of his thumbs.
“Trust me, it was.” I force a smile, but it falls flat on my lips.
“Wanna talk about it?” he offers, standing as he pulls me to my feet.
“No, I just want to go back to sleep,” I say, snuggling into his side as he leads me through the hallway to my bedroom.
“Come on, I’ll tuck you in,” he says, pulling back the covers as soon as he reaches the bed. He waits until I’m positioned underneath before tucking them around me.
He kisses my forehead and then moves to leave, but I reach out and grab his hand, stopping him.
“Don’t go,” I say, pulling the covers back again. “Stay with me.”
“You sure?” He eyes me curiously.
“I just need you to hold me.” I pat the bed next to me, more relieved than I should be when he nods and climbs into bed with me.
“I can do that,” he says, positioning the covers over both of us before pulling me into his arms, the one and only place that seems to make any sense to me anymore.
