Begging for It

  “No—”

  “Beg me. ”

  Jonah slams into me, and I want to cry out again. But I stifle it somehow. By now, tears have sprung to my eyes. But God help me, I love it. “Please. Please. ”

  “There you go. I knew you’d admit you were a slut as soon as I got my cock in you. You’d take any cock, wouldn’t you? Now you’re taking mine. ”

  His thrusts are slow at first. Deliberate. Punishing. But the tempo increases as he starts to get into it. Jonah never loses his grip on me; my shoulders ache from being pulled back so far. The side of my face is pressed onto the mattress, and I can feel my tears pooling between my skin and the sheets. And he keeps going, rutting on me harder and harder.

  The only sounds in the room are his guttural grunts of pleasure and the slap of our bodies against each other. Hearing this turns me on even more. By now, the shame and fear I should feel at being taken like this have been eclipsed by the arousal peaking within me. Every single goddamned stroke of Jonah’s body sets me on fire a little bit more. The heat could consume me whole.

  Jonah quickens his thrusts. I want to scream into the mattress, because he’s getting me just where it feels best. Most women don’t get off just from being fucked, but I can, as long as I’m imagining this fantasy—or living it, like I am now. He brings me here like nobody else ever has.

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  “This is what you need,” he pants. His voice is tense; he’s as close as I am. “You need to be treated like the worthless little bitch you are. ”

  Jonah’s moving even faster now, even harder, and I’m nothing but heat and pulse. Everything else is far away. Pleasure tightens me, blazes inside, and then I come so hard that the world is nothing but white light, white noise. My cry is muffled by the mattress, but I wail it out anyway, unable to hold back.

  He laughs again as he presses my head down more forcefully into the mattress, and pulls my arms up more to remind me how powerless I am. But he’s almost there, and just as I begin to be able to breathe and see again, Jonah slams into me once—a pause—then again. His entire body shudders as he spends himself inside me. His grip on me tightens. He never makes a sound.

  When Jonah unhitches his arm from my elbows, I let my arms sink down to the bed in relief. Usually this is when the game would end, but he stands up and rolls me over. Dazed, I lie there in my rumpled robe, breasts exposed, as Jonah stands at the edge of my bed. His enormous cock is still half hard, and in the dim light I can see that he’s slick from being inside me. Jonah pulls my legs open. He whispers, “Look at you. All red and open and wet for me. My come is inside you, all over you. That’s how you ought to be kept. Legs spread and ready for me. Because you’re a whore. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” I pant.

  “Say it. ”

  “I’m a whore. ”

  “My whore. ”

  “Yours. ”

  For some reason, that’s what finally snaps him out of the spell. Jonah’s grip on my knees gentles, and then he lets my legs fall to the side. When he whispers to me, his voice is again his own. “Are you all right?”

  I nod. “Are you?”

  Jonah doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he reaches down and strokes the side of my face with two fingers, infinitely tender, before he unties the sash around my waist. I sit up, and the white robe falls away. Even as he’s tucking himself back in, so that he’s again fully dressed, I’m sitting in front of him naked. Yet as soon as he’s zipped up, Jonah sits on the edge of the bed and wraps his arms around me. I hug him back, pulling him down onto the bed; he responds by rolling us over until I’m on top—giving me back the power I let him take away.

  “Was it okay?” I whisper.

  “More than that. Perfect. You’re always perfect, Vivienne. You know everything I want, everything I need. And you always give it to me. ”

  His words melt my heart, though that’s not the answer to the question I was asking. “I meant, was it okay that I asked you to do this? Are you okay with being—with our games?”

  I want to hear him say Yes, of course, my God, I can’t believe I nearly let you go, we’ll do this forever. Instead Jonah wears the most rueful smile. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. ”

  That’s still not an answer. At least it’s not a no. “I never wanted to make you feel like this was the only thing about you that mattered to me. ”

  “You didn’t. You made yourself clear. This fantasy we share—we both hate it, but we both need it. We’ll figure out how to make it work. ” His gray eyes search mine, somehow loving and lonely in the same moment. “You and I, what we have together, it’s more than this. And yet this is a part of us. It always will be. ”

  There was a time, before a whole lot of therapy, when I would’ve argued that he was wrong. Once I longed to believe that I could heal every single wound Anthony inflicted, that I could rip all the dark pages from my life and be just like any other woman. Untouched. Whole. But I’ve learned that’s impossible. You wear your scars for a lifetime.

  At least now Jonah is here in the darkness with me.

  His hand trails up and down my back. It always amazes me how tender he can be. “I shouldn’t have pushed you away,” he says, and that makes me feel more hopeful. It’s all right, really. We just have to settle back into it. Balancing our games with the rest of our relationship isn’t easy.

  “You just wanted to protect me,” I whisper. “But this is the safest I’ve ever felt with anyone. ”

  He folds me against his chest and kisses my hair. “I will always protect you,” he swears. “Always. ”

  Even when Jonah left me, he was trying to protect me from himself.

  •   •   •

  Next morning dawns brighter. Jonah wakes faster than I do—one of those people who passes from sleep to awareness as quickly as flipping a switch. Me, I’m the mumble-and-walk-into-furniture type in the mornings. At least he seems to find it cute.

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  Neither of us has to be on campus particularly early, so we can take our time with breakfast. He knows how to work my French press, so once I’m able to fully open my eyes, the delicious scent of coffee fills the air. I pad into the kitchen, robe slightly akimbo, to find Jonah scrambling eggs. English muffins slowly brown in the toaster oven.

  “You’re the best,” I say as I pull two mugs from the cabinet. Jonah smiles at me, but I sense that he’s still slightly uneasy. I can understand that; honestly, I am too. As much as I loved last night—and I totally loved it—the memories are fresh and raw: Jonah calling me a whore, forcing me to beg. Just because I get off on the humiliation doesn’t make it easier to look at in the light of day. Is that me? Could I have said those things, wanted it all?

  The answer to those questions is yes. It’s just hard to integrate that knowledge into the person I am the rest of the time, and the relationship Jonah and I are trying to rebuild.

  Step by step, I remind myself. Jonah’s learning how to handle this just like I am. We’ll get it right yet.

  I’m an NPR listener on weekday mornings, but Jonah asks for music, and I oblige. I figure I’ll hear alt-rock or maybe jazz; to my surprise, his first-choice Internet radio station is classical music—opera, to be exact.

  “Didn’t figure you for an opera fan,” I say.

  “Not a fan, exactly. But I like it. My mother used to take us even when we were kids. Most children would probably have thought of it as an ordeal, but I didn’t. ” Jonah sits across from me, coffee mug almost entirely hidden within his broad hands.

  “Why? You enjoyed the music?” It’s beautiful, really. But I can’t quite imagine this being a small child’s favorite, especially after hearing Libby sing “Let It Go” about forty million times.

  “Eventually I came to enjoy it a great deal. ” He falls silent. I think that’s all the explanation I’ll get, until he adds, more quietly. “Carter never went to the opera house. So I felt safe there. When my brother or sister
s came, I knew they were safe too. Getting dressed up and sitting still for a few hours bought us one night of freedom. After a while, opera seemed like the most beautiful thing in the world. ”

  Never before has Jonah volunteered something so intimate, so difficult, as part of an everyday conversation. This is a huge step for him; I want to acknowledge that, but making too big a deal of it would backfire.

  So I simply reach across the table, holding my hand out to him. He takes it. When our eyes meet, I ask, “Which opera is this music from?”

  “Fidelio. ”

  I squeeze his hand, and that’s all it takes. He knows I’ve heard him, that I understand how much each glimpse into his past matters.

  “I’m expecting some important data in from the University of Tokyo today, so I’ll probably be putting in extra hours for a few days,” Jonah says. “But—next week—would you like to get together? Stay over at my place?”

  “Of course. ” I can’t help smiling. This isn’t only an invitation to play; it’s also another step toward turning our strange relationship into a normal part of our lives. “I can’t wait. ”

  Jonah breathes out, and the tension within him finally fades, replaced by desire. He wants me as much as I want him. Maybe everything’s going to be okay after all.

  After breakfast, I kiss him good-bye at the door, and he drives away—just like pretty much any other couple on an unhurried weekday morning. Maybe it’s silly to take so much pleasure in feeling ordinary, but I do. That’s one of the joys of being with Jonah; I don’t have to feel like a freak with a secret all the time.

  Just most of the time.

  I take a shower, put on jeans and a fleece jacket, and decide to take a stroll along South Congress. There’s plenty of time before I need to drive onto campus, and a second cup of coffee seems like a great idea. Of course I could make it at home, but then how would I get whipped cream or cinnamon sprinkles?

  Come to think of it, I should probably hit a spin class again pretty soon . . .

  Or so I’m musing as I turn the corner onto Congress, when I pass one of the forlorn plastic newspaper boxes—the ones everyone mostly ignores, including me. But then one word in black grabs me and holds me fast.

  RAPE.

  The headline reads in full: BRUTAL RAPE ON NORTH SIDE. With a shaking hand, I take one of the issues; the newsprint smudges against my fingers as I straighten the pages to read. Last night some guy broke into an apartment shared by two college students. One of them was out, and came home late to find her badly beaten roommate—who is in stable condition, the kind of thing you hate to have to feel grateful for. This unnamed girl will live. Maybe she won’t even bear any physical scars. But she will live forever with the knowledge that she was raped.

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  All anyone knows about her attacker was that he was a Caucasian male in a dark ski mask. So far as this girl knows, she never laid eyes on him before he decided to attack her and change her life forever.

  Sometimes I wonder whether it’s worse or better, stranger rape. If I’d never had to see my rapist again, rather than welcome him into my family, that would have been easier—but at least I never feared for my life. As scared as I was that night, as completely as Anthony overpowered me, it never crossed my mind that he would kill me. Nor his, I feel sure. That’s not his brand of evil.

  Fearing for your life has to be so much worse.

  My throat tightens with a sob I can’t set free. I wish I could go to the hospital and offer to talk with this poor girl. Just so she could be with someone else who understood a little. Yet I’m not a part of any support groups; I don’t volunteer to work with other survivors. To do that, I would have to publicly identify myself as someone who has been raped, and I have never done this.

  Besides, do I have any right to proclaim myself healed or recovered? Hardly.

  And it would take more gall than I possess to stand in front of a fellow victim now, when I spent last night playing at being raped, for fun.

  Six

  The shadows of that crime stretch over the next few days. UT Austin may be one of the largest universities in the nation, but news travels fast over any campus. Proximity to the victim holds a morbid sort of cachet—as if it both guaranteed genuine information and yet provided protection. Because lightning never strikes twice in the same place—or so people prefer to think.

  Whispers in the library tell me what sorority the girl belongs to. A half-overheard question before our weekly departmental meeting informs me that she was in Art History: From the Neolithic to the Renaissance, but has now dropped out of this and all her other classes for the semester. During a grocery run, Carmen lets slip that the girl lived in the same apartment complex Shay did last year. The mere thought of this happening to sweet, bubbly Shay nauseates me.

  Not that anyone else is a better victim. It’s just . . . too fucking close.

  I even contemplate calling Jonah to say, Let’s not play this week. Not so soon. But I don’t. Our reunion is too new, too fragile, for me to pull back right now.

  And even though I hate myself for it, I don’t want to pull back. The real-world crime isn’t enough to drive out the psychological need.

  It makes me feel dirty. And helpless. So on Thursday morning, when I have no tasks ahead except a few hours of studio time, I treat myself to a lazy start. I take my time with my coffee. Luxuriate on the sofa with a book for an hour, then take a long, luxurious shower—complete with the vanilla-scented oil. By the time I’ve changed into leggings and a soft violet hoodie, I feel ready to take on the entire world.

  Except my mother.

  Calling home is rarely pleasant. The list of topics my mother and I can easily discuss comprises only two items: Dad’s health and Libby. Only one of those topics is actually enjoyable, and even though my mom and dad are very involved grandparents, Libby doesn’t visit every single day. Still, since Dad’s heart attack, I’ve made a point of calling at least once a week. However strained my relationships with my family might be, I love them and always will; above all, I want to remain a constant part of Libby’s life. That means maintaining some kind of truce.

  Of course, it also means sacrificing my newly restored tranquility on the altar of preserving twisted family ties. But I’ve learned it’s better to let my mother dull a good mood than let her make a bad one worse.

  So I sit on my sofa, brace myself, and hit the phone logo beside her contact. To my surprise, she picks up on the first ring. “Vivienne?”

  “Ah, yeah, hi. ”

  She sounds so surprised that it’s me. My mom might not keep up with current technology, but I thought she’d at least gotten used to seeing the name of the caller on her mobile phone screen.

  “Have you talked to Chloe?” Mom’s voice is sharp.

  Fear plunges into my gut. “No. Oh, my God—did something happen to Libby?”

  “Of course not. Libby’s fine. ” She says it as if there could be no possible reason for me to think otherwise. “I just wonder if you talk to your sister once in a while. It makes me sad to think that two girls who grew up with bedrooms next to each other would be so distant as adults. Of course Chloe’s busy as a young mother, but it seems like you at least could make the time to reach out. ”

  Mines lie buried just beneath the surface of every sentence my mother says. It’s my fault Chloe and I aren’t best friends. My fault that my mother worries about our relationship. Chloe, who has no job, a housekeeper, a part-time nanny to help with anything Libby needs, and virtually no events on her schedule more pressing than her Bikram yoga class—she’s the one who is too busy to call. Whereas I, a grad student heading into finals, am supposedly swimming in free time. You have to hand it to Renee Larroux Charles: She doesn’t just dabble in guilt. She’s the master.

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  But to call her on any of this would be to step on the tripwires, send the mines blowing sky-high. Worst of all, it would lead to another round of denial about the real
reason Chloe and I don’t have much to do with each other any longer.

  So, instead of defending myself, I say, “You’re sure there’s no special reason you thought Chloe might have called me?”

  Mom makes a huffy sound. “Honestly, Vivienne. There’s no need to overreact to a simple question. I suppose that’s the one thing you and Chloe have in common. Your endless tendency to overreact. ”

  Hmmm.

  I know better than to pry further. For now I simply ask after my father (still feeling pretty good, already eating burgers again despite doctor’s orders) and about Christmas plans. The second topic seems even safer than the first, especially since my mother has not changed our holiday schedule one jot since Libby’s birth. Chloe and Anthony have “Santa” at their house, early in the morning, then drive to my parents’ house before noon. We have a big lunch, then exchange gifts, all while the stereo plays the most old-fashioned carols imaginable, mostly sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Really the only question is whether we’re having turkey or ham, or maybe what to get Libby, so we don’t accidentally buy her the same present.

  But Mom doesn’t want to discuss Christmas. “It’s too early to think about that yet. ”

  “It’s the first week of December. ”

  “Exactly. That’s a whole month away. We have to think about your father, after all. ”

  “You said Dad was doing fine. ”

  “Which he is, but I think we might take his preferences into account. Don’t you think he deserves to have some say in his own Christmas?”

  That would make this year the first time Dad has ever had any say in how we spend Christmas. Again, I let it slide. “Sure. Right. We’ll figure it out. ”

  Mom’s tone turns crafty. Hmm. “You are coming home, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely. ” This is true. I wouldn’t miss Christmas Day with Libby for anything. But I’d rather be set on fire than spend more than seventy-two hours in the same city as Anthony.

  Mom tells me about a few former classmates of mine who have gotten engaged, married, or pregnant, with the suggestion that at age twenty-five I’ve already wasted my childbearing potential. I let this slide, get off the call as smoothly as I can, and hang up. Then I sit on my sofa for a few long minutes, cell still in my hand.