[part one is here, click here to see the rest]
“Please don’t,” I say, suddenly scared. This isn’t a game any more. I’m scared, and worried by what he’ll do next, and I think I’m about to cry.
Eric seems to notice that, finally. He looks at me, and says, “Oh. You’re serious?”
He almost sounds surprised.
I nod, and sniff. “I really fucking am. Please don’t.”
He hesitates. He thinks. And then he smiles. “That’s so much sexier, when you really mean it,” he says.
“What?” I say. I look up at him, shocked.
“It’s better,” he says. “It’s sexier.”
I’m lost for words, for a moment. I horrified he’d even think that. I’m horrified, but I also understand why. Because of the games we used to play, obviously. Because of those games, and because of me telling him that I don’t like safewords and limits and want to be pushed into out of control sex. Of course he thinks he can treat me like this, and of course he’s probably planning to.
I get why, I completely get why, even though, suddenly, this isn’t a game. For me it isn’t, anyway. For me, suddenly, this is real.
“Let me the fuck go,” I say. “I mean it. Let me go now.”
Eric grins. “And what are you going to do about it if I don’t?”
I look at him, uncertainly. His cock is still in his hand, right in front my face. He’s still holding my hair, too, tilting my head back, so I have to look up at him.
“What can you actually do about it if I refuse?” he says. “And do things to you anyway?”
I swallow. Then remind myself not to do that.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Hope you don’t?”
“But what can you actually do?”
I look at him. I know why he’s asking that. He wants me to admit I’m powerless. We’ve played this game before, too.
“Please don’t,” I say.
“But what can you do?”
I sigh, resigned. “Cry,” I say. “Or beg you not to, I suppose.”
“Well, go on,” he says. “Show me.”
I look up at him, past his cock. “Seriously?”
“Completely. Cry and beg.”
“I’m not going to cry. It’ll make my liner run.”
He grins. “So beg then.”
I hesitate. I look at him. Then, slightly coldly, I say, “Please don’t make me do this. Please don’t do this to me.”
“You’re hardly trying,” he says. “Beg like you mean it.”
“Please don’t,” I say, and feel a little more sincere. “Please don’t threaten me. Please don’t make me lose my job. Please don’t do this to me.”
“Properly. Like you mean it.”
I hesitate, and look at up at him, and can almost feel the hot warmth of his cock. I think about his cock, and how much I used to want it, and all the kinky things we used to do. And all the things I used to let him do to me.
I think, and remember, and consider what’s happening right now. “Like I mean it?” I say.
Eric nods.
“Like I really want you to stop?”
“Like that.”
“But I can’t,” I whisper. “Because I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Even though you keep saying you do?”
I shrug, helplessly. “Even then.”
I don’t really understand it, either.
Lust Hurts: Kind of a Diary 