Shattered Memories ch2 - Sex Stories

Shattered Memories ch2

... dick was in the crevice of her lower cheeks, the tip resting against her lower. Trust me, I wasn't complaining. And, slowly, over the course of the entire film, her legs gradually curled around mine. This, I did complain about, internally, as there was little I could do about my now raging hard on. And I'm sure she noticed. At one point, during a boring phase of the movie, she ground the back of her pelvis against mine, intentionally and I swear, she moaned ever so slightly. My dick was in the crevice of her lower cheeks, the tip resting against her lower back. When the film ended, she turned around, rapidly blinking. “No.” She stated. “Sorry, what?” “No. Just don’t say anything. Just hold me, for a few more minutes, so I can pretend to feel loved.” I really, really wanted to say something, but instinct was driving me to ignore that urge. I literally counted three hundred seconds before I spoke. “You know… you are loved.” “Oh really? By who? You? We just met.” “Maybe not me, but I think, no, amendment, I am certain, that someone, somewhere loves you. You’re too loveable to not be loved.” “Bullshit.” “Your parents love you.” “My parents are dead.” She said it so blandly, so emotionlessly, that I was shocked into silence. I literally didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. “You probably think I’m some attention seeking slut, grinding into your dick like that, then pulling this ‘Oh, look at miserable me’ horseshit.” She was venting. ...

... I’d learned what her venting voice sounded like earlier, so I remained silent. She didn’t take that too well. “Leave.” It was an order. I thought about stubbornly staying, but it was her room and her space, so I chose not to be a petulant child and got up. On the way out, I leaned against the doorframe and glanced back at her. Her hair was over her face and she was staring down at her lap. I didn’t see any tears. I inwardly cursed myself for the decision I was about to make, and I walked away, closing the door softly in my wake. I thought I caught a sob just before the door closed, and, I couldn’t help myself, I peeked my head back in. “LEAVE!” Her voice was flavoured with authority and a touch of, what I thought, was fury. But no tears. Never tears. Here, now, staring at the 105 etching on my cell wall, counting the days I had been here, I realise... She has never cried in front of me. She didn’t cry in Jalalabad, she didn’t cry in Mosul, she didn’t cry Bhairahawa. I had never seen her cry. I’d seen her face, twisted in pain, grief, fury. But I’d never, not once, seen her cry. I know she can manufacture her emotions. I know how “in control” she is. I remember reading the CIA assassination reports, her formal training over the years. She was considered exceptional because of her lack of an emotional response to traumatic situations. I think I’m one of the rare people who can say I knew, really knew, Sarah Laine. And she never cried.