Page 62 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
I stared up at the ceiling. First I tried to find shapes in the bumpy ceiling tiles, like the game children play with clouds. But all I found were faces. Inhuman faces, with wide, blank eyes and gaping mouths, swirled above me. I closed my eyes, but that was worse—they could come and get me. So I stared up blankly.
I was waiting for it to be over. Little did I know it would never end.
I’d trusted Andrew, sure. My friend, my pal. But even my adolescent mind knew he was fucked up, and with good reason, and we were both just stupid kids. I’d outwardly agreed with Shelly’s venom, but inside, in that part of me as confused and as hurt as Andrew was, I understood him.
I’d trusted these strangers far more. These helpers in the community, these pillars of society—doctors, nurses, policemen. They weren’t supposed to touch me, hurt me, humiliate me. At least Andrew had cared enough to hate me while he hurt me. These people were thinking about their shift ending, even while they had their fingers inside me.
When Andrew had touched me, I’d burned from the pain and the fear. When those men had touched me, I’d grown cold. Frozen to ice, never thawed.
In the present I felt the warmth of Colin’s touch at my back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I still felt the anger, the hurt, but those things were impotent. At least when you were small like me. So tired. And hell, I didn’t want to be mad at him. It probably made me weak, but that was nothing new.
I fought past the lump in my throat. “Give it to me.”
He paused. “What?”
“The way I want it. You know.”
I felt his indecision as my breath caught. He didn’t want to hurt me, I knew, but he’d want to do as I asked, because he’d fucked up. I didn’t even know if I wanted him to say yes or no.
“Okay,” he finally said, resigned.
Relief and panic warred within me, but both emotions were muted by the sharp pain on my wrist. Why did men always go for the wrist? They wanted to immobilize women, I supposed. Immobilize our hands, at least—were hands really so powerful? Then he tightened his other hand in my hair and yanked. Fuck. Yes, they were.
I slid down the side of the bed, where the hardwood floor slapped my face. My knees jolted as they hit the floor, and then again wi
th the impact of Colin’s weight from behind.
All over, my body was twisted or crushed. It was perfect.
I surrendered. There’s a freedom in not having to move, not having to think, but knowing it would happen anyway.
My clothes were yanked out of the way, and then he was fucking me.
Each thrust slammed my head into the ground and my shoulders from their sockets. Ah, bliss.
My mind took up a chant. Hurt me, hurt me, hurt me. Make me hurt, cry, bleed. Make my outside match my inside. Help me get it out, because I can’t cry on my own.
And then my plea escaped my mind. “Hurt me, hurt me.”
“Oh, God,” Colin groaned.
“Hurt me.”
He reached around and pinched my nipple. I gasped. He pressed harder. Yes.
“Allie,” he said. It sounded like a warning. I couldn’t think.
The initial pain of his cock stretching me had passed. I wanted more. I tilted my hips back to meet him. He took the cue and grasped my bare hips with both hands. His fingers dug into me as he rammed my body onto his cock. Fuck, it hurt. Yes, more.
My mouth formed the words, but no sound came out. “Hurt me.”
“Fuck!” With a final, erratic surge and a long, almost painful moan, he climaxed. He slumped over me, crushing me.
He was right. Fuck.
