Again

I pulled my feet up on the seat and leaned into him, my arms wrapped around on of his, my eyes closed. I rested my head on his shoulder. I felt completely safe. Some people say that this is sympathizing with the abuser. I disagree. He knew what I wanted.

We got to Grand Central and I trailed a step behind him as we made our way down an empty platform that was scheduled neither for arrivals nor departures. We walked to a stairwell in the back that led down to the tunnel that leads from platform to platform.

In no more than a moment, he had me thrust against the wall once more, his hand around my throat. When I asked him what would happen if someone caught us, he told me that they would see me for the whore that I was. And that was answer enough for me.

He leaned in and bit my neck, hard. He held fast as I squirmed beneath his weight, compulsively trying to push him off. I moaned and gasped, my muscles tightening and relaxing, not knowing which would get him off of me. And I loved it. I closed my eyes and bit my lip, trying to keep from screaming.

He bit me so hard that he drew blood as I desperately moaned his name, my hands pushing against his chest. I had thought, perhaps, that it would make me more real to him, make him sympathize and stop. I think it made him hurt me worse. And god, it was good. He leaned his head back, still pressed into me. He dug his thumb into the wound on my neck and stretched his fingers their entire length across my throat.

He held me so hard that I thought I'd never breath again. It was all I could do to keep from screaming. Grabbing my nipple with his left hand, he twisted it, sending a sharp pain rocketing down my spine. I collapsed again, but he held me against the wall. His hand around my throat was, perhaps, all that saved me from toppling onto the tracks.

"Do you want it to stop?" he asked. A trick question. My body would have done anything to have it over with. But my mind, god, my mind. It was all I wanted, all I needed. He knew it, and he took advantage of it. I shook my head, somewhat ashamed. He thrust against me harder, yanked on my nipple, and pressed his thumb harder.

I squealed loudly, my entire body shaking beneath him. Pressing against him, I turned my head, trying to get away. "Don't move." This was an order.

And, lord, did I abide. I froze, my head turned away from his, looking, again, at the ground. I couldn't tell if my feet were on the ground. I couldn't tell which way was up. I couldn't breath. There were intense, multicolored stabs of pain invading my body, webbing their way throughout my veins. And I came. I came harder than I knew I could. It took a moment for him to let up.

But he did, and I fell to the ground. My legs bent beneath me and splayed out to the sides, my arms dangled limp beside me. My head hung, my hair a mess on my face. I breathed, what I thought was breathing. All I could do, then, anyway. And he laughed. He laughed the most perfect, degrading laugh.

I whimpered. I cried, I was crying. I didn't know when I had started to cry, but from how wet my face and hair was, it had been a while. He grabbed my arm and wrenched me up from the ground. A little reminder, one more stab of pain.

"Good slut," he said. And he hugged me and straightened out my hair and face so no one would look twice. Then he took me to my train and leaned down, kissing me on my forehead. He stood waving as it pulled away.