If I Had One Wish

Chapter Sixty Eight

Chapter Sixty Eight - Physicality 

(Content warning; sex talk, further information and detailed descriptions of what happened with Mazaki, relived memories.)

I've never been one for waiting for marriage, but something tells me I'd wait as long as it'd take to be with you in such an intimate manner.

I crave your touch, my dear, what can I say.

Even with the hauntings of my past, I crave your hands on me.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

There was a time when Mazaki used to apologize. A time where, for a moment, she seemed to bring her consciousness to the forefront. This usually happened after.

After the intensity of what could only be described as a choreographed scene that I'd already been through too many times to truly fight anymore. By this time I've learned to lay flat when she turned off the lights and let her come forward, let her touch, poke, prod, undress, as I watched the shadows on the ceiling morph into spindled cords or glowing stars from the streetlights outside.

She'd do this while my parents weren't around, when she'd be put in charge while they were out on a date or when I visited her house. Grazing her cold hands up my sides, long nails scratching vaguely over me. Her hair had this way of shadowing her face when she straddled me, darkening her eyes and putting far too much focus on that self-satisfied grin, making it all too clear to read her lips before they began to part with a relieved gasp when she finally sank down onto me. Her weight constricted my very breathing, feeling so very wrong and awkward with how much larger she was than I.

Like a butterfly with its wings pinned down, flailing.

She'd say things like- "Oh, you're so perfect. So perfect for me, sweetie, so good.", or "I love you so much, my perfect boy, my angel.". She was convinced I was there to save her, as I had when I was born at the lowest point of her life and brought some sliver of hope. Or, that is what she said as her words of praise and abandonment soon turned sour and remorseful, self loathing. And, truly, it seemed genuine enough that I might've forgiven her.

"This is fucked up. What am I doing.." She'd whisper, pacing in the other room while I could feel the sticky remnant between my legs get cooled down by the chilled air in the isolated room, a mess. At this point, I suppose, I could've ran. But what can you expect from a terrified, frightened child who didn't quite know what that liquid was drying upon their skin, sticking against the limpness of their limbs. I have grown tired of trying to justify that I was idiotic and did it to myself for not escaping, for truly there was no way for me to have known I could've. Perhaps I was afraid she'd get violent. Or perhaps, if I truly were to think about it, at that age I didn't quite know. What can you expect from someone who had no idea.

"I am so sorry." She'd say.

I was struggling to breathe. I couldn't stand, my legs felt limp and shaken, rattling the very bones of my skeleton, that by the time I gathered the courage to raise up onto my elbows to watch you in the gap between the door you had already started to come back after giving yourself some sort of predatorial pep-talk. And I couldn't help but think of how, like this, I felt like prey hiding beneath the burrows of a tree; watching the shadow of the wolf and the gleam of its fangs threaten me into submission.

You come back and force me to enter you again, this time faster. Harder.

All I can hear is your moaning. Your fucked up praise, the look in you eyes as if you've done something to be proud of. The sound sickens me, coupled with the squelch of something foreign and the grotesque noise of your spit coating me because my body knew far better than to rise or get wet for you.