Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Twenty: Defiled

Triger Warning for themes of implicit dub-con/guilt-sex and heavily implicit sex. Sexual content ends at the tilde (~).

Sex isn't all it's cracked up to be. Sex is a weapon: James taught me that. It's a tool for facilitating possession and persuasion. James taught me everything about sex. He was my first. And I think he knew.

He had guided me with his mature hands, moulding my movements and soothing my skin. I was sure he could taste the naïveté on my tentative tongue.

He'd never given me a verbal indication of where I stood in - what I presumed - was a flooring list of lovers and how I fared intimately. But I could tell from the accuracy of his artful hands and cunning kisses as he first guided me through my first time, that I was by no means his first. Something about the ravenous lust lurking in his blown pupils and the way he grinned between fleeting brushes of the lips was too confident, too in control. And as much as his control unnerved me, it had relieved me of that duty to impress him.

He plodded over to his en suite, metal hand clapped over the bite wound dripping red down his scratch lined back; where he'd gagged me with his muscular shoulder as I'd risen to the peak of pleasure, keeping my muffled cries of ecastasy for his ears only. Rouge rivulets were bubbling between his metal plated fingers. The sounds of his breathlessness still echoed back.

A guilty pang rippled through me. I had ruined him with my own hedonistic freneticism, mere retaliation. He was split at the seams, dripping with the blood of his recent exploits as if he'd just returned from an op. But I ached all over too.

My wrists were friction burnt from the tough leather having been used to bind me to the bedposts, between my legs, I felt raw and sticky, and my hips, they throbbed, stamped with bruises in the shape of fingertips. It had been a carnal romp on the violent side of pleasure.

He disappeared through the doorway. There was a squeak as he turned the metal dial of the rusting shower and the water was let loose.

I lay in his bed, quivering with aftershocks, heart still pounding and breath still lost. The covers were cocooned up to my neck, smothering my naked body in the hopes to maintain some of my squandered dignity, having been lain waste to like a ragdoll. I lay there, in the half-light of his quarters (light streaming from the shower room with the open door), mulling over the events undergone, counting the seconds he left me to wallow in my embarrassment - with the rhythm of the water keeping time like the ticking of a clock.

I listened to the drumming of the shower as my body steadied. The spitting noise of the faucet with the clogged holes and the thundering noise of droplets on tiles rebounded into the bedroom.

Tears of self-pity sprung from my eyes. How pathetic is that? I'd disappointed him physically, and I was wallowing in self-pity. How selfish is that?

I felt disgusted. Disgusted with myself in every sense. My innocence was spoilt, like I was a trampled flower, youth pilfered and perfection crushed. No longer was I an angelic depiction of virginity. I was imperfect, spoilt, filthy, damaged, impure, corrupted, lewd, improper. He had stolen that last hope of perfection from me. And he was disgusted with me too.

It occurred to me in that second, that it wasn't love that we had... Not really. It was lust, with just a dash of desperation and a smidge of forced circumstance.

Those showers were always ice cold, I could never withstand the temperature for more than a minute. I'd learned how to scrub myself clean in the most efficient time. I'd always shiver for the next twenty minutes, clinging a flimsy towel to myself, just to contain what little heat remained in my skin. It was cold enough to numb me completely, to make my eyes water with agony.