Page 31 of Can't Refuse Him
Eddy’s lips touch mine like a match to kindling. It isn’t gentle, but it isn’t forceful either; it isinevitable. As if the moment had been circling us all this time, and we had finally stepped into it.
The taste is strange. Not bad. Just… old. Like smoke and rust and the warmth of summer rain on hot concrete.
His hand cups my jaw. Our tongues meet and massage each other. I am so lost in his kiss that it takes me a second to realise the lights in the room are flickering.
And then the floor drops out under me.
We’re now standing in a different version of me. Notwithme,but insideme. Inside my memories.
We are in my old flat, my one-bedroom that smells like mould and burnt rice. Where every surface is a monument to my lowest point.
I recognise the exact night.
My ex had just left, stormed out for good. He had said I’m pathetic. Said I’m warped. Said I got off on thewrong things.
He had not been entirely wrong.
I’m–my memory-version of me - is kneeling beside the laundry basket. Still breathing hard. Face flushed, body trembled.
‘My’ hand is wrapped aroundhisjockstrap, which is sweat-soaked, threadbare, stanching of his musk. I had pulled from the hamper like some guilty treasure. Memory-me is pressing it to his face, breathing in what is left of my-our-ex. Memory-me is wearing it like a mask.
My pants are down. My shame is louder than the moans. As I stroke myself faster, huffing in Marcus’ scent.
Eddy says nothing beside me. Just watches.
Then the door rips open, slamming as it swings and hits the wall.
Marcus stands there, his aura flaring like static, hair dishevelled from a night out. His eyes blaze as he sees memory-me. I pull the makeshift jockstrap-mask off one eye and stare at him.
“You sick fuck!”
I flinch. Not past-me,me. Here. Watching it.
“I told you,” he snarls, fists shaking. “You can’tkeep doing this!I thought you wantedconnection,Oscar—not justobjects!”
Memory-me mumbles something useless, broken. About not wanting to be kink-shamed.
That’s when he curses me.
He didn’t need a circle. Didn’t need a spell book. An Etsy witch was much more skilled than any you’d read in a book or watch on a TV show.
Justrage.He points his finger at my heart, and it’s as if time had stopped. The room goes dark… the lights subtly flickering.
“Let your lust rot with what you crave most. May trash be your forever hunger.”
The jockstrap in memory-me’s hands glows with an eerie shimmer, then it disappears into a million particles of green light. The specks fly up and then enter my body.
Memory-me gasps, then collapses.
The curse hits like fire, honey, and filth. They tangle into one.
Everything blurs.
I moan—and remember I had liked it and I cum all over my stomach, the jockstrap still on my face. I realised in that moment I had been cursed not just by magic, but by my belief that I had deserved it.
My memory shifts yet again. Eddy tightly grips my arm, his face already paling. In front of us is my old share house. At this point in my life, I had been kicked out of everywhere I lived because of my sick desires. The room is bare, aside from a mattress on milk crates. Fast-food wrappers crunch underfoot with every step. The air reeks of weed, sweat, and something worse. Desperation.
There are… objects. Things I hid under the bed. Plastic wrappers. Grease-stained boxes. Half-melted takeaway containers I had fashioned into makeshift rubbish flesh-jacks I had used on myself. God, I had forgotten. I’veburiedall of this. Since I had been cursed, I had found new ways to pleasure myself. Then, I couldn’t resist the call for attention that most trash gave me.
