Gagged (13 page)

I keep his cock in my mouth. I keep my eyes on Caspian’s.
 

Then my first hand returns to his shaft, now stroking him harder, warming my palm with friction, filling the room with wet sounds of abandon.
 

I’ll show him what a virgin can do.
 

I stroke faster. My saliva comes more freely, and I let it, feeling it pool around the hot cock between my lips, letting it spill out in long, gaudy ropes of spit. I lose the last of my reservations. I lick. I rub. I stroke and drool. My other hand slides down my front, across my sensitive breast, to the wetness between my legs. And the instant my fingers touch my clit, I practically collapse.
 

I only want him more. I picture his cock erupting inside my mouth. I imagine the
filthiest
things. I picture it happening as I rub it with my hand, white eruptions shooting from the tip as my reward for a job well done. I feel like being a slut, for once. I feel like not caring. I want him to use one hand to hold my head where he wants it, using the other to stroke himself until he covers me as he wishes.
 

But most of all I want him to empty himself in my mouth.
 

Just thinking the words arouses me. It’s so filthy. It’s so
wrong
.
 

So I pull him out then look up at him and say, “Come in my mouth.”
 

He looks like he might say something in response. Something witty. Something stupid and arrogant and demeaning. But I don’t flinch, stroking him harder and faster. Then he meets my strokes with thrusts, and I look down, demure, obedient, biting my lip. Coy.
 

“Oh my god, Aurora,” he says.
 

I feel it about to happen. I wrap my lips around him again, hand working, and then my mouth is filled with liquid warmth. It goes on forever, and by the time he’s slowing to aftershocks I wonder if I might choke. But I won’t. With my hand on my pussy, I swallow, letting his seed slide down my throat, a tendril escaping from the corner of my lips.
 

And then with my fingers on my clit, I come. All at once, my orgasm claims me.

I feel his hardness. I feel the way I want to cry out in pleasure but can’t because he’s filled me. I taste him. I want all of him. For that fraction of a second, I want him inside me. I imagine no longer being a virgin, of feeling Caspian’s cock opening me up and making me whole.
 

My orgasm is immense. I lose track of space and time. I ride the waves, waiting for it to end and hoping it never will. I can’t remember what’s happening, or how I got here. I know only euphoria.
 

I look up at him, his cock slipping from my mouth, its tip bejeweled with a drop of pearlescent semen.
 

And …

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A
URORA

I
SEEM
TO
SEE
AN
invisible clock inside my mind, counting seconds spent in the stillness that follows.
 

One.
 

Two.
 

Three.
 

I lick my lips. A drop has escaped, and I can’t reach it, so I use a finger to slide it between my lips, refusing to shed my bedroom eyes. I’m the girl who made him hot, not the shy little thing afraid of her shadow. I have a persona to maintain. So I lick the finger but do it too fast, and he’s still watching me, waiting.
 

Four seconds.
 

Five.
 

Six.
 

I slide back a little. His softening cock is still right there in front of me. My hand hasn’t got the message to leave my crotch so I close that loop, finding my hand covered in a shiny glove of lubrication, as if dipped in jelly. Caspian’s eyes flick to the hand, to the fingers I used to make myself come. To my bare pussy, pink and flowering open like no good girl’s pussy ever should.
 

Seven.

Eight.
 

He’s said nothing. He hasn’t moved. He moaned when he came, and his hips bucked hard enough into me that I was afraid he’d trigger my gag reflex. But right now, Caspian seems so neutral, staring down at me as if wondering why I’m on a bathroom floor with my panties at my knees.
 

Nine seconds.
 

I stand and look away. I should meet his gaze, but now I can’t. I raise my panties and lower my skirt. I swallow, still tasting the seed of a man I barely know.
 

What the hell is wrong with me?
 

Why the fuck did I do that?

I look at Caspian. I’d almost welcome his smirk, but he strikes me as almost incredulous. The way he looks now, it’s like he wasn’t involved. I just knelt to suck his cock, but he seems to be judging me for touching it.
 

Ten seconds.
 

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. There’s a blob on my cheek. And some on my dress. My hair is a mess, and I’m not sure why. My makeup seems in place, but inside my head it’s running black from my eyes, smeared around my whore’s mouth.
 

A wave of emotion hits.
 

What did I just do?
 

And why did I do it?
 

I didn’t just flirt or kiss him. We didn’t make out. No. I got down on my knees and sucked his cock until he came down my throat.
 

Tears stream.
 

Regret percolates.
 

I try to seem casual, like this happens all the time. No big deal, like it wouldn’t be for Jasmine. Like it wasn’t earlier, when she and James sneaked off to …
 

To what?
 

What if Jasmine and James did nothing? What if I only assumed they ran off to have sex, but instead they got coffee? Why did I let it affect my behavior — my morals, my sense of right and wrong? What claimed me on the dance floor, and then even more in here? I’m tipsy but not truly drunk. I
decided
this, but why — and what was I trying to prove?
 

The moment has passed, and now everything’s fuzzy. I remember the sense of impulse, of rightness, gnarling me up in the moment. But it was all my choice, and I felt so strong, like this was
right
. But I did what I did, sure as anything. And Caspian didn’t even have to ask.
 

I look up to see him still watching.
 

My vision blurs. I don’t know what to do with my hands or how to position my body. I feel like he’s watching every little thing I do. He looks like he’s holding my key. It’s not that I tried to resist and failed.
No.
I gave up what he never had to ask for.
 

Caspian zips up. I think he’ll say something caustic, or maybe touch me. Instead he composes himself, washes his hands in the sink, and leaves without a glance or a word.
 

He’s out the door, and then I’m sobbing.
 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A
URORA

“A
URORA
?”
 

I’
M
RUSHING
PAST
J
ASMINE
, past James, past the nice little nest they seem to have made for themselves in the darkened room. They’re sitting and amiably chatting, no sign of drunkenness or debauchery. Seen through my jaded, moist eyes, they might as well be sitting in a meadow filled with sun and buttercups. Nothing depraved here, folks — unless I happen to look in a mirror.
 

“Aurora? Where are you going?” Jasmine calls.
 

Past them without turning. Not running, not even rushing, but moving briskly, eyes forward. Not turning, thinking, or hearing Jasmine as she grabs her bag, takes James by the wrist, and follows me with her raised antennae.
 

“Aurora!”
 

Like I can’t hear her. Like this is only an oversight.
 

“Aurora!
Wait up!”

She’s scampering behind me. In the lull between songs, I hear her heels on the floor and the clack of another pair of shoes beside her. She didn’t go too far, and he’s still at her side.
 

Jasmine gets hold of my arm and turns me to face her. I thought I cleaned myself up in the bathroom, but based on the way she’s looking at me, I didn’t finish the job. It
was
the ladies room after all, and someone had left a travel pack of makeup remover wipes beside the sink. I don’t know why Caspian was there, or why it didn’t immediately strike me that he was zipping up by a toilet instead of a urinal. I only know that I had to erase every bit of evidence. I removed all of my errant mascara, and scrubbed my skin pink. But still, I must be a mess, because Jasmine looks even more concerned than when she thought I was drunk and out of control. Now she looks ready to save me from something that’s already over and done.
 

“A?” she says.
 

I feel a tear drip from my eye and slide down my cheek. Traitor. I swipe at it, angrily.
 

“What’s wrong?”
 

“Nothing.”
 

“Do you feel okay?”
 

I offer her the world’s most artificial smile. I know it’s not fooling anyone. My lips won’t work right; the smile becomes something distorted, halfway between counterfeit mirth and ugly sobbing.
 

“I feel great,” I lie.
 

Jasmine’s head cocks to the side, and her lips make a serious, businesslike frown. She says nothing, leading me outside into the fresh air. James is still with us. Even if I felt like speaking plainly — which I very much don’t — I couldn’t say it in front of James.
 

The air is surprisingly chill for San Francisco, but with the sun gone, warmth has left the world. Everything is man-made. All the light is as fake as my expression. I can’t believe I thought I was drunk — my head is so clear it’s like I can see all I’ve glossed over, and allowed myself to miss.
 

A dumpster on the edge of this otherwise nice parking lot, its paint peeling.
 

Dark corners everywhere, filled with unknown, terrible monsters.
 

Broken concrete to one side. The kind of thing you stumble into and break an ankle, before everyone passes by while you’re pleading for help.
 

“Aurora,” Jasmine says. “Talk to me.”
 

Another tear. I wipe it away while shaking my head.
 

“Are you feeling all right?”
 

I can’t look up. Jasmine touches my upper chest, near my collarbone, and brushes at something on my dress. When whatever it is stubbornly stays in place, I see Jasmine put her finger to her lips and lick it, like she’s about to use moisture to rub the stain away. That makes me flinch as if stabbed.

“What?”
Jasmine says, watching me.
 

I won’t answer. I
can’t
. I don’t know the right response. My shoes are light blue, the heels low, the toes pointed. Right now that’s all I can concentrate on, all I care about.
 

James, to Jasmine, when I say nothing: “I’ll take her home.”
 

Jasmine, also unseen above me: “I’ll take her. You have to find Caspian. Where is he?”
 

I flinch again. I’m sure they know. I’m sure the whole world knows. And yet I don’t understand why my body still responds when Jasmine says his name. My breasts feel sensitive and heavy, my nipples hard. I imagine his hand sliding down my front, between my legs, cupping my sex. I’m so humiliated, and wet.

“I don’t know. But Jasmine … you can’t drive.”
 

“I’m fine.” Her hand is on my back. I’m looking down, still studying my shoes. “I can drive.”
 

I see hands in my peripheral vision. Jasmine has pulled her keys from her purse, but James’s larger hands are gently taking them away. I don’t know why the exchange affects me, but it does. I see the simple movements, him taking from her, and it makes me want to cry. I’m a ball of emotion. It’s like I’m pregnant, except that you can’t get pregnant from —

Shoes
. I focus on my shoes. Nothing happened tonight. Nothing at all.
 

When James has the keys, he says, “I’m driving, Jasmine.”
 

They load me like cargo. I don’t even notice what kind of car it is, except that it’s gravestone gray and the seats are leather and the trim is chrome. I’m in the back. They’re in the front, James at the wheel. And some time later I’m back at our place, being tucked in like a toddler. Jasmine vanishes, and I assume I’m being left alone to sleep, but she returns a few minutes later, after I hear the front door close. It hits me that Jasmine has left her car, and that we’ll have to go back to retrieve it. But I can think about that tomorrow, after the darkness has departed.
 

I’m watching a long shadow near my closet when my bedroom door opens without so much as a knock, as if privacy no longer matters. Jasmine comes to sit on my bed, barefoot. The mattress sags with her weight, and she runs a hand along my body, soothing me, failing despite her effort.
 

“You okay?”
 

“I’m fine.”
 

“You sure? You seemed like you were about to barf or something.”
 

“Yes.” I swallow. I make myself look up at her. “Really, Jas. I’m fine.” Then, after a few seconds in the dim: “Thanks.”
 

We sit in silence. I can tell she’s trying to decide whether to believe me, and I’m trying to think of nothing at all. I figured staying still would help this strange moment to pass, but it isn’t working. I feel the bottom dropping out of my stomach. I feel myself tumbling into an abyss.