Chapter 6: Pushing My Limits

The day devolved into a strange sexual frenzy. When I put on a clean shirt, he took it off me minutes later in the hallway. When I put on some shorts, he hooked his fingers in the waistband outside the bathroom and yanked them down. When I tried on long pajama pants, thinking they might not be as enticing, they were discarded only moments later on the floor by the couch. I accused him of having a vendetta against cotton. It had apparently become a game, but I hadn’t been told the rules. We would have sex, I would clean him, then clean myself, find something clean to wear, and then see how long I could avoid his hands tearing them off me.

I’d managed to keep a pair of sweatpants on long enough to get to my mailbox, then back inside the house, when he ambushed me from behind the door. My shocked scream at being grabbed from behind quickly turned into a moan as his mouth found mine and my pants hit the floor. Soon he had me bent over in the doorway, my pants pooled around one leg, the other leg lifted high and resting over his shoulder, while one of my arms kept us from falling over by pushing against the wall. That left just one hand, and I used that to try to cover my mouth to muffle the screams coming from me so as not to draw attention to lascivious activities taking place just within the open doorway to my house.

After that episode, I tried to make things harder for him: panties, long pants with strings tied tight, a bra, a tight T-shirt, a sweatshirt. That did not stop him. When he finally caught me in the open, he was like a child tearing the wrapping paper off their Christmas present as articles of clothing went flying around the room. As the loungewear options in my dresser drawer began to diminish, I tried wearing just panties.

I had never had sex like that in a span of hours, let alone a weekend, not with Mike, not with any relationship before him. He was ready again in the kitchen, in the hallway, on the living-room rug, against the washer, in my bed that still smelled like chocolate, on the couch with a takeout container cooling two feet away. I would think “enough,” and then his mouth would find the place under my ear, or his hand would slide between my legs while I was reaching for water, and “enough” would turn out to be a word that did not apply to us.

I should have been exhausted. I was exhausted. It should have been impossible, and by Saturday afternoon my body had the stunned, used feeling of something that had been asked to keep answering and hadn’t learned how to stop.