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I peek out of the locker room door. Everyone has left. Nervous, I feel apprehensive about leaving the safety of my hiding place. My pussy is soaking wet. I think of last week when I was taken. I hated him for it. Yet every time I thought of him tearing my leotard, my desire to be retaken rages within me. I have not told my boyfriend yet. He has left for a year. We talked on the phone every night. He said he could hear something was off about me.
How do I tell him I was fucked by an older man? Yeah, I was reluctant at first. Yet every time I thought about it, I was overcome by desire. I have had to wash every pair of panties I own. I have soaked through pair after pair. I cried with guilt after I came again, the first time I fantasized about him. My administrations had the sheets soaked. I came hard and messed up all the bedding. I showered again and again. The guilt would not wash away. The guilt would never wash away because I wanted to be retaken. I am a changed woman. I like it rough. I like it dirty. I need him to soil me again and again.
I check the halls as I move towards the gymnasium. I peer into every dark corner. My clit swells in anticipation, but the coast is clear. I am both relieved and disappointed. I enter the gym. I begin my routine. I find it hard to concentrate. I keep seeing scenes of last week’s play as if phantoms were reenacting what happened. I can feel desire building. I am so wet. I feel like I could slip on the balance bar if I flooded my leotard anymore. I check the door again. The coast is clear. Still, I feel like he is here. I feel his eyes upon me. My phone starts to buzz in my bag. I hop off the bar.
“Hey J,” I answer the call from Jake, my boyfriend. “No, everything is fine.”
I lay myself out on the mat. Right where Mr. Jones took away all my pretense of being a good girl. My hand starts to roam as I think of him violating me again. I slip aside the leotard’s gusset.
“Babe, something is up. I can hear it, ” Jake says. I fight back and groan. A tear of guilt slips out and slides down my cheek.
“J, everything is fine. I am just doing my routines,” I lie. Biting my lip, I restrain a desperate moan. My fingers tease my clit. I want to be dishonored, and I want to feel his beard against my mound.
“Baby, talk to me,” Jake says. I cannot. If I open my mouth, I am going to moan. I slip a finger inside and feel my juices leaking out. I stop.
“I’ll call you after I am done,” I say, fighting the desire to be fucked. “I have to go. The longer I stay on the phone, the later it will be before I am home. I love you.”
I toss the phone aside. My eyes scan the door. My fingers pinch my pink nipples. My blonde hair is tied tight in a braid. I swing the braid off my chest. My fingers start to tease me again. I close my eyes and picture him. I am so lost in pleasuring myself that I can almost feel his tongue licking me. I can feel coarse hair against my thighs and tickling my labia. My eyes flare open. That touching is too real. My hands grab his slickedback hair. I am moaning. Oh my god. I freeze in panic. I look down. My eyes meet his startling blue. His tongue drives deep into me. I fight my impulse to beg for more.
The pleasure is so deep I can not back away. That and his hands grip my ass, pulling me to his mouth. Biting my lip, I fight the oncoming waves of climax. Just him touching me is driving me wild. His tongue is lapping up my mess. Fuck it is so good. I have to stop this. I back up. I crabwalk back and away. I can’t do this. My wet desire begs for me to stop.
“I can’t,” I wail.
“Tell me, love. Tell me you have not thought about me all week,” he purrs in a tigerlike voice. I look down to see I am gushing.
“I, I,” I stammer. “I can’t.” I can’t what? Can’t tell him I have cum every night thinking about his cock inside me? I can’t admit I need to be retaken. I can’t give in to him? I don’t know. All of them at once.
He crawls toward me like a stalking predator. I shudder. I need to run. I don’t want to. I need to tell him no. I cannot. My traitorous legs spread ever so slightly. His smile is evil and delicious. His eyes devour every part of me. I moan, shuddering. I am a whore. I am his whore. My legs are spreading. His tongue splits me, and he sucks at my clit. My back arches. Somehow, my breasts are free. My nails dig into the mat as he pleasures me. He is edging me. I almost climax again, but he stops.
“The money was for the leotard,” he whispers.
“What?” I am totally confused. Why is he talking? Why did he stop?
“The money was not because you’re my whore; it was for the leotard I tore,” he says, and his fingers push into me. I gasp, and my hips thrust into him. I open, welcoming him into me. “But, you are mine. Deny it.”
I moan and thrash. I am his fingers, and I love it. I won’t answer him. He is doing this, not me. I know I am lying. I dreamt of this. I desire it and want it. He curls his finger taking me over the edge. His hand begins to move, working my body like his personal puppet.
“Oh, oh,” I moan and cry. “Please. Don’t. Stop!” I scream. I am not sure if I am begging him to continue or asking him to end my torture. I know what my body wants, but who is in control here?
“Beg me, Cara,” he demands.
“Fuck me, please,” escapes my lips. I usually never swear. Obviously, my body is in control. No, he is in control. His smile makes me hate him and love him simultaneously. He brings me to orgasm after orgasm. His fingers know me to my soul.
“Not this time, love,” he says, smiling cruelly. “I was bespelled by you, bewitched. I came here to tell you that you are mine. You are mine, but you’re no whore. When you are ready, you will come to me. Then you get what you desire.” His fingers slip from me. I come again and squirt all over the floor. I am shaking and heaving. When I open my eyes, he is gone. He is gone, and my heart aches.
