The Rejection

As suspected, everything went to hell, once again revealing the bad feeling you had been nursing to be a premonition of disaster.  It started out perfectly, then he dropped the bomb: “I don’t think we should fuck anymore,” he stated. You lay naked beside him, attempting to comprehend this announcement; your pussy still wet from multiple orgasms and your wrists burning from the rope which had bound them tightly only a few minutes ago.

“I think that’s drunk talk,” you manage to say with a forced laugh and, though he laughs as well, the dullness behind his eyes reveals that he doesn’t mean it.

“This is totally sober talk.”

You want to argue, and with any other person you would argue until you got your way, but there’s something in his tone of voice that you dare not question. Just like when he grabs you and kisses you urgently before pulling away and telling you in his soft and gentle tone to go to his bedroom, you know very well that it is an order and not a request.

Laying in bed while he sleeps with his arms wrapped around you, snoring slightly, your heart is in a panic, unsure of what to do next. It had set its hopes on this man and had been laughed at instead, and now it is trying desperately to save face. As a general rule, you avoid falling for the guys you fuck, but sometimes one of them manages to slip through your iron gates and set up camp in your heart. Sometimes it’s lovely, but other times — like now — it can be devastating.

You fell for him because he was the first man to surprise you. The first time you met he was shy, timid and reserved. He made you uneasy and you didn’t know why, but you liked it. When he kissed you, he held on to your jaw and kept you in place while he softly yet confidently explored your mouth. When he pulled away, he immediately averted his eyes and you were left in a daze of surprised contentment.

His bright eyes and lush lashes give him the false appearance of innocence. But the innocence comes off with his clothes, revealing his true, dark identity. An identity which he hides from the world, but you are unsure if it’s out of embarrassment, a need for privacy or if it is a silent act of martyrdom to protect the world from his truth. Those lashes shine more prominently when he is clean shaven and looking at him then you cannot believe he is the same man who turns into such an animal when aroused.

Already, you miss the nights of chain fucking and chain smoking. Those nights he would tie you up, gag you and fuck your helpless body senseless, and afterward the two of you would lounge in his bed naked, smoking and having relaxed discussions about art — both of you unashamed and utterly content. Then, he would grab you by the hair as a silent order to come to him and when you did, he would ravage your mouth which marked the start of a new round.

The bruises he left on your body from your most recent animalistic fucking smart at every move and have gone from being scandalous reminders of your beautifully brutal ravishment to unhappy symbols of rejection. While once these scars would have thrilled you anew when you looked at them, they are now reminders of your failure to attract the man of your choice. As he sleeps soundly beside you, you cannot do anything but wallow in the feeling of being unwanted, because that is what you are.

You’ll keep reaching out, expecting him to change his mind: you’ll be the very definition of madness. You’ll send him blue valentines and he’ll likely store them in the trash bin. You’ll be serving an indefinite amount of time in the prison of your heart, unaware (or unwilling to see) that the door has always been unlocked.