Page 17 of Trade
The man cups my breast. I gasp. He pauses a second, waiting, I guess, to see if I scream or struggle. When I don’t, he cups my other breast, too, and holds them, kind of weighing them in his rough hands. He strokes a nipple with his thumb. I shudder. He doesn’t do it again.
He squeezes gently, pressing his fingers into them, his breath coming quicker and quicker as he stares intently at what he’s doing. A flush spreads across my chest and my nipples harden into painful, achy, swollen points. Every few seconds, his gaze flashes to my face like he’s checking for something. For what? Permission? Encouragement?
I stare back at him. He meets my eyes. Shameless. Guarded.
Fascinated.
A bird caws overhead. He takes it as a signal, swinging a leg off of me so he can unzip me the rest of the way, and then, all of a sudden, he’s in a hurry. He peels off my coveralls. My panties. He unbuckles his belt. Shoves his pants to his thighs. Settles himself between my legs, his trunk-like thighs holding mine open.
He reaches down, shoves his fingers between my lips, and frowns. I’m dry. I tense. I’m scared. More than scared. I don’t want it to hurt.
He lifts his hand, spits on his palm, and rubs it on my pussy. Then, before I can tell him no, or think of the thing I can say that will make him stop, or freeze time, or throw him off with the superhuman strength I’m supposed to have in a moment like this—he pushes his cock into me to the hilt and groans.
I whimper. It’s tight. The stretch burns.
I look up. His eyes are finally closed.
He pulls out and thrusts again. He’s big. Bigger than Bennett. He thrusts again. And then once more. This time, he goes in a little easier.
And then he groans like he’s dying, shudders, and tenses above me, braced on his hands in a plank.
Hot cum dribbles out between my ass cheeks.
He blows out a long breath.
He’s done?
I don’t dare move.
He pushes himself up and slips his cock out. More cum seeps from me onto his jacket.
His face is as hard as it was before as he rakes his gaze down my body. What is he checking for now?
He sits on his heels beside me and pulls his shirt off over his head, revealing a wall of carved muscle.
“Here,” he says and shoves it into my hand, which is still resting at my side where he told me to put it.
My brow wrinkles. What am I supposed to do with it?
“For that.” He nods between my legs. They’re still spread. He’s still leaking out of me.
I sit up and numbly do what I’m told, sopping up his jizz with his balled-up shirt. It doesn’t do much but spread it around. When I’ve done the best I can, I offer it back to him. He takes the shirt and holds it in his hands. He’s sitting on his butt now, and he’s done his pants back up. He rests his forearms on his knees and looks at me.
Am I allowed to get dressed? Are we done?
I’m afraid to ask. I don’t want him to say no.
I grab my bra because it’s closest, slowly slipping the straps over my shoulders, watching him back. He doesn’t say anything.
I scoot and snag my coveralls. My panties are stuck inside. I put them back on and then do my best to redress myself while sitting. I don’t dare stand. I’m not sure why.
He keeps watching, his face growing grim. What happens now? Am I allowed to leave?
I’m not as chilly with my clothes back on. More sunshine is streaming through the leaves overhead now, too. The light shines at an angle so I can make out the veins on the leaves on the lowest branches.
It’s a sycamore tree. We don’t have one in the atrium, but I’d recognize it anywhere from the illustration in Peattie’sA Natural History of Trees of Eastern and Central North America. That was the first book Dad gave me from his collection. It was a thirteenth birthday present. He said since I had it memorized, it was as good as mine anyway.
My nose tingles. I blink fast. I’m not going to cry. Not now, when it’s over.
