Drugs, Treasons and Other Demons

31. EVERYTHING IS OKAY

TW: This chapter deals with the notion of consent and non-consensual sex. If that's a sensitive subject for you, you might want to skip it.

"Fuck me."

"Again?" he panted. "Holy shit, Gordita. Alright, but give me a minute."

I laid naked in a bed of hay, back still arched, toes still curled, arms still lasciviously snaking above my head, knees still shaking, hips still rolling, and cheeks still flush with a passionate red.

I felt good, for a minute – while I still felt the warmth in the bottom of my stomach, and the soft chills running up my spine. While drops of sweat still rolled down my breasts like a dozen shiny diamonds. While his winded breaths still synchronized with mine.

"Sorry," I chuckled. "I didn't mean 'fuck me' fuck me, but more like 'wow' fuck me."

Pablo graced me with a satisfied grin, and fell back onto the haystack.

"So you liked it?" he asked.

Did I? Did I like it?

Did I like having sex with my kidnapper? The man who'd locked me up, drugged me, hurt me, lied to me, done everything to make sure I had neither will nor way to escape?

Why did I like it? Why did I tell him to fuck me, and why did I smile as he did it? Was the sight of a middle-aged bicep, stubbly dimples and an average-sized dick enough to make me forget all my principles?

I closed my legs, and slid an arm across my bare chest. I turned to Pablo and smiled softly. He smiled back, but then his eyebrows drew together and his lips curled in, as if he was worried about me.

"Yeah," I whispered. "It was fun."

"Is there something wrong?" he murmured.

Why would there be something wrong? I wanted this. I asked for this. I started it, not him. I enjoyed it. Moaned all through it. I liked it. I loved it. After a year and a half of not being touched, or even feeling desired, I might even say I needed it.

There was nothing wrong. I was okay. I was going to be fine. This situation was just weird. But it was okay. It wasn't messed up. I wasn't messed up. Everything was okay.

"Everything is okay," I answered, echoing the thoughts in my head.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

I smiled at him, and squeezed his fingers with my free hand. It wasn't his fault. He didn't do anything wrong. All he did was to be handsome and nice enough that I fell victim to his charm. 

"Pablo," I whispered. "Where's my shirt?"

"Ah, uh, I think I threw it in this corner," he muttered. He covered his parts, stood up, and stumbled over bags of feed to grab the piece of fabric he'd ripped off of me just a few minutes ago, and tossed it back towards me.

"Great," I mumbled. "And where are the buttons?"

"The buttons– oh, shit," he said. "Did they all pop off?"

"All of them, except these two at the top."

"You can't wear that," he stammered. "That's showing more than the underboob."

"I'll just tie it, it's okay."

"No, wear my shirt. We can switch," he said. "People are used to seeing my chest, but my shirts do have buttons, would you believe it?"

I let out a joyless laugh, more like a breathy grunt, and put my clothes back on. Once we were both dressed, and we'd pulled all the hay out of our tousled hair, Pablo opened the door to the tack room. The warm sun had never felt so cold, and the blue sky never seemed so dull.