VIII.

In an empty stairwell, lit by dim neon, he forces me to kneel. Bend over, he whispers. One side of my face is pressed a grimy cement step. It smells of stale beer, bleach and cigarettes. I close my eyes and pray no-one will come across us here. He rucks my skirt about my waist and pulls my panties to my thighs.

A calloused finger pokes into my anus as if to pin me in this position. With a single, careless thrust, his cock penetrates my unmoistened cunt. I grunt like an over-burdened animal and try to angle my pelvis to ease its passage. His hips smack against my buttocks like a series of blows: I can feel the coarse fabric of his jeans and the cold, metallic bite of a zipper around his cock and unshaven balls.

My own arousal is unexpected – and it angers me. I force myself not to respond. I cling to silence, holding my breath. I breathe out only when he pulls both his cock and finger from me, the stinging void soothed by unwanted wetness.

He yanks my head upward by the hair. My eyes flood with tears. Don’t hurt me. But I don’t want him to stop.

He is sitting one step above me now: legs either side of my head, fingers still entangled in my hair, rough nails raking my scalp. He stabs between my swollen lips with his cock, filling my mouth with flesh and coarse hair. Swallow it. There’s a spit of hot, viscous fluid into my gullet, then another. I gag, but when I try to pull away, he tightens his grip on my hair.

My lungs ache. I’m afraid to breathe. I fear I might fill my lungs with his cum and drown.