it only feels good if it hurts
“Is she little for you? I ask him. So quiet he asks me to repeat myself, then quickly responds no. No. You’re my only little girl. I don’t linger in the reassurance. That would feel too nice, and what I need right now is pain.
“Would you tell me if she was?” I press.
“Yes,” he laughs, and I mostly believe him. At least I believe him that she isn’t, and so the hypothetical doesn’t matter, not right now. Right now, I can enjoy the fact that I’m his only little girl, and that frees me to seek out the necessary pain elsewhere.
“It only feels good for you if it hurts.”
That’s what he’d said to me the night before, not fifteen minutes after embracing in the lobby of the hotel where he was meeting me in Brooklyn. Some laughter, some kissing, some unbuttoning. His pants, my blouse, his mouth on my tits, “God, you’re just popping out of this,” this being my bra, and then my tights and panties were off and he was shoving his fingers inside of me, not one or two, not gently, not like other times in other New York hotels, but what felt like all of them, twisting and pushing hard.
The realization that he’s likely read what I wrote about my ex-husband trying to fist me before proposing and wants to enact that same abuse on my body hits me and I’m gasping and floating elsewhere. Not to way back then, not yet, but to a planet that exists outside of our time but encompasses all of mine: the planet of betrayal.
“I hear your voice and all your little noises and gasps and I’m just instantly rock hard,” he says. “I know it only feels good for you if it hurts.” He twists his fingers and shoves hard one more time to get them deeper, then flips me onto my stomach and pushes his thick, heavy, perfect cock into my dripping cunt.
It’s not the first time he’s shocked me into this faraway place. But before, it felt like he’d chanced upon the trigger, led to it by his own desires mixed with an intuitive sense for my buttons.
Like the time last summer, how hard he swung, harder than he’d done before. But he’d also said something. What was it? He swung and hit me across the face and the impact immediately knocked away my ability to remember his words. But the impact of his words made the force of his blow harder still, and the combined meanness sent me reeling out of my body.
The first time, we were practically strangers. He was above me, pushing his cock into my mouth. But it’s so thick. Too big for my palate. “It’s too big. It won’t fit” - the first words he heard from me, when I was still just a disembodied voice in his ear, regressed and crying out to my original abuser’s ghost. He’d stumbled upon me in the most fucked-kismet way - which is to say, he found me on the internet. But to explain the fact of my body below his, shrinking and protesting at close range, I can only gesture to a cluster of black stars in gleeful conspiracy. They giggle as they watch us in a hotel bed on the Upper West Side. They know my past, maybe even fated me for that, too. They know the size of his beautiful dick. They know what will happen when I struggle to take it deeper.
I’m trying. Just like. Open wide. Wider. Just like. He pulls it out. Admonishes. Warning in his eyes. Just like. His tone. “Watch your-” No, no. Can’t say it. I’m so small again. Just like.
I was trying I don’t want to try anymore. Maybe we can do something else? His eyes. Disappointment? Anger? Real or play? I don’t know him well enough to tell. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be here. Here is there now and I don’t want to be there no no no anywhere but there. But I am there now. I’m back then and it’s just like.
I don’t know if I said anything. I feel like I thrashed. I can sense the midday light from the hotel window from behind my eyelids, brighter then shadowed as I whip my head back and forth and the feeling of my lower body turning to lead but I’m fighting it off. I just. I can’t take it. The shame and dread snaking up my body I can’t take it so I thrash. And then I black out for a little bit. I go to the other planet.
Probably all of this under a minute, really, in earthly time. I remember how it felt, coming back into my body, which still feels small beneath his waiting body. My hands are balled into fists next to my face to protect myself, or maybe that’s a mixed memory. I open my eyes slowly to look at him and he’s watching me. There’s something so alive in his eyes. How do I describe it? Almost thrilled. Like he’s holding his breath so as to not disturb what’s happening to me.
But now he knows me better than before. Every crumb of my past I give, I give to him - whispered in secret, or broadcast in the public square of internet perverts. All of it is his to use against me.
“Poor baby.” That’s what he says when I go to pieces on his cock. And: “There’s nothing like fucking this abused little pussy.” And: “I need it.”
I need it, too. Yeah, the pain, but more than that I need his need crashing into my own. The otherworld/underworld that we create when he’s inside of me. A place so far outside of time that I can slip around in my own, gossamer girl, until it thickens around me. Dark-webbed time, I am swathed in your silk and squirming. I vibrate with whimpers, which are echoes of every broken noise I’ve made beneath a body breaking mine.
This time, I ask if he’s dating and he tells me about the girl he’s seeing and I ask if she’s little for him and he tells me she’s not and I ask if he’s being bad.
What do you mean?
Being with me.
He says they’re open.
I ask, does he think he wants to get married someday?
He pauses.
“I don’t mean to me,” I clarify. “This isn’t a loaded question.” He tells me things that are not mine to air in the public forum of internet perverts, but what I say next is: After he’s done talking, I lean in and whisper into his ear, “Someday you’ll marry a very nice girl, but my voice will still be in your head.”
He laughs, a low rumble that turns into a groan. He’s hard again, against my thigh, in my hand, telling me he’ll jerk off to my voice forever, the pictures and videos I send him, that he’ll meet me in hotels during business trips to get the chance to fuck his abused little girl, he can’t help it. He needs it.
Fuck a wedding. No marriage compares to a hard cock aching to do brutal and loving things to me in secret - I would know.
Last time, he propped his phone up against the pillows, right in front of my face while he thrust inside me. The picture on the screen is one I’d sent him, a photo of myself lying on the beach of a lake the summer I was first raped. We’re on molly and fucking endlessly and I can feel how maniacal I sound more than I can hear it, a tight burning in my throat that gleefully spews filth, egging him on to look at her, imagine her, do what he wants to her. Can you believe that little bitch is smiling at her rapist like that? Baby fucking whore.
This time, I describe a different photo to him, one taken years before I’d ever been touched, at least that I remember. I ask if he wants to see it. Another time, he says. Right now he wants to just hear me describe the little girl in the photo, my voice going high, strained with shame as I confess how I fuck myself looking at her, wishing horrible things were done to her innocent body.
“God, you’re so fucking fucked up,” he laughs, grabbing a fistful of my hair and shoving my face into the pillow. “There’s no fixing you.” I cry and cum on his cock. My abused pussy weeps harder than I do, drenching my thighs.
In the morning, our last morning together, I’ll lick him how I was first taught and I’ll tell him this. Just like that. He furrows his brow and nods his head in encouragement. Poor baby.
This time, with practice and angles, he’s able to fuck my throat. I come up for air but he clutches my hair and pushes me down on it again, deep, making me choke on the flood of his cum. Just like. Just like my dad.