Page 61 of My Skin Begs You Please

He huffed. “Ididn’ttell you that I egged him on while he did it.” His voice gave out and tears glossed his eyes. “I’ve never told anyone the truth.”

I took a slow breath before saying, “There’s nothing you can say that will make me feel differently about you.”

He stared at me. “Are you sure about that?”

“Try me.”

He sounded strangled as he pushed on, “Okay. Um… At first, I begged, like what I said to you last time…”

He looked at me, willing me to understand.

“‘Daddy, you’re hurting me, please stop’?”

“Yeah.” He wiped at his face. He was sweating now, and if I was reading him right, he was dizzy too. “Ibeggedhim. It hurt so much. But when he didn’t, when he was inside me, and it was done, and itwasn’t going to stop…” His voice grew stronger, and his eyes flashed. “I got so fucking angry. Like I could murder him, like I could movemountainswith my rage. I felt powerful. Strong. In control. And I told him…” He hesitated.

“Go on.”

“I told him that he’d always remember—” He broke off again, shame crossing his face.

“Go on, baby,” I whispered, leaning forward, ready to catch him if this confession was too much. My hands shook too, and I hoped he didn’t notice. “It’s okay to tell me.”

Mitchell licked his lips. “I told him he’d always remember how he’d made hisown soncome with his big, fat dick. I told him he wasgoodat fucking me, that I loved it, and thatheloved it too. I told him his cock fit in me just right, like it was made for my hole, likeIwas made just for him to use.” His voice went even lower. “I told him that he was the best fuck of my life.”

“Was that true?”

Minty’s eyes fell to the carpet. His shoulders shook. “At that point, he was theonlyfuck of my life.”

My throat felt tight as I asked, “Those things you said to him…you were only thirteen. Where did you learn to talk like that?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, looking small. “It just came out of my mouth, like the words had always been there just waiting for me to say them.”

He shivered. “I don’t know how else to explain it. The more I talked, the more I felt like I was breakinghiminstead of him breaking me. The power”—he ran his hands over his body, like he could feel it coursing through him even now—“was intense.” He swallowed thickly. “When he was done, panting and shaking on my back, I told him he’d always remember how his little boy had made him come like a goddamn freight train.”

His pulse pounded in his throat. “I don’t know where I got that either. But I’ll never forget saying it.”

I breathed in shakily. “And then?”

“He spat on me. He hit me, kicked me, beat me up. I felt proud, though. I hated him so much, and Iwantedto make him hate himself for what he’d done, what he’d enjoyed.”

“And did he? Hate himself?”

“I don’t know.” He pressed his lips together. “I hope so.”

“Is there more? Anything else you’ve never told anyone?”

“Yeah.”

“Go on. Tell me now. It’s okay.”

He took a stuttering breath. “The last time I saw him, he cornered me in my bedroom at my mom’s place and asked me to blow him. He didn’t even seem ashamed. Just said, ‘If you’re still the whore you used to be, get on your knees for Daddy.’”

“Did you?”

His breathing hitched. “If I said I did, would you hate me?”

“No, baby. No, never.”

His face contorted, and I didn’t know if I believed him when he whispered, “I didn’t. I spit in his face, and then I got in my car, drove to campus, and taunted a frat boy into beating me up.”

---