You're Addicted To Our Secret

Transcript

I shouldn't be here. When the sweat beads on your skin and every thrust moves through you like thunder cracking through jungle heat, you think it. I shouldn't be here.

When my fingers wrap around your wet hair and pull your head back and you feel me inside you, so deep inside you that I can never be removed, there, right there, you think, is where I shouldn't be. My taut stomach pressed into the hot, trembling mounds of your buttocks, my balls crushed against the dripping cushion of your thighs, and no condom between us. You have condoms.

You keep them in your bedside table for forgetful boys who stay the night. But I am not a boy, and I do not stay the night. In fact, you've never seen my face in daylight.

Not like this. I shouldn't be here. You had a date tonight.

A nice boy from across town. He likes you, he's nice to you, and he wants to stay over. He should be here, hasn't he earned it? But you couldn't sit through the whole date without asking yourself if you'd call me when you got home.

And to be fair, you didn't call me, did you? Those wandering fingers of yours, scrolling past what you've named me in your contact list, your thumb typing as if it was totally beyond your control. You don't usually call me, do you? It's always a text after midnight, long past when you've put yourself to bed, long past when you've told yourself you're not going to do this anymore because I shouldn't be here.

And every time you let me in, you pray your roommate doesn't hear. You pray she's out, sleeping, drunk, listening to music, that she doesn't hear my heavy footsteps in the kitchen on my way to your room, because that's how you like to do it. You like to leave the door unlocked and let me find my way to you, to open your bedroom door like a thief in the night, to rip the sheet off you and fuck you like a criminal.

I shouldn't be here, because you know this isn't healthy. If your roommate found out who was doing this to you, if your friends knew I make you scream into your pillow, everything would come apart. You come apart when I come into you, but you love the way I make you come.

And the worst part is, it's too easy. The moment you hear me at your door is like a trigger. Your body knows its master has arrived.

You are warmer and wetter for me before I've even touched you than for any partner who made you scream. As if I've been carrying around the key to your libido your whole life, and all it took to turn you on was simply asking for it. You asked for it all those months ago, and you ask for it now, beg for it, grovel for it.

And sometimes you do the very opposite. Sometimes you tell me, no, what am I doing here, how could I, it's wrong. That's when I hold you down.

That's when I tell you you're a dirty piece of meat and I'm going to use you until there's nothing left but a broken doll. That's when you whimper into your mattress. That's when you do your best to fight and wriggle free.

That's when you imagine this isn't a game, and what if I was this big unstoppable brute on top of you. You think that as you gaze up into my eyes, and even the word think is too generous. You feel like prey under my eyes, hungered after, dominated, devoured.

We have a safe word. It was one of the first things we talked about all those months ago. Those months ago when we stopped dancing around the thing that was clearly on both our minds.

A word that means no for real. A word you'd tell me when you didn't want to hear about what I'd do to you anymore. And you've used it.

A handful of times when the headboard punched the wall like an angry boxer, when you couldn't even feel the drool spilling from your mouth, just before you thought you might really black out. You use it when it's too much. Too, too much.

When you're afraid something might shut off in your brain for real, and you'll be left paralyzed and foaming at the mouth. You say the word, and I stop. Stop and hold you.

Stop and gather you into my arms. Stop and whisper that it's alright, you're alright, everything is okay, it's okay. Then you nuzzle against me and pant, or cry, and reset.

Because sometimes it's hard for you to just feel that good. And sometimes it's not for any reason other than to reassure yourself that yes, you can stop this, but then you feel my cock wet from you and still erect on your skin. Some nights that's where it ends.

In my arms and gazing at my cock, watching it fight to stay erect and slowly, slowly retreat. But more often that's just a place to begin again. Your mouth on me, tasting you, tasting what we've done, what you can't help doing.

And I ask you every time, is this the last time? And you tell me yes, so fuck me like it's the last time. I kiss the tears off your cheeks and mount you again, for the last time.

The last time you'll feel me inside you. The last time you'll hear me praising you. Good girl.

You're such a good girl for me, giving me what I need, what only you can give me. Thank you, good girl, for being my perfect slut. Thank you, good girl, for knowing exactly what to say to make me hard, to make me come, to make me drive out here, no matter the distance, no matter the hour, to touch and kiss and love you again.

How could anyone not love you? How could anyone keep his mouth from your perfect pussy, suck that swollen clitoris between his lips and tease you till you tremble for more, always more? But this is the last time, because I shouldn't be here.

I mean, I really shouldn't be here. It was an accident, that confession, me to you, and then you to me, revealing more of ourselves than we should have known. What you want, what you need, in the night, when no one else can judge you, here in your room.

Then I told you I want that, yes I want you, and you said. ..