"...but have you ever had sex before? Have you ever been touched before?"
The way he said touched, made her back straighten. He didn't so much say it, as he growled it- a low, dark, contemptible growl.
"No," she responded quietly. "I have never had sex, nor have I ever been touched before."
In that moment his eyes smiled and his mouth saw its opportunity. He lunged at her and his hands wondered and his tongue prodded, and he did all of these libidinous things with no remorse. He suffered no compunction, even after her tears began to fall and collect upon her cheekbones, and then spill down her jaw and then run down her neck.
"Please," she cried.
For she cried and cried, because she was defenseless and trapped.
He let her up then, and removed his fingers from her bruised wrists, and removed his body from atop hers, and he turned away, because he suddenly felt perturbed. Like an acid, the anxiety coated his limbs and ate away the flesh and soaked his heart, and he turned back to her again.
It was hard to see her in the darkness of the small bedroom. He could smell the alcohol on both bodies, and he could smell the room- it smelled like sex.
She whimpered for her body and her life, because both had just been permanently tainted.
He sighed, because this misunderstanding could come back to him with serious consequences. Shuffling through the fallen pile of clothes resting on the carpet, he slipped on his pants, one leg at a time, and he tightened his belt and he zipped his jacket and he grabbed his shoes and ran.
