Written for Trifecta.
Quiet little Kat had 16 years of living under her cinched belt when she caught the eye of Rory Reynolds. The boy who ran the popular crowd with a toss of his shaggy blonde bob. The teacher had assigned Rory and Kat as partners in Food Tech. Together they burnt the creme brûlée and over-salted the croissants and devoured shiny cinnamon rolls. He got frisky and grabbed her wrist to lick stray icing off of her pinky finger, no thicker than a pencil. The act of wrapping his rugged hand around her childlike wrist aroused desire in an unnatural place. He could snap her in half by flexing his football-enhanced arm. He wanted to know how small every part of her would be.
"There's a party on Saturday. At Chuck Fisher's house. You should come."
"I don't know him."
"He's my buddy. I can invite whoever I wanna."
"I'm not much of a party girl."
His fingers continued to encapsulate her wrist. He turned her hand around and began tracing the creases on her palm with his finger.
"You can bring a friend."
He scribbled his number on the back of her hand, blue pen scraping blue veins.
"Call me if you want a ride."
She enlisted her best friend to tag along, a heavy girl with greasy bangs and thick glasses. They sat in the corner like spies, like mice so tiny they were invisible. Until Rory took her by the wrist to an upstairs bedroom with yellow walls. He pinned her against the bed, his breath severe with stale whiskey. He kissed her and she kissed him back. When he started tugging on her jeans, she asked him to stop.
"Let me go!"
He grunted. She thrashed.
Moans converged, pleasure festooned by pain.
"You're an animal!"
He looked up and growled.
"You better believe it."
image via wandererthoughts.com