I broke into tears, but I continued. “I don’t want that life. I don’t want to be treated like this. But if you push me away, that’s all I’ll be. Just another sad story. And since this someone will be, how you said it? ‘a proper man’, of my age, you won’t care at all, will you? And as you walk me down the aisle, you’ll try not to recall the night you filled me, the night you made me a woman, the night I gave you everything I had… so, you’ll deliver me… like the whore I am.”
I was shaking from tears. My own breath hitched in my throat, the venomous words I’d just spoken echoing in my ears.
Rob’s face, usually a warm haven, was now a mask of shock. I had never, never used such words, such expressions. Not even in the darkest corners of my mind. Rob was the one constant in my chaotic life, the anchor, the person I respected most. He was the embodiment of strength. And now I had hit him, and hit him hard. The weight of my words hung heavy in the air, suffocating us both. A tremor ran through me. I felt exposed, vulnerable in a way I never had before, and the fear that he would just stand there, unmoved, was almost too much to bear. I had laid everything out, every dark, desperate thought, and now all I could do was wait.
And yet… a flicker of defiance sparked within me. I wouldn’t take back the words, no matter how much they’d wounded him. My hands trembled, not from shame, but from the raw desperation that fueled my outburst.
I saw his face—how dare you—but he was unable to speak. How could you—but he couldn’t bring himself to raise a fist or even slap me. He just stood there. Unprotected. Shocked. His eyes flickered toward the door, like a trapped animal, a lion caught in a cage.
“Rob, I—” My voice cracked, the defiance fading, leaving only a raw plea. I slid from the couch, my knees sinking into the soft rug before him. Reaching for his hand where it rested on the cushion, I took it gently, placing it over my heart, its frantic rhythm a stark contrast to his steady pulse. Then, with a trembling breath, I guided his hand lower, to rest upon the curve of my breast. “I have to tell you all, Rob. I messed up. Please.”
His hand felt warm against my skin, his fingers tracing a hesitant path. A pause hung in the air, heavy with unspoken desires. The weight of his gaze held me captive, a mixture of shock and concern swirling in his depths. He wants to touch me, I thought, but he’s holding back.
This was it. No turning back. I would do anything to have him, even if that would mean that I would expose every degrading moment I lived, every humiliating decision I made. “I will tell you everything.” I pressed his hand against my breast, urging him with a silent plea.
I told him about Ethan, the sweet, completely inexperienced high school sweetheart I pushed into making love, thinking that losing my virginity would make the jealousy I felt over Mom disappear. I told him how awkward and ridiculous it was—neither of us really knowing what to do, and how Ethan ended up ejaculating on his hand and my belly after just a few thrusts inside me. I shared how silly it all felt afterward, how we just lay there, half-dressed and totally awkward, with a little bloodstain on the sheets in his room. It was like, what do you even do after that? And that’s when it hit me—Ethan wasn’t what I wanted. Despite being sweet and tender and everything, he wasn’t Rob. That’s when I realized the ache wouldn’t go away.
As I spoke, I felt Rob’s hand tense against my breast, his fingers momentarily tightening, as if bracing against the emotions my words were stirring in him. The warmth of his palm remained, but it was no longer a comforting touch—it was charged with something deeper, a mix of desire and restraint. His thumb traced slow circles, but there was an uncertainty in the motion, as if he was caught between wanting to pull away and wanting to hold on tighter. It was as if every word I spoke added to the weight pressing down on him, making it harder for him to keep his composure.
I could feel the conflict within him—how part of him wanted to comfort me, to be the strong, protective figure he’d always been, while another part wrestled with the emotions my story was dredging up. His hand remained on my breast, but it was no longer a gesture of affection or desire. It was as if he was holding on for balance, to keep himself steady as the storm of emotions I’d unleashed swirled around us both.
His gaze flickered to my lips, then back to my eyes, and I saw the war waging within him—between the desire that had always simmered beneath the surface and the confusion, the guilt, of what that desire meant. His hand tensed again, then relaxed slightly, as if he was trying to rein in the urge to do something he knew he shouldn’t.
“Abigail,” he began, his voice low and strained, “I don’t need to hear about your erotic life.”
But I wasn’t ready to let him off the hook. “I need to tell you everything, Rob. I really need to.”
His hand softened its grip, but it didn’t move away. He was caught in the middle of his own inner battle, his conflicting emotions laid bare through the subtle shifts in his touch—both wanting to push me away and pull me closer at the same time.
I told him about the ongoing struggle, how I wanted him so badly while also loving Mom so much. And when Mom died things only got worse, having guilts that she died because of me, because I prayed to be her, and having anger, raw anger on the thought he would find someone else to replace Alice, or even to fuck her just for a one-night-stand. I told him about the tennis, that it was the only thing that could make me forget; I revealed why I decided I would win every single game, win the championship—because being on the court was more than just playing; it was fighting. Fighting against my dark thoughts, my sinister desires. I told him that even then, in the midst of that battle, I was hoping Rob would see more than just my playing and after every single game, I’d masturbate, imagining Rob watching me as a woman, wanting me, wanting to fuck me.
“I was masturbating for you, Rob… for you,” I confessed, my voice low and deliberate. Rob’s breath caught in his throat. His hand, still resting on my breast, tensed, his fingers pressing slightly harder against my skin as if he was struggling to maintain control.
He didn’t move for what felt like an eternity, the war within him evident in the way his jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with a mix of desire, confusion, and guilt. I could see the conflict playing out in his mind—knowing what I was saying, what I was offering, and the impossibility of it all.
Then, his hand, the one that had been so tense, began to slowly slide down from my breast, tracing a path along my ribcage, hesitating just above my waist. His eyes never left mine, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. It was as if he was torn between pulling me closer and pushing me away, caught in the gravity of the moment.
Finally, his hand stilled, hovering just above my hip. “Abigail…,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, but he didn’t finish the sentence. His fingers twitched, as if wanting to move further down, but he restrained himself, the struggle within him evident in every line of his face.
I could see the struggle. In his eyes, the way he was torn between what he wanted and what he knew was wrong.
“There’s more” I continued.
I had to tell him. The darkness inside. The ache. The guilts. The need. The longing. The humiliation. The shame. Broken.
But more than that, I wanted to make him burn with jealousy, to make him so hard, unable to stand the thought of anyone else even touching me. I wanted him to claim me, to make me his; again; and again; and again. Every day. Every night. I wanted him to be as desperate for my touch as I was for his. Exclusively. Entirely. His touch. The only human touch I wanted.
PART THREE. SAME NIGHT. CONFESSION
“It was just a few months after Mom died. I had realized that I couldn’t overcome you.” My voice cracked slightly, the weight of the confession settling heavy on my chest. “No matter how hard I tried, the ache for you never went away. So, I thought… maybe if I found someone… someone like you. Older. Confident. Maybe he could make me… forget. So, it was this party.”
I could see Rob’s eyes darken slightly as I continued, but I pressed on, needing to get it all out.
“It was the annual gala at the tennis club, one of those big, glittering events where everyone shows up to mingle, show off, and celebrate the season. The ballroom was decked out—chandeliers, live music, everything perfect. And he was there, of course.”
“Who?” Rob’s voice was like, super tense.
“Mr. Carv… oh my god, Rob, whatever! I mean, I know him, okay? The super-rich donor of the club, he plays tennis, his wife does too, and their, I mean his daughter is on my team.”
Rob’s jaw clenched. “You said ‘their’ first. Why’d you change it to ‘his’?”
“Rob, please… just let me…” He didn’t say anything, but I felt his hand on mine. So, I kept going. I told Rob how he approached me at the gala, all charm and confidence, laying it on thick about how an awesome player I was, how fit I looked on the court. As the words left my mouth, I saw Rob’s jaw tighten, a muscle twitching just beneath the surface. His hand on my thigh stiffened, his grip becoming more possessive, almost as if he was trying to stake his claim even as the jealousy he couldn’t control began to simmer.
“I knew he wasn’t really watching my games, I knew it, Rob. And in that exact moment, I blamed you and only you.”
“Me?”
“Yes you, Rob”, I shouted him with all my strength. “Every guy – teenagers, grown men, even grandpas – practically drooled over me, but you, you had the real thing right in front of you and were blind to it. You had me parading around your house, practically naked in the sexiest lingerie, ‘accidentally’ bumping into you, and you didn’t even bat an eye. And this time you had no excuse Rob, Alice had passed away. So, I was the only female in the house! Or on the beach, where I wore bikinis so tiny they were barely there, just to get a reaction from you. And what did you do? You told me to cover up, to be an ‘appropriate young lady.’ Appropriate young lady! I was eighteen, Rob! Eighteen! Mom was nineteen when she had me! And I have the same body she did, the same body you… well, you finally saw last night…. So, yeah, Rob, I blamed you. That’s why I went with him. I knew exactly what he wanted, and I was ready to give it, to give him anything he would ask, just to numb the pain, to forget. At least, he was someone I could be with, unlike you with your blind eyes… and my foolish heart.”
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