Secret Sins: (A Standalone) by CD Reiss

swallow? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? The room had gone from deeply angled sun to a wash of blue, yet time was nothing.
    I didn’t understand any of what I was feeling. The unmotivated elation caused by the drug I’d been force-fed was a bucking stallion behind a wood fence. With every kick, the lock bent. Soon the fence was going to crash down in a splintered heap and I was going to promise him an eternity together for another and another and another orgasm.
    “Do I move like this?” I shifted my hips in a circle and drove down until I felt a pressured pain deep inside and my clit rubbed against him.
    He groaned. That was good. He took my hips and shifted me up then down again.
    “Like that,” he said, hands running up my waist to my tits. He pinched them, and a new shot of pleasure ran down my spine.
    I moved up then down until he was deep in me.
    “Push against me here.” He took a hand off my tit to press the front of me against him, so my nub rubbed against his body.
    I gasped.
    “When you come up, angle yourself so you get it the whole way. Go.”
    I did what he said, letting my clit feel the length of him. “Oh, God. That’s. Fuck.”
    We moved slowly, up and down, pressing deep, the friction and pressure bringing me close to a third orgasm.
    “If I make you come on your first time—”
    “Gold star. Fuck. God. Gold star it’s so good.”
    “You have to come soon. Please come soon I’m so-close-no-I’m-there.” His eyes closed, and his jaw got tight.
    I thought the drug had made me feel good already. I thought it had aroused me more than normal, but I wasn’t even halfway there. The bucking stallion of emotion broke through the gate, and I was blindsided by a rush of joy. I cried out from the chest-bursting, brain-exploding emotional high. My world washed bright yellow, and as I dropped down on his dick, deep and hard, my orgasm flooded orange, deep red, explosive, centered on cunt and mind, mixing at the heart of something so vivid I couldn’t see who I was past it.
    I dropped on top of him, barely breathing. His chest heaved under me.
    “Gold star,” I gasped. “I’ll remember you forever.”
    He laughed. “You haven’t even started to remember me.”

Chapter 20.
    1983
    Strat died about six months after the last time I saw him, and I found out about it six months after that. I was in the library, catching up on schoolwork with a newfound ambition.
    The library magazine rack was in front of my Debate Team materials, and I stopped when I saw Strat’s music-strewn bare chest on it. I bit my lower lip. I’d been home a month and hadn’t called him or Indy. I didn’t want to explain about the baby or whose it was (or wasn’t). I didn’t want to revisit any of it. I was a new woman.
    But he was majestic, and the photo was dark in a way that made it mysterious. I was curious.

Chapter 21.
    1982 – The morning after the night of the Quaalude
    The morning after I’d had a Quaalude shoved down my throat, I woke up on the couch with a headache. Indy was already in the kitchen, slogging down a glass of water.
    “Where’d you go last night?” he asked.
    “Good morning to you too.” The light tasted too yellow. The air hurt. The floor and sky were too loud.
    “Here.” He shook three aspirin out of the bottle into my palm. The circles were too perfect and too white, the big B etched into them too capitalized.
    He filled a glass of water for me. I washed the pills down and drank the entire glass.
    “Thank you,” I said, handing the cup back.
    He took it then took my wrist and pulled me toward him. Bone creaked on bone, but it didn’t hurt. I let myself lean on him.
    “I have to tell you something.” He spoke into my ear and stroked my back. That didn’t hurt either.
    “Mmm.”
    “I want to take another crack at last night, but without the ludes.”
    “Mm-hmm.”
    “Or Strat.”
    I swallowed.
    Jesus.
    Last night.
    I hadn’t forgotten as much as I’d woken up feeling like I had Dengue