22. Ryan

It’s been a couple of weeks since the world-class mind fuck that was The Boyfriend Experience. I’d love to say I’ve totally recovered, and in some ways, I have. I’ve only let Miller fuck me twice since then, and both times, it was strictly bent over the desk without any talking whatsoever. I made him pay full price and show me the money before he fucked me. Nice and professional. Clear boundaries and all that.

In other ways, I’ve slipped quite badly. I’ve been letting him blow me whenever he wants. Since I said yes that first time, it’s hard to think of a reason to say no. He comes to the library at some point every day, and if that’s not bad enough, I’ve started taking my morning coffee with a blowie too.

My dick has never been happier.

My mind is clear. My focus is sharp.

I still have a statistics final tomorrow, but I’m ready for it, so I’m rewarding myself with an early night and a little bit of mindless scrolling. I’m pretty sure the rest of my finals have gone well. I can feel it. And that’s saying something because I’m usually one of those people who panics like hell about finals. I’m always absolutely positive I’ve failed everything, but I always end up with good grades.

“Whatcha doin’?” asks Miller in that annoying sing-song way of his. I close my laptop a little too quickly. It gets his attention. His eyebrows shoot up. “More research?”

He bounds over and bounces onto my bed, landing on his knees as he tries to wrangle my laptop from me.

“It’s nothing, okay? It’s no big deal.”

It’s dumb. I mean, yeah, I’ve been making good money for a while now, but there’s still no way in the world I could afford something like this. It’s fun to think about, but the last thing I want is Miller knowing my business. I hold my laptop shut with both hands, and when he can tell I’m not going to let go willingly, he leans down and runs his tongue along my earlobe. I all but drop the laptop into his hands.

He opens it and enters my password.

Don’t ask how he knows it.

And definitely don’t ask why I haven’t changed it.

“Cars?” He looks idiotically happy, though I know from experience he’d look even happier if there was porn on the screen. “Are you planning on buying a new car? ‘Cause I know a guy. I can hook you up.”

“Um, yeah, thanks, Miller, but I think the kind of budget your guy works with is probably very, very different from mine.” I’m keen to change the subject, not least because the last time I mentioned not being able to afford something in Miller’s presence, I ended up stark naked with my towel on the floor, and just look how that turned out. “You ready for your business law final?”

“Nah, not even a little bit. Business law kind of got away from me this semester.”

By his own admission, his three other subjects have also gotten away from him.

“So,” I say, making an effort to keep my tone breezy, “what do you think will happen if you fail the year outright?”

He looks at me like I’m crazy and does the creepy voice he always does when he’s talking about his dad. “But, Ryan, MacAvoys don’t fail.”

“But what if you do?”

Shut up. I’m just asking. It’s not like I care.

He looks at me the same way he did the night of our fucked-up fake date. Naked and unsure. Not hiding anything. A beefy shoulder rises and falls. Eye contact doesn’t falter.

“Dunno,” he says softly.

“You could, you could do something else, you know. They have a great architecture program here, or interior design, or…”

“I dunno. Maybe.” He shifts his weight on the bed, the sides of our bodies making contact. “Have you thought about what I said?”

“No.”

“Come on, Ry. At least come and see the place with me. It’s awesome. You’ll love it. It’s spacious and light. Seriously, it’s so big you’ll forget I’m there.”

“Get real. There’s no way. That place is so far out of my budget that it’s a joke. You know damn well there’s no way I can afford it.”

“Mm-hmm.” His eyes flicker and dim. “And you know damn well you can pay rent with your ass.”

I drop my head in my hands and take a long, steadying breath. Sayings about beds, making them, and lying in them come to mind instantly. I do my best to stamp them out.

“How many times do we have to go through this, Miller? I’ve told you, this thing…game, or whatever you call it, it’s over.” Oooh, but, like, I do still want to get head before my final tomorrow. What? It’s no big deal. It clears my head, okay? It helps me focus! “I mean, a-as soon as the semester is over, this is done. It’s finished.”

“How did it go?” I ask the second Miller enters our room. He looks pleased with himself. He always looks pleased with himself, so what I mean is he looks more pleased with himself than usual.

“I totally bombed.”

“What?” My voice hitches, and I clear my throat to correct it.

“Yep, crashed and burned, baby.”

“Uh, m-maybe it was okay. Maybe it’s one of those times where you think it sucked, but you did okay?”

“Nah. Failed outright. Failed so spectacularly there’s no way they’ll even offer me a retake.”

Fuck off!I say to the fist that instantly starts clenching.

It’s bad enough having my own anxiety. There’s no way in hell I can afford to start having anxiety on Miller’s behalf. I can’t do it. I don’t have the time. Or the inclination.

There’s something strange going on with Miller’s face. He looks happy and smug like always, but there’s something new there too. A disconcerting sort of peacefulness.

“Wait. Did you fail on purpose?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. Guess I’ve been thinking about what you said. About pursuing a different degree or something.”

“Well, you better hope your dad’s happy to pay for your little one-eighty. You better hope he doesn’t make you get a job and pay back the money you’ve just wasted like a normal parent would. You may not know it, but not everyone has a sense of humor about throwing away good money. Some people don’t find it funny when—”

He pulls his shoulders up to his ears and his entire face creases into such a big, dumb smile that I lose my train of thought for a second.

“Aw…” His bottom lip juts out slightly. “Thanks, baby.”

That snaps me out of it. “Thanks for what?”

“Thanks for caring.”

I’m not even going to get started on that. Nope. Not touching it with a bargepole. “Are you ready to go?”

He shoves his phone and keys into his pocket, perfect teeth gleaming, “Yep, let’s do this.”

“Aren’t yo—”

It’s a close one, but I manage to stop myself there. Whether Miller chooses to wear a beanie, slouchy or not, is none of my business. Absolutely none. Literally does not have a thing to do with me.

It’s still early when we get to The Pardon, but the place is packed. Loud whoops and throaty screeches greet us as soon as we walk in. I can tell at a glance that at least half of the clientele have committed themselves to making bad decisions tonight. There are countless instances of “something stupid” on the agenda.

Bev would be pleased.

Miller holds the door open for me, and as I cross the threshold, the onslaught of people and eyes and noise makes me hesitate. His arm is around my neck immediately and his breath laps at my ear.

“It’s the same,” he whispers.

“The same as what?”

“The same as always.” He explains it slowly as if he’s talking to a child. “Nothing bad happens when you’re with me.”

I hate that he knows this about me. Absolutely hate it. And what’s even worse is the fact that my entire body relaxes the second he says it.

“Mac. A. Way!” bellows Trip.

“Har. A. Voy!” answers Dean.

It’s not funny. It’s stupid.

Miller, on the other hand, seems to think it’s the highest form of humor there is. He’s laughing his ass off and looking at Trip and Dean as if they’re the owners of master intellects.

We do the now-familiar lap of the place, greeting people and letting them hand us free drinks.

Just my luck. It turns out the entire hockey team is out tonight, and they’re in high spirits. Testosterone is being sloshed around by the bucket. Miller gets dragged into a series of back slaps and chest bumps that rival the worst I’ve seen.

Anthropologically speaking, this display is definitely of interest. A thesis could be written about it, that’s for sure. It’s all here, and this time, it’s organized: the pecking order, the rank, the roles. It’s so sad that I hardly know where to look. Every guy on the team is massive and rough and was born ready to do battle for their captain. All of them except one.

He’s different. He’s in the inner circle, but he’s out of it too. He’s surrounded by the dark shadow of a formidable mood. His hair is dark too, eyes black and most of his face covered by a thick mat of stubble. There’s a scar on his top lip, slightly off-center. A deep gash that healed badly. It slices into his facial hair and lends an unexpected fragility to his face. It’s the only thing about him that’s fragile. Believe me, it is. The rest of him is a rock. A pillar. A solid slab of ice that freezes out everything around it.

I hang back from the group out of self-preservation, but Miller pulls me in, looking at me exactly as stupidly as he would if he were showing off a favorite toy at show-and-tell. The rest of the team puts on a fairly decent performance of pretending they give a shit who I am and that they’re going to remember my name by the time tomorrow rolls in. The solid slab of ice is the notable exception.

“What crawled up his ass?” I ask when I’m a hundred and fifty percent sure we’re out of earshot.

“Decker? Nah, he’s fine. He’s not as bad as he looks.” I raise my eyebrows as high as I can and widen my eyes in silent but strong disagreement. “He’s not. He’s all right.” He lowers his voice substantially. “He plays for our team.” When it’s obvious I’m struggling to piece it together, he adds, “He’s like us, Ry. He likes dick.”

“How do you know that?” I ask a lot more sharply than I consider ideal.

“Why?” Miller smiles like a man experiencing the rapture. “You jealous?”

“Absolutely not.” That’s a ridiculous accusation. I shouldn’t have brought it up, and I think it needs clarification. “I need work on my gaydar, that’s what I’m saying. I didn’t get a flicker. Not even a blip.”

“No, you don’t, Ryan,” Miller replies, his rhapsodic smile erased like steam wiped off a mirror. “You’re already having the only gay sex you’ll ever have, so why would you need a gaydar?”

I sigh loudly and swipe the back of my hand hard against my forehead, fighting a sudden and unexpected urge to double over laughing. I manage not to. Instead, I switch to deliberating about whether it’s worth my time to argue with Miller. The academic year is over. I’m leaving tomorrow, and he’s moving out of the dorm into his overpriced apartment next year, so I think not. I’ve already wasted so much of my time on all manner of ill-advised pursuits when it comes to him. None of which have done a damn thing to improve him. It seems a waste to pour good energy after bad. So, instead, I trail behind him to find a spot to sit with his friends.

“Oh, Ryan. Lori left yesterday. She’ll be gutted she missed you,” purrs Sienna.

Miller bares his teeth in a slightly rabid manner. If I’m not mistaken, Sienna’s eyes sparkle with something that looks suspiciously like satisfaction.

I didn’t think I liked Sienna when I met her. I thought she was stuck up and full of herself, but I might have been wrong about her. She’s growing on me, let’s put it like that.

After a while, Miller heads to the bar to buy a round, and I tag along for the simple reason his arm seems to be surgically attached to my neck, and as a nonmedical professional, I know of no safe way to remove it.

As usual, the wait to get served is long, exacerbated by the fact the guy tending the bar has the unmistakable appearance of one who’s adopted a one-for-them, one-for-me approach toward pouring drinks.

The wait is making me antsy.

It’s rude.

Making paying customers wait like this is rude. Especially when one of those customers is draped in a freshly showered Miller fucking MacAvoy. Especially when that same Miller MacAvoy keeps leaning in and talking so close to my ear that I can feel his breath all the way down to my toes.

It’s dark and loud in The Pardon, but still, I’m able to make out every syllable that leaves Miller’s mouth. The word is so familiar now that my cock jumps to attention the second I see his lips purse to form the first letter.

“Restroom?”

My eyes dart left and right to ensure no one else heard him. “Fuck no!” I hiss.

God, yes, says my dick.

Miller releases me and turns toward me fully, chest open, arms at his sides. Face open too. He looks into my eyes and accesses a portal to an entirely different part of my brain. The thalamus, if my sudden spike in arousal is anything to go by. “I’ll kneel for you, Ry. Gladly. I’ll swallow everything you give me. I won’t waste a drop.”

It takes some effort to remember the mechanics of the action, but I manage a tiny shake of my head.

“No?” He smiles, undeterred. “How about this then. You suck my dick, and when I come down your throat, you”—he raises a warning finger at me but dilutes the effect with a smile straight from hell—“this part’s important, Ry, so pay attention.” To my mortification, I find myself nodding dumbly. “When I come down your throat, you swallow my load and look up at me and say, ‘Thank you, baby.’”

“Nah-uh,” I squeak, shaking my head rapidly from side to side.

Yes, pleeeease, groans my dick.

I snatch my drink off the bar as soon as it arrives and chug it. As I do, I offer up a silent prayer that the icy elixir will sober me up, despite knowing full well that sobering people up isn’t a common side effect of rapidly consuming alcohol.

Miller turns to the bar, so we’re standing side by side. I breathe a sigh of relief when I think the threat has passed, but it’s a false alarm. The threat is still live. It’s large and at play. Miller’s body is less than an inch from mine. We’re not touching, but that’s only making it worse. The space between us has caught on fire. My skin burns and vibrates from the strain of not touching him. I set my empty can down and order another drink for myself.

“Thirsty?” asks Miller, arranging his face into a pretty picture of faux innocence.

By the time my next drink has arrived and we’ve found our way back to our group, our seats have been taken. The second the guy who took Miller’s seat sees him approach, he gets up and moves out of the way.

Miller crowds the guy in my seat, giving him a squeeze on the shoulder that looks friendly but isn’t.

“Move,” he says.

The guy is big and obviously drunk. He’s offended by Miller and clearly not firing on all cylinders. Something old and exceedingly adept at reading this type of situation sounds the alarm. The fist reaches into my chest and starts to squeeze.

“How come?” the drunk guy slurs.

“‘Cause that’s Ryan’s seat,” Miller says simply.

“Yeah, bud…” says Trip, getting to his feet.

“…that’s Ryan’s seat,” echoes Dean, standing too.

Good things and bad things collide. Old things and new things. Fear, hope, dread, and excitement. They crash into each other and explode in my chest. Trip drops a heavy hand on my back. A solid slap that lands like a stamp of approval.

I know it’s dumb. Believe me, no one on Earth thinks it’s dumber than I do. I judge everyone involved in this situation. Myself most of all.

Still. Feels pretty damn good.

To my endless surprise, the big, drunk guy clambers to his feet, apologizes to me, and staggers off. I take his seat and sit there in shock. More than shock, really. I sit in whatever it is that makes people beam like raving idiots.

Alcohol. That’s what it is, obviously. Alcohol makes people stupid.

I should cut it out of my diet completely.

Starting next semester, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Right now, I’m going to sip my beer at my leisure and try to ignore the fact that Miller’s knee is grazing mine. And more than that, I’m going to ignore the fact that it feels like he’s burning a hole through my jeans where we’re touching.

What I can’t ignore is the fact I know he’s waiting. He’s watching me and waiting. I can feel it. A hot, sticky trickle runs down one side of my body, making me sizzle until, at last, I give him the slightest of side eyes.

He pounces.

“You’re hard,” he mouths, punctuating his statement with a pointed glance at my lap.

“I’m tired.”

“Is that what they’re calling it, huh?” He lets the words roll slowly off his tongue, tilting his head back to show me the slow ride his Adam’s apple takes up and down the column of his neck.

It’s my turn to make him wait. I make him wait until Emily arrives with a girl with short dark hair and watercolor birds and flowers tattooed all over her arms. It’s Cat, the acquaintance-slash-friend who has dire effects on Emily’s blood pressure.

Em’s face is rosy and she’s a spluttering, messier version of her usual self. She and Cat have managed to find themselves trapped in an awkward situation where neither of them has any clue how the other feels.

“How are things going?” I ask her out of the corner of my mouth.

“Don’t know.”

“Do you at least know if you’re flirting or just friends?”

“No fucking clue.” Her eyes are big and she speaks quickly while Cat is out of earshot. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Ryan. I mean, I never do, but I’m worse than usual. I’m factually worse than usual right now. Women are so fucking lovely. How the hell are you supposed to know if they’re flirting or just being friendly? How?”

“I wish I could help, but I’m far from an expert on women.”

“I know, buddy. I know.” She sighs, patting me sympathetically on the shoulder.

Miller stiffens beside me, neck tensing sharply. He glares at Emily and then scans the room. The second his eyes land on Cat, he waves her over. “You’re Cat, right?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Her voice is a little deeper than I expected: a rich, husky timbre that’s surprising and very appealing.

Miller introduces himself, making small talk and finding connections between them. I can tell from the way he’s talking to her that it’s no casual conversation. I know him better than that. He’s looking for something. Something to use. He finds it when she mentions she’s an art major.

“You know what you should do if you’re into art?” He says it as if the idea has just come to him. I’m immediately aware that he knows exactly who Cat is to Emily and has engineered the entire conversation. “You should check out Em’s pieces. She has an amazing collection. Her room’s like a gallery.”

Emily’s neck colors, and she says, “I, um, er…”

“That’d be cool,” Cat replies quickly. The color from Em’s neck travels up to her face. “I mean, I guess it would be, but you’ve probably packed your room up already.”

“I haven’t. I meant to start yesterday, but I drank four cups of coffee while I was amping myself up to get started, and then I was super, super shaky, so I...”

“God, Em,” says Miller. “Aren’t you leaving tomorrow? It’s going to be a nightmare trying to pack all that up tonight by yourself.”

“I know. Ugh. I probably shouldn’t even be here. I should get going soon.”

“I could, I could, like, help you pack…if you want.” Cat pushes a hand into one pocket, an action meant to look casual but comes off looking quite eager.

Miller claps his hands together. “Fantastic!” He looks over at me triumphantly. “How awesome is that?”

I give him a subtle elbow in the ribs to let him know he’s overplaying his hand, but I’m unable to diminish his joy. After Cat and Em leave, I take my sweet time finishing my drink. I relish the feeling because I can feel Miller simmering impatiently beside me. I like it. I like making him wait. I like knowing he wants me. I like driving him crazy. It turns me on, makes me feel bold. Makes me feel crazy too. Makes me feel high.

Even after my can is empty, I make him wait a little more. I don’t move until the heat emanating from him reaches a fever pitch, seeping into my marrow via the knee he has pressed against mine. Infecting me, making me feverish, and leaving me all but delirious.

The second the fresh air hits me, I lose it. Reason, control, whatever it is that’s been holding me back all this time is gone. I let him pull me into the shadows without any resistance. When our lips meet, I taste beer and bad decisions, and goddamn, they taste good. By the time I come up for air, I can’t tell if he was the one who started the kiss or if it was me. He’s hard and panting, grinding against me, groaning, and holding me so tightly against him I can’t remember how to breathe.

“Whatever you want, Ryan.”

“Huh?”

“Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

My head swims. The night sky slowly rotates around Miller, spraying out in a flurry of light and dark colors. I’d love to say it’s from the booze. Wish I could, but I only had three beers the whole night. Miller switched me to soda for the last two rounds. If I wasn’t so horny, it would have pissed me off royally. Things being what they are, I responded quite differently. Instead of being pissed off, I felt weirdly, not taken care of exactly, but something nauseatingly like it.

It’s hard to make sense of it.

I don’t talk for most of the way home. Miller chatters incessantly. I don’t follow a thing. The words he said earlier ring in my ears: whatever you want, whatever you want, whatever you want.

The walk home takes ages. Ten minutes that’s more like an hour. Miller’s hand reaches for mine every time we find ourselves shrouded in darkness. His fingers lace through mine and squeeze hard. Mine squeeze back.

He stands behind me, cock and belt buckle digging into my ass, as he reaches to unlock the door to our room. I’m face-to-face with a flat timber surface, the grain of cheap blond wood taunting me. Standing in my way. A feeble barrier between where I am and where I want to be.

“Say it.” His lips drag up my neck and down again. “Whatever you want. Say it, Ry, and I’ll give it to you. Anything you want. Anything at all.”

The door closes behind us. The lock slides shut with a series of soft, slick clicks, each one more final than the last. Our room is dark, but the curtains are open. A dim shard of light pours in through the window and paints my bedding halogen blue.

“Anything.” Miller’s voice finds me in the dark, burrowing into my chest and flicking the switch on useful things like self-preservation and rational thought. “All you have to do is say it.”

I’m aware of my lips and tongue moving, though I feel removed from what I plan to say. I’ve never said it out loud before. I’ve never even consciously thought it. I wouldn’t dream of it. I would never allow something so stupid to enter my mind, much less leave my lips.

The old me, that is. The old me wouldn’t have allowed it.

The new me?

Fuck knows about him. That guy is out of control.

“Say it,” Miller says again.

It’s a siren. A slow song. I answer the call.

“Bully me.”

It’s my voice. I recognize it. I know it well, so, of course, I recognize it. They’re my words too, but I sure as shit don’t recognize them. My blood turns to ice. I go cold and then hot. My mouth opens and closes in horror and shock. I shouldn’t be this surprised, given I’m the one who said it. I must, on some level at least, have been expecting it. But I am. I’m shocked shitless.

Thank God it’s dark because I’m blushing from head to toe. I’m red. Beet red. Redder than red. My face, my neck, and even my chest are on fire. I’m so flushed that sweat beads on my top lip and my eyes start to water. I will my mouth to start moving, to take back what I’ve said, but the weight of the humiliation is too heavy. It’s crushing, slowing my mind and strangling my words.

Miller doesn’t skip a beat. There’s no raised eyebrow. No sardonic grin. No hesitation. No inkling that what I’ve asked for is the stupidest, most embarrassing thing any human being has ever asked for in the history of asking for things.

He moves like a cat. Sure and quick, and yeah, a bit vicious. He pushes me against the wall roughly. My back connects soundly with the wall behind me. There’s a hand on my chest, palm open and flat. The other is wrapped around my throat. My heart knows the drill. It starts to race.

Metal sparks in the dark. A quick glint followed by a low sneer. Miller’s voice changes from smooth to scratchy. He raises his chin and looks down at me.

“Where’s my lunch money, punk?”

“Gguuk, uh…” I struggle against him as the past and present play tricks on my mind. Hysterical laughter and pure, unfiltered panic run hot in my veins, merging and curdling, turning into something I’ve never felt before. The fist clenches and releases. Clenches and releases. It happens so fast that I feel like I’ve been shaken, taken by the neck and shaken with enough force to rattle my brain.

Reality becomes a slippery concept. A notion. A theory rather than something concrete.

The hand around my throat tightens, and I look into the ice-cold eyes of a stranger. His hair is moonlit perfection. Platinum waves are swept off his face and stay there for no discernible reason. His features are harsh and unsympathetic, a chisel taken roughly to flawless marble.

He looks like someone I’ve never met before. Someone I remember all too well.

“Where’s my money?”

“I-I—” His eyes flicker, and he gives me an almost imperceptible nod. It’s tiny, but it changes him. I see someone I do know. Someone impossible and beautiful. Impossibly beautiful. Someone so pigheaded he’s forced his way under my skin and into my mind. Someone so fucking crazy he’s managed to make me believe he has my back. “I-I don’t h-have it.”

“Hmm.” He looks me up and down, eyes hard, jaw set. The hand that was on my chest travels downward, roughly patting me down, scraping the fabric of my T-shirt over my ribs and belly. It travels lower. He pats at my jeans, jostling me physically as he searches my pockets. He slides a hand into one of them. My jeans pull tight around my waist as his fingers graze the outline of my rock-solid cock. It pulses and lurches toward him.

He ignores it.

He turns me and slaps my ass hard enough to spin me where he wants me. He takes me firmly by the back of the neck and presses me against the wall until my cheek is squished against it. The cold blast of plaster should sober me up. It should snap me out of the sorry state I’m in. It doesn’t. It rubs coarse, uneven pieces of me against other soft, sensitive parts. It does it until I’m eroded. Until I’m smooth at the edges. Until sparks fly.

He repeats his earlier performance, his hands moving all over me. In my hair, on my neck, up my back, under my top. He grabs my ass and makes the flesh he just slapped start living a life that exists outside of me. He takes one cheek in each hand and squeezes hard enough to force a choked whimper from my lips. I bite it back. I’m hot and bothered, helpless and all but splattered against our bedroom wall. I’m interfered with and undone. Panting from the present, shaking from the past.

He toys with my waistband, giving me time to close my eyes and see a huge wave of shame rise up before me. I watch, immobile, as it crests and crashes into me. He lets me feel it. Lets it soak in and drench me before shoving a hand into the back of my pants and balling my underwear in his fist. The fabric tightens, slowly creeping inward, caressing my ass cheeks as it works its way into my crack. I shift my weight from one foot to the other robotically, unsure whether to clench my cheeks together like I always used to when things like this happened to me or to push back and grind against Miller so he knows I want more.

“And what did I say was going to happen the next time you don’t bring me my money?”

Thoughts dart wildly, crashing into each other and fizzling out when they bounce off my skull. I manage to catch the tail end of one or two of them and piece together what he’s doing.

It’s a game. My game. He’s the player. I’m making the rules.

My lungs fill, my breathing precarious from a heavy concoction of disbelief, dread, and relief. The dread and disbelief are old. They’ve been with me for years. They’ve been with me for so long that I’ve started to think they’ve always been mine. The relief is brand new.

“Y-you said…” My voice cracks and trails off from the warmth of his breath on the side of my face. He tightens his grip on my underwear, pulling it deeper into my crack, not stopping until it’s chaffing my balls and I’m up on my toes, stepping uncomfortably from side to side with the care of a man walking on coals. Synapses fire. All of them. At once. I feel the ghost of his touch on my back and my ass. It wasn’t gentle. It also wasn’t rough. Not rough enough. All it’s done is make me want more. I whine weakly, raking my nails on the wall as past, present, and future versions of me wage war with each other. The scale that weighs profound things like dignity against other things, silly things, things I want even though it makes no sense to want them, shudders as it takes the measure of me. The scale tilts sharply. Dignity loses. “Yousaidyou’dspankme.”

Unfortunately for me, Miller has no problem deciphering the garbled collection of vowels and constants that spill out of me. I expect a throaty chuckle. A mocking laugh. God knows I deserve it. I don’t get it. Far from it. Miller reacts like what I’ve said is completely normal. Like he was expecting it.

He takes the waistband of my jeans in both hands and yanks them down to my knees without undoing my fly. It’s a struggle, the swell of my ass fights for my modesty. It loses. Before I’m able to appreciate the humiliation of having my jeans unceremoniously yanked down to my knees, Miller has an arm around my waist, all but lifting me off my feet as he drags me to my desk. He spins my chair around and sits, wrapping a hand around mine and pulling sharply enough to see me ungracefully sprawled over his knee.

His grip on my underwear tightens, getting my attention in a way that gives me the distinct impression I’ve never given anything my full attention before. Not like this. Not like now. My balls ache and send piercing objections up into my belly. So does my dick. It’s thick and hard, throbbing from being trapped between Miller and me.

He circles my bare ass cheeks with a flat palm, scouring my skin, worrying the fine hair he finds there. The light sensation is in such stark contrast with the pressure of the wedgie that my senses are scrambled. Old things are new things and new things are old things. Good things are bad and bad things are good.

Miller breathes in. I breathe out.

I take a second to familiarize myself with the horror of my position. Even now, I know I’ll be back to revisit this shame daily for years to come. Years. Decades maybe. My ankles are knotted in denim, my underwear is wedged up the crack of my ass, my hands are flat on the floor in front of me, and my dick is throbbing against Miller’s thigh.

“All you gotta do if you want me to stop”—Miller rubs my ass, groping me till he finds a spot he seems to like and tapping it until my heart beats in time with the rhythm he’s drumming into me—“is tell me where my money is. Got it?”

It takes me much longer to piece it together than I care to admit, but at last, what he’s doing registers. He”s giving me a safeword. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

The first slap lands with a loud splat. His palm. My flesh. A dull pause as nerve endings freak out and fire. A hot, searing sting lights me up. Warmth blooms under my skin, rising and traveling to the surface. The next blow lands milliseconds before I’ve had time to fully absorb the first one. The next one does too. And so does the next. I scramble, playing catch up and losing. A pale peach ripens, changing from creamy to blotchy hot pink as Miller beats layer upon layer of sensation into me.

Pain.

Pleasure.

More pain.

My hands ball into fists, one clenched against the floor, the other pressed tightly against my lips in a desperate attempt to stifle the sounds trying to break free. I don’t need to hear them to know I won’t like them. I won’t. I know it. I’ve never been more sure of anything.

Miller pauses, adjusting his grip on my underwear, pulling it tight against my balls and chaffing my hungry hole. It’s a light touch. A slight disturbance. A whisper of a finger tracing puckered flesh through the fabric. It’s enough. The fist against my lips loses its seal. The cry that’s unleashed is the worst I’ve heard yet. It’s savage. Sensual. High-pitched and eager. It sounds nothing like don’t. It sounds nothing like stop.

It sounds like more, please.

Miller hears it and understands it. He raises his hand again and brings it down hard. Again. Again. He lands on a predictable pace. This side, that side, this side again. Pain and pleasure start to dance with each other. One leans in, the other leans back. They know the steps, but I don’t. They tease each other until my senses are fucked. My mind too. Everything is quiet. The only thing that exists, the only thing that’s real anymore, is the part of my body Miller is touching.

It stops abruptly. My new reality comes crashing down.

It’s shocking and too soon.

I find myself on my knees, cold and burning, looking up at the silhouette of a statuesque Miller. I can’t look away. I can’t blink. I can’t move. Panic rises in me. It wasn’t enough. It was close, but it wasn’t enough. I need more. There’s something here. It’s close. I don’t know its name. I don’t know if it’s good or bad. I only know it’s here, and I need it.

Miller’s chest is heaving. Mine is too. He tilts his head back, and his shadow looks down at me, letting me know he’s still my enemy. My nightmare. My dream.

“What else did I say I’d do to you, Haraway?”

His voice finds me from far away. Far, far away. His words land like soft drops of rain. Splashing onto my skin and running slowly down my face.

“You s-said, you said you’d s-s-sodomize me.”

The fa?ade cracks. Miller smiles, breaking character for the briefest of seconds. He quickly wrestles it back.

“Hmm.” This smile is different. Cold and hard. It’s not my Miller, but it’s the Miller I need. “That does sound like something I’d say.”

The scorn in his laugh bounces off the walls, pummeling me, jabbing me in the sides till I’m crumpled and tear-stained at his feet. When it settles, he moves like a ghost, in front of me one second, behind me the next. His hands dig into my armpits and lift me bodily. My legs trail behind me, kicking halfheartedly as he tosses me unceremoniously onto the sofa. I land on my knees and quickly scramble, trying in vain to move into a less vulnerable position. Miller’s grip is steel. He holds me in place, positioning me exactly how he wants me. Pressing my hands down on the back of the sofa and slapping my knees as wide apart as he can get them with my shoes and pants still on. He takes my hips in his hands and pulls them back, peeling my stretched-out underwear out of my crack and down my thighs. He pushes my face down too, resting my forehead between my hands.

He steps back, and I find myself immobile. Paralyzed. Pinned down. Unable to move my body out of the position he’s put me in. I hear his shoes on the floor. Five steps, maybe six. Air moves near me, a cool breath, as his T-shirt sails through the air and lands in his laundry basket with a soft, familiar swish. A drawer groans open and shut. Shoes are shucked off. A belt and jeans too. I shiver as he draws near.

Thank God it’s dark. It’s a mercy. It’s a miracle.

It’s my night.

I’ve gone as low as I can. Lower than I ever thought I could. It’s almost liberating to be here. Shock and disbelief are distant now. I know they’re real and that they exist. It’s just that I also know I’m going to go lower and deeper and further back if Miller takes me there.

Two slick fingers find their way to my hole and open me roughly. I grunt but don’t move a muscle. That is, I don’t move a muscle except to bear down and relax the very muscle Miller is working open. I breathe in the sting. I absorb the burn. I accept them as if they’re my own. As if I deserve them. As if they’ll fix me.

I do the same when he replaces his fingers with the blunt head of his cock. I bury my face in the sofa, fingers digging into the fabric as he rams into me. He isn’t gentle. He’s rough. Just rough enough. Rough enough that the pain on the inside and outside of me match perfectly. Rough enough that I can’t feel anything except what he wants me to feel. What I need to feel. Things from a long time ago form a quagmire around me. A thick, messy impasse. A wall I see clearly. A limitation. A slough.

A wall other people built to cage me in.

Miller’s voice finds me in the mire.

“You know what, Haraway? Keep your fucking lunch money. This is what I want from now on. This.” He thrusts into me. “And this.” Again. Harder and deeper. All the way in. So deep my vision blurs, and I cry out. He punctuates his words with hard, no-nonsense thrusts. “Every day. From now on, this, this is what I’m going to take from you, you hear me?”

I shake my head and moan in ecstasy.

“You know what you’re going to do from now on?” He doesn’t let me answer. “You’re going to wait for me right here after school. Every day, y’hear?” He draws almost all the way out, pauses, and then snaps his hips, burying himself in me so hard my head lolls back against him. “You’re going to wait for me.” Quieter now. Slower but no softer. “Right here.” Thrust. “Somedays, I’ll turn up.” Thrust. “Somedays, I won’t. It’ll depend on my mood and whether I have anything better to do. But you.” He taps a forefinger firmly against my forehead so there’s no confusion about who he’s talking to. “You’re going to wait for me.”

His lips are on my neck now, his skin moving against mine. “Every day.” He plants a sweet kiss on my neck. Then a hard, grating bite. My cry matches the pain to perfection. “Every damn day. And on the days I show up, when you see me coming, you know what you’re going to do?” He thrusts roughly when I shake my head. “You’re going to lower your pants and your underwear. You’re going to spread your legs, and you’re going to bend over so I can use you.”

A yell and a whine cross wires and burst out of me. It’s a repulsive, strident sound, but I don’t care at all.

I like it. I want it. I need it.

“Miller, please!” I’m desperate. Wild. Beside myself and fully aware of it. A big, heavy thing swells in my core, fighting to break free. Racking me. Ravaging me. Still, even now, I’m aware of where I am. I know there are people close by, people who will hear me if I let the thing inside me loose. “Please, please, don’t let me scream.”

Miller acts quickly, clamping his hand against my mouth as tightly as he can. My orgasm is tightly coiled around me. A rope. A blade. Solid steel cutting into me. Tightening and pulling. Hurting. Pulsing. Pulsing again, and then pausing and punching a hole clear through me. Old things and new things. Big things and small things. A solid brick wall I built around myself.

All of them meet in the middle and collide.

Sparks fly. Bricks crumble and crash down.

My balls tighten. My mouth drops open.

Miller keeps fucking me relentlessly. Not breaking his stride. Not stopping or pausing as I’m laid bare and broken. He doesn’t stop until he’s caught my pain and my pleasure and holds them both in the palm of his hand.

Taking them from me.

Making them his.