Dizzy Spells
Golden rays of morning come glittering in through the cracks of the blinds and the sheer ivory of the bedroom curtains. The light dances around the room, splattering a kaleidoscope of sparkles against the walls and furniture, changing the white paint to a soft speckling of daffodil, lavender, and vibrant candy apple.
She can almost taste it on her tongue.
It’s early, but she’s up and restless—body wired and brain fuzzy with static. Her cotton panties are wet and clinging to her center as she tries and fails to create enough friction between her thighs to ease her suffering. Her body sparks as the sopping fabric brushes against her clit, and a shaky moan escapes her before it can be stifled.
He came to her in her dreams. She doesn’t remember it, not fully. But she can feel him just as much as she feels the ache. He always leaves his mark, even if it can’t be seen. Burns it into her flesh until all she can feel is fire. Until all she can feel is him.
Her fingers trail below her elastic waistband because she knows it’s worse when she fights it. Knows she won’t be able to see him without picturing him above her, beneath her, between her legs. Won’t be able to stop her eyes from trailing down his body. And then he’ll know, how she fears he always does, that’s it’s happened again.
It won’t be her secret anymore. It’ll be theirs. And that thought alone is almost enough to make her shatter before she’s even touched herself.
The pads of her fingers dip between her folds, slick with need, and she trembles as they find the swollen bundle of nerves that causes her cunt to weep for attention. She swirls her fingers around her clit, eyes squeezed tight against the morning light as her breaths quicken, and she involuntarily clenches down on nothing.
She’s so empty, and it brings her close to tears.
This is how it always goes. The agony is unrelenting, even when she decides to finally dip her fingers inside and pump herself. It never subsides. Alone, she’s never enough.
Her thumb works her clit while her fingers continue their torturous chase of a climax that may never come. The tears fall freely now, and she knows this is true misery.
She pulls at her nipples through the thin fabric of her sleep shirt—pinches and twists and keens into her hand, all the while imagining it’s his hand, his mouth, his teeth abusing them. The sting sends wave after wave of pleasure down to her cunt, but she’s still no closer to relief.
She sobs in frustration, pulling and pumping harder until she knows there’ll be bruises on her nipples and a throbbing soreness between her thighs for the rest of the day. And she knows what she needs, knows what she must do to get herself off, and the shame she feels boils her from the inside. Flays her veins and sears her skin. But she does it anyway. Because the alternative is even more humiliating, even more damning.
She flips over in her bed, positioning her ass up in the air while her fingers pump in and out, dragging themselves across her spongy wall. She forces the knuckle of her thumb against her clit, letting herself buck against it, riding her hand in earnest, allowing the need to take over and devour. And then she takes a deep breath and shoves her face down into her pillow.
The silk of the pink pillowcase pushes its way into the curve of her cupid’s bow, blocking off her nose. It slides across her pouty lips, smearing the drool that’s started to seep out of the corner of her mouth. She only fucks herself at this new angle for a few seconds before she starts to feel the sweet sting of her lungs struggling to expand and the dizziness in her head that only a lack of oxygen can bring.
It’s intoxicating, this loss of control. She hears nothing as her ears begin to buzz with pressure. She smells nothing but silk. She tastes nothing but her tongue. She sees nothing but him behind her eyes, and she’s almost paralyzed as she watches him strangle the life out of her, encouraging her to drive her fingers in deeper, to push into the mattress harder, to chase this dangerous high until they both shatter.
And she feels everything.
She comes with her face smothered in her pillow and her fingers buried knuckle-deep in her cunt. Her breath rips from her lungs in ragged pants as she wrenches her hand from inside her panties and lets her body slump against the mattress. Sheets tangle around her feet, twist across her thighs, and she’s too hot, so fucking hot, even though her arms are still covered in goosebumps and the sweat on the back of her neck glides down the curve of her shoulders.
This isn’t the first time she’s done this. Isn’t the first time she’s come while picturing dark eyes and cold hands wrapped around her throat. He wouldn’t be gentle, so she doesn’t picture him that way. Doesn’t think she could even if she wanted to. Gentle is the antithesis to everything he stands for. She’s only known him for a few months, yet it’s already been made very apparent.
He’s hard. Brutal. Unyielding in his cruelty.
And she’s stupid, really, for wanting him the way she does. It’s the most idiotic thing she’s ever felt, this need she has. And that’s what it is—a need. It festers inside her, under her skin. Hollows out its very own place for itself inside her bones. Digs into the marrow without a second thought to the war it rages against her better judgment.
And she’s sick with it—sick with him and so fucking needy.
Biography
Samantha Barrow (she/her) writes characters that make you feel and plots that make you think. Her contemporary romances are full of first times, second chances, and happily-ever-afters. When she’s not completely immersed in the worlds of her imagination, she lives in Georgia. She is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing and has a short story featured in The Pink Hydra and forthcoming work in Literally Stories and Pulp Lit Magazine.