An Easy Touch Pt2— a Naked story.

You will want to have read the first part of Easy Touch before reading this.

It was as if my whole body was electric then; singing, fizzing, as he held the door open for me, and my body took me inside. Every movement needed to be perfect; I felt it so strongly that I made myself turn my head toward him as I passed by him, so close, made myself smile, even though I was full of nerves, feeling my eyes so big and round and soft, feeling his power, and said “Thank you” to him, my voice small and weak, but full of the intensity of my feelings, felt his eyes on my body as I walked to the centre of the lobby, my throat so tight, my belly quivering, knees trembling, knowing somehow that this was the defining moment, the defining incident of my life; that I would never be the same again, and filled with gratitude that he wanted me, no matter what the words he had said, the knowledge in my head that I was now to strip for him astonishing, impossible, wondrous.

As he drew down the blinds on the door and the windows, it was important to me that I start without being asked, that I offer myself, show how much I wanted to please him, and I knew that it had to be slow; everything— apart from my racing thoughts, my palpitating heart— had been slow since he had said those words to me; the world in slow motion, as if the speed of the change he had spoken about just could not be followed, and so was being slowed down by my mind.

And so my strip was steady, careful— not a practical strip as before a shower, more like a slow, stately dance— not like that of a stripper, full of teases either, not at all; I was shy, weak, consumed by embarrassment; but at the same time I desperately needed him not to find me inelegant, unattractive (all of which I kept worrying that I was), and so I did everything I could to give him something he would enjoy.

Taking off my coat was easy, and then I began, fingers trembling, to undo the buttons of my blouse, first the cuffs, then at my neck, until he stopped me;

“Indulge me, pretty girl; take off your pantyhose and your panties first, then put your shoes back on. If you know the trick, take off your bra next, leaving your blouse on. You will not wear underwear that covers your pussy, or your ass, or the points of your breasts, not again. Not ever. When you are permitted outer garments, you and I will always know that you are naked under them.”

“Continue…”

My breath caught, but it was— truly it was— an immense relief to be commanded so, in such casual, certain voice, so sure what he wanted. Still, the nerves came back as, my underwear gone, I realised I had forgotten to put my heels back on, and had to bend, unable to control a small sobbing noise of emotion as I straightened, to meet his eyes, feeling one of my breasts swing free, the nipple stiff, sensitive to the small pull even of the cotton, fighting my instinctive desire to cover it up, the knowledge that I was showing him my breast some sort of watershed.

It was sex, now, and he was going to fuck me, and hurt me, and I was inviting him to, and it was overwhelming and strange frightening and so, very, very, wonderful that he had chosen me for this.

It was hard to make my fingers work, but still, it was time to take my blouse off, and I as dipped my shoulder to free the fabric, feeling my breasts move, I found myself lifting my head and arching my back, just a little— the most I could manage, trembling with nerves, deeply needy for him to like my breasts. Men generally do— for they are a little large for my chest; firm and springy with it, the nipples too large and pokey to my mind— but in that moment I had no confidence, no feeling of anything but a cringing insecurity, pathetically grateful for the small huff of what I took for approval from him, and then it was time to undo my skirt. Being naked beneath it made me feel terribly strange, and it was hard, very hard; but then, once I made myself do it, it took almost nothing for it to be gone, slipping down my legs, and I was stripped for him, naked; quivering with the vulnerability of it, his lop-sided smile of approval experienced as if it were a gift from God.

“Your hands are to be behind you a little, slightly out from your sides, palms facing backwards, as limp as can be; your feet shoulder width apart; your head upright, your eyes on my groin, your lips slightly parted, the tip of your tongue on your lower lip, visible, your shoulders back, your hips thrust forwards, just a little now.”

And, just like that, he took control of me, and I let him, and it was wonderful and strange and exciting to arrange myself, offer myself to him, feeling terribly weak, and shy and hot and breathless, all at the same time, my belly all squirmy inside.

“Like that; good enough for now— but you will practice in front of the mirror. You will constantly be resetting yourself when my eyes are on you— just small movements, unobtrusive, always needing to make it obvious that you are asking for me to look at your nakedness— that you are working to be sexually interesting, hoping that I will choose to use you— fuck you or hurt you.”

Why was it so wonderful to have him talk to me like this? It took a while, but I now understand; it is the freedom he has with me that makes me special— that he knows that he is welcome (yes, welcome) to say such things to me— things which almost every other woman on the planet would push back against with anger, or run from in fear. It makes me feel special, like no other; and in my heart, too, when he says these things there is a soft but urgent yearning, yearning for more— for that fucking, or that hurting, my whole body wanting for what no other man has ever made me feel.

And you can say that is mental weakness on my part, or ‘daddy issues’, or a sign that I’ve been brainwashed, or anything you want, but I know how I feel, deep in my pussy, in my chest and I know that I want it, and I don’t really care if those things are true.

Back then I realised that, as well as everything else, there were tears in my eyes, my vision watery; it was every emotion at once, too much, far too much, and for a few seconds I felt I might faint as he stepped towards me; had to hold on with everything I had not to let my knees go, hearing myself whimper like an over-stressed puppy, fear strong in me alongside the wanting.

And then he touched me and everything changed. There was one place in the universe, and it was my groin, where his fingers were; solid, rough-skinned, unhesitating but also very gentle; the softest touch at the quivering lips of my pussy, working between them, angling, pressing, unhurried, certain, until he found my wetness and I gasped and my pussy opened itself for him— I felt it open like a flower as my hips thrust forward and I wailed; soft, quavery, the sound breaking up into a stuttering cry as he pushed inside me; the very shortest way, and I was his. He had taken me and I knew that he had me and I wanted him like I had never wanted sex before.

And then, just as steadily, just as certainly, he pulled out of me, and I was bereft, looked up at him (I had been unable to face him at all for some while), needing him to see my need in my eyes, my plea wordless, but not silent, almost a whine, and he grinned at me, laughed a little;

“Needy little girl, hmm?”

I almost died of embarrassment, because it was true, and I had showed him it and I must be a terrible dirty slut to be so open to him but it made no difference to how I felt, and when his finger came back I opened myself to him, no matter the shame, thrust against him, did the work for him until he was inside me again and sighed my pleasure for him, needing him to understand how very grateful I was that he had just taken what he wanted from me.

He bent his head then and took my left nipple into his mouth, so hot and wet and warm that I almost fainted with the pleasure of it, then cried out at the pain of it as he bit me there, not hard at all, really, but hard enough to let me know he would bite me harder, and soon. At the same time he bunched three fingers and pushed into my pussy a way deeper, and I had to fight to keep my hands loose behind me, where he had instructed I should hold them, useless and flapping in mid air, and I forgot to breathe with the intensity of the emotion, the physical feeling, the hunger in me.

Then he stood back from me again, watching me, grinning and when I started breathing again it was ragged, random, my chest heaving, heart random too, thumping and stuttering in my chest and I was frightened of him then, of his power over me, of the certainty that he would abuse that power, the certainty that I would let him, and the tears fell at last. I was not sobbing though— just trembling like a leaf as the tears dripped off my cheeks and splashed onto the slope of my breasts, still doing everything I could to present myself as he had specified, still the most urgent thing in my being that he would want me.

To be rejected at this point would be worse than death, unthinkable.

“Would you like that again, pretty?”

It was impossible! I wanted it so much it hurt, but the idea of saying so out loud was too much, until, suddenly, it wasn’t, and it was awful and wonderful to admit my weakness to him, my voice almost unrecognisable, so low and breathy and full of emotion;

“Yes, yes please, I do; I do want it again.”

“I’ll hurt you more, this time, push you further, do you want that?”

And again the words came from me, words which declared me a wanton, a shamefully easy touch, a weak and dirty slut and I loved him knowing it;

“Yes. Yes please; h— hurt me and, and push me, push me hard, yes. I … I want it. Please.”

I felt so small and weak and stupid, giving everything away so easily, so fast, to a man who had told me he would ruin me, and begging him to do so, but there was nothing else I wanted; I was working so eagerly to have him believe me, to let the truth of my need be in my voice, in my words, shameless in my hunger for sensation.

How had he done this to me? I had given up on everything at that point, so easily, so helplessly; he would eat me up, I felt it— and I wanted it, too, so that when he said;

“Into the elevator with you then, pretty girl,” I was able to overcome the sudden recall that the elevator was where he had hung the whip, and walk, walk again as carefully as I knew how, to have my body be what it could be for him.

Doing this while naked was a hundred times harder than before, though; there was nothing holding me, shaping me, only my flesh, the way it was, and I saw that he was right; that I would be practising in the mirror for him, to learn how best to present myself, naked, because I had never needed to feel that I knew how to hold myself more than I did as I felt his eyes on me then, as I walked into the old-fashioned industrial elevator that was like nothing so much as a big metal cage, with its concertina gates and steel ribs and plates.

My eyes could not keep away from the whip, black leather, hanging so innocently from the wall, as my heels rang on the cold steel floor. Sex was one thing— my body wanted it: pain was entirely another, and I could not imagine what being beaten in the context of sex might be like. There was nothing in me that wanted it; my skin crawled at the thought of it.

It still does; more so, now that I know what carefully, skilfully inflicted pain can feel like— physically, and emotionally. The physical does not change— it is pain; the body being damaged and forcefully warning the brain to do something about it. But the emotions can change, can learn, can shift. And there, oh there, I have become lost: he has ensnared me so deeply, enmeshed me in a dark and dangerous spiral of guilt and shame and lust and need for intensity and breathless anticipation and it gets harder and harder every day to distinguish between the anticipation of being fucked and the anticipation of being whipped (the one so often imposed upon me immediately before or after the other, without my having any choice in any of it), so that I become wet between the legs for both, much to Knarik’s cruel amusement.

Not knowing what else to do, I came to an irresolute halt somewhere in the middle, not daring to turn, and simply stood, horribly self-conscious, resetting myself several times, as I felt myself having failed to achieve the pose he had described, while, behind me, he slid the gate to with a grinding rattle, then operated the clanking control to set the elevator in motion— not up, but down, into darkness and silence, the dim lamps in the roof of the cage weak against the damp blackness of the basement.

“No-one can hear you while we’re down here. Which is good because I am going to make you scream and squeal your lovely heart out.”

“But first, I’m going to show you a little about yourself”

And he stood in to me, and his fingers were at me again, harder, less gentle, more demanding, and I staggered back, my body wanting to resist, to fight him off, but too frightened to do anything but flinch away, until my back was against cold steel, calling out hoarsely as he invaded me, unable even to make myself close my legs to him, despairing as his other hand took possession of my breast, making me feel completely powerless, suddenly the most wonderful feeling in the world as his thumb impinged on my clitoris, which revealed how needy it had been by my sudden surge toward him, heedlessly impaling myself further on his bunched fingers, shuddering softly with the sensations of it all, moaning in anticipation as he took my other breast into his mouth, suckled hard on my nipple so that I felt it tauten and stiffen for him, even in the knowledge that he was going to hurt me there, arching my back when he did so, biting down hard, a sharp screech forced from me, jamming my clit agains his thumb, my pussy wanting his fingers deeper, almost squirting with new lubrication, moaning again as he loosened the clamp of his teeth and the pain flowered again and I sobbed, just once, but with a sound that spoke entirely of weakness, surrender, defeat, helpless acceptance, deep, biting shame at having been proven to be a slut.

He laughed again; not cruel, but satisfied, and straightened, his hands still on me, in me, but stilled, softened in their pressure; I mewed with need, not in control of the noises which came from me any longer, unable to form words as he commanded;

“Move for me.”

It took a while, just for the sense of his words, of what he wanted of me, to became clear in my head, shocking in their crudity; then longer, too, as the needs of my body strove to overcome the resistance of my mind. Respond helplessly I might to invasion, to intentional hurt, but, bad as that was, it was nothing to what it would say about me that I would be the one to push myself against him, to show him, teach him exactly what it was that my sex wanted, that my body wanted, from his touch.

My body won, though, and I was appalled at myself, stunned by myself, by the sensation of it as I did indeed begin to move for him, on him, against him; so very weakly, tentatively, shame-filled as I was, gradually at first, then slowly increasing in both pace and intensity, driven by need, as I began to thrust my self against him, urging his fingers deeper into my pussy, grinding against his thumb with my clitoris, arching my back to give my breast to his calloused hand…

Author and lawyer not enough for him, he is also something of a woodsman, working at weekends in the forest surrounding his cabin, sawing and chopping firewood for the long winters, clearing brush, making rustic but beautiful garden furniture, with me often naked, kneeling, awaiting his rough attentions, doing what I was permitted to to provoke them, watching him work, lost in him, in my fall, in my joy at being his, at there being almost nothing of me that is not his, not any more.

It was slow, though, slow and so shaming for me, but he was as patient and interested as ever, watching each little step, each little defeat of my mind, of my morals, to the demands of my body, to the glory of being allowed to be this way for him, to the animal search for sensation, until I was moving and grinding and moaning with increasingly intensity, working my way towards more, ever more, drowning in shame, on fire with lust, until an urgent, growling call broke from me; an animal noise of need and urgency and hunger and need, betraying me completely, at which he stood back from me, took his hands from me, and my eyes flew to his as they had before, urgent in the requirement that he recognise my need, my desire, my urgent plea to him for more, mouth open, breath noisy, chest heaving, no matter that I tried so hard, in vain, to control myself, to lessen my vulnerability, my exposure.

He watched me, smiling a little, his eyes roving, seeing everything, looking right inside me, it seemed, so that I felt my nakedness, my vulnerability almost like pain, trembling in front of him, desperate to show myself, desperate to hide myself, immobilised by inner conflict, until at last he spoke;

“Ask me to hurt you, to beat you with the crop, to make you scream.”

And it did hurt, then; the emotion actually became pain, as I was forced to address my new reality— so shocking, so extreme, so filled with shame and need and fear, to feel need winning, trumping everything in me that begged for safety, for sanity, for time, for some kindness, some …

But it was no good; the need had won, and I heard my voice, strange again, different again; full of pain and shame this time;

“Please; your … your hands, on me … please … just … just …”

I faltered then as his smile became a grin, full of amusement, and his eyes became quizzical; he expected obedience, and was casually certain it would come; he was just interested in how long it would take me and I knew that I could not resist him and another voice from me— a near whisper that time, weak and quiet, but very clear, said;

Please … please, if it pleases you … please hurt … hurt me … beat me with … with the crop; make … make me scream."

It seemed impossible that those words were mine, and yet they hung in the air, rang in my ears; I had betrayed myself, offered myself up for terror, and I was trembling violently then, as he spoke;

“Come here now, pretty girl, and claim your reward; hands behind your back, stand in close, and kiss me, very softly, open yourself to me, give yourself to me, knowing that you are giving yourself to a man who will hurt you and fuck you without concern for anything beyond his own pleasure.”

It was glorious to obey him in this, but in my defeat, in my weakness, in my fear, it was also, and I knew it was, a terrible opening of myself to him, to the man who was going to drive me to screaming with the riding crop, to show him, with the softness of my kiss, the hesitant offer of my tongue, feeling his rough clothes on my naked, quivering skin, face turned up to him, so close to his strength, my hands out behind me, feeling so very sweetly vulnerable, losing myself in it, in him, in kissing him to tell him that he had me, utterly, that I wanted to give myself to him, on his terms, no matter how frightening.

A hand in my hair, gentle but firm, pushed me back again, and this time, needy as I was, I could not face him and stared, unseeing, down at his groin as he had instructed, waiting for him to tell me what came next.

Waiting; my nakedness, so close to him, he still wearing his outdoor jacket, the contrast so stark, feeling weak; so very small and worthless next to him, having given myself and got nothing but a promise of pain and shame, and yet filled with stupid warm gratitude to have been allowed to do this as he spoke again;

“Gently now, take my right hand, and put it between your legs, press it against your pussy, give it to me. Then, my other hand, give it your breast, Then move, just a little— to settle yourself into my control, before offering me your mouth again, to be kissed.”

And I did as he said, and it was blissful and a burning shame at the same time, every single sensation overwhelming, utterly all-consuming, no part of me not on fire with desire, with weakness, with surrender, with need, with fear, with gratitude.

And then it was time, and I felt it, as he pushed me softly away again, stood back from me, pushed me back to the centre of the cage again;

“Lift your arms, spread your legs, pump your hips for me, very very slow, show me how you want me, how you offer yourself.”

It almost killed me, it exalted me, I couldn’t breathe with the intensity of it, of flaunting myself, with what he had promised me hanging in the air between us, to be doing this for him, so hopelessly, helplessly obedient, knowing what he was going to do next…

“It’s something, isn’t it, to be naked, naked for me?”

And it was.

“It will this way every time for you, now; naked, knowing you are to be taken beyond your ability to control yourself, beaten until you scream and cry and beg, beaten so that you will carry the marks for days, beaten until I decide it is time to fuck you, then fucked without care, without kindness; used like a whore.”

I should hate him, I knew, I should have screamed at him then, in anger not pain and shame, decried him for the monster he is, but instead, in my need, I simply trembled, and arched my back, and angled my elbows even further back behind me, to demonstrate my obedience to his will.

There was nothing else in my head than being his, being what he wanted of me, to have his attention, to have him call me pretty, to be his; his whore, if that’s what it took. His hands on my body, controlling me with such casual ease and confidence had been the first time I had felt safe for years, and it was worth everything to me to feel as if I might be able to have that in the future, so that I could just live, and not have to think so hard all the time, to be so alone, so uncertain.

Even if it meant being his whore.

And then I realised something; the idea of being his whore had already planted itself in me. It wan’t a cost— it would be a gift, a glory! Gods but I wanted him to have me as his whore; the girl who fulfilled every sexual need for him, who he could fuck anyway he chose, anytime he chose, anywhere he chose. The girl who expected nothing else from him but that he fuck her as he wanted to. Who would make no claims, need no flowers, no kind words, no protestations of love or romantic evenings. Just his, used for sex. The realisation drove me crazy with desire.

“Good. Good little slut. It’s time now; time for you to learn something else. Turn, now; do you see the straps hanging down? Reach up, pull them down until the loops appear. One for each wrist, snug them tight. Now, here’s another one -” (He was at the wall, doing something with straps there, and another one dangled down) “- it’s for your right thigh, just above the knee; that’s right, get it snug there, too.”

Immediately then, my right arm was pulled up high, fixed off somehow, then my left, up and away from my right, so that I was wide open. Then my right knee, also lifted, up and out, until only the toe of my left foot could take weight, and I was was already biting my lip to hold back tears as fear gripped me, wanting to turn so that I could see what he was doing, when it was coming but unable to, hearing a swishing noise which I knew must be the crop, but feeling no hits, so that he was either loosening himself up or teasing me, feeling horribly defenceless.

There was no warning of the first blow, just another swish, but this one delivered an appalling stripe of fire between my legs, as the crop sliced diagonally across the line of my pussy, and I shrieked in shock and horror before the pain really hit and then I screamed for real, so hard that I hurt my throat. I was utterly devastated at the thought that he could hurt me there— I had naively assumed he would whip my ass and back, never imagined anything else, so this horror nearly destroyed me then and there. There was nothing I could do to stop him! I had been crazy to feel safe. This was madness! It must stop! But at the same time I knew he would not stop, and that I could do nothing to stop him.

“I always start this way, with a serious whipping— a hard cut to your cunt, to set you straight; this is what it means to be mine; Your cunt gets used, and used hard, in every way. It is my plaything, and I like to play rough. Now, I’ll whip you everywhere else, until you scream again— and then it will all be over— over, apart from another vicious one, the hardest of all, between your legs, to tenderise you there before I fuck you. So, don’t scream until you’re ready to be made to scream even louder, pretty girl.”

And there was no pause, no chance for me to do more than whine and incoherently babble my pleas for mercy, which went ignored as he started in on me, blow after blow, none as bad as the first, but relentless, my inner thighs, the backs of my thighs, my buttocks, my belly, my upper back, then, horribly, my poor breasts, including deliberate cuts across my nipples, then back to my thighs, round after round, a couple or three in each place, until he drove me crazy, continually losing my grip on the floor with the toe of my left shoe, scrabbling, wrenching in futile attempts to dodge the awful whip, like a wild animal, frenzy alternating with slumping collapse alternating with frenzy, none of which made any difference to him, circling, selecting his shots, playing with me cruelly when he wanted to, at other times simply methodical, paying apparently no attention to my struggles, my cries of pain; my utter helplessness in the face of this monstrosity ate into me, burning self-respect and self-confidence as it went, leaving despair and abject defeat in its wake.

Finally, a harder than usual cut across my breasts caught the tip of a nipple and I screamed again, unhinged by the nastiness of it, until I realised what I had done and cut myself off, strangled the scream half-way through, in terror of the horror now guaranteed for me.

I began begging, pleading immediately then, hysterical almost, desperate, knowing that another strike like that to my sex would destroy me, and I babbled until he stepped in close and put his hand to my pussy, lifted me up by it, spoke calmly to me, as if to a panicked horse or child;

“Calm yourself, pretty; it can be two, or even five, hard into your wet little cunt, if you cannot take it well. Look at me, now -” and he obliged me to turn to face him, my chin in his strong hand;

“Listen. I am your world, now. It will be hard, but I guarantee you it will also be special. You are required, though, to learn to control yourself, or you will be discarded with as little consideration as a faulty toaster oven. You will calm yourself, now, and ask for the cut between your legs, and then you will scream for me, and then this will be over, and then I will fuck you, very hard, and you will come as you have never come before.”

And that is what happened. He gave me the strength— and the reason— to control myself, and, somehow, I managed to calm myself enough to say the words needed to make him grin at me, and slap my pussy in a casual way, almost as if he were being friendly, when in fact it hurt like hell and made me squeal, before standing back and simply destroying me with the hardest and cruellest strike of the evening (though the shock of the first stroke had been psychologically ten times more impactful and destructive— that’s the one which haunts my dreams and wakes me still, in the middle of the night), my scream deafening, breaking down halfway through into unhinged hysteria and sobbing, wrenching and dragging at the straps, unable to live with what he had done to me.

Astonishingly, all it took for this to end was him taking hold of me from behind, his big hand covering my sex, the other taking a breast, and lifting me off the floor;, which shocked me into silence and stillness, fear of what he was going to do next overpowering my panic.

He held me like that, me realising just how strong he was, how much bigger than me he was, realising it physically not visually, feeling how light I felt in his hands, against his solid broadness, and when he talked softly into my ear everything went soft in me though the trembling didn’t stop.

“I enjoyed that, little one, very much indeed; you’re fun to abuse. I’m afraid those lovely tits of your are going to get a lot of attention from the whip.”

I couldn’t even be angry at him, much less fight him; he had done exactly what he had told me he would do, if I let him, and too, something weird was happening to me in his arms, with all my weight on my pussy, bearing down in his hand, my pussy so tender and stinging from the crop, my whole psyche so overturned by the thrashing, that I was melting, melting for him, and working myself against his hand, twisting my head to give him my lips, squirming in his arms, begging him, using words I would never have imagined myself saying out loud;

“Please … please … please fuck me now, fuck me hard, pleeeaase…”

The only thing which could make sense of the awful thing he had just done to me, was promising already to do more of, was if he fucked me, and liked it, and would keep me and I needed it too, I was almost immediately back where I had been before the thrashing, only with all my inhibitions, all my tightness beaten out of me; I was just a slut, a small, weak, needy girl, in the arms of a stronger, ruthless, rich and powerful older man who also was my boss and my hero and I needed him to want to fuck me or I would have to die of shame, and I just swallowed it— everything: he was going to beat me like that, make me scream, destroy me, and I was going to be his whore and this was my life now and, once again, the only thing which made that make sense was his cock in me and then suddenly, shockingly, it was, and I squealed again.

His cock isn’t hugely long, but it is remarkably thick, and I had not had penetrative sex for many months; he was stretching me and it hurt and at exactly the same time as it was the most glorious sensation ever and I was spasming in his arms, luxuriating in being off the ground, hands and knee still strapped, him taking my weight; I was utterly powerless and again, it gave the strongest sensation of total safety. Whatever he might be going to do to me, he was strong and he held me and I was his creature and so I was safe.

He thrust himself fully into me without warning or preparation and I screamed again, softly though; breathy, overcome with emotion; my eyes filled with tears and I was kissing the side of his face and saying;

“Thank you thank thank you”, and grinding my clit against his hand which was across the top of my pussy as his cock rammed into my vagina and I arched back against him and brought my left foot off the floor and he went a little deeper and I was gone, lost in being fucked, floating in space, my pussy once again the only thing in my universe, entirely controlled, filled by him, destroyed and remade by him, helpless as he set the pace with which he fucked me, how deep he went, how wide he split my thighs, and I knew I was his as I felt heat building in me and that he was going to make me come, even though it felt like no orgasm I’d ever had, all the pain and fear of the thrashing somehow in there too, the extraordinary tenderness of my beaten cunt, my back and buttocks sore against his heavy clothes, his hand hurting my breasts, all the shame and embarrassment, too, the nakedness in front of him, fully dressed, all of it in there, all so extreme, like nothing in my little life had ever been before, so that I had no hope of doing anything but hang on for dear life and I held on as long as I could, never wanting to lose the feeling of it building in me, the biggest explosion ever, until I felt him jerk and grunt and tense and I was gone, gone forever, it might as well have been, since whoever survived that would be someone else, not me.