Page 82 of Vicious

It’s good.

I wish it didn’t feel this good, but I suppress the guilt. People do this all the time. I’m not the only woman to get herself off in the shower. I bet I’m not even the only woman to have used a fucking shampoo bottle to do it.

I focus on the pleasure and the pain ramping up inside me. I imagine it’s Chase pressing his fingers into my ass, and he keeps saying his stupid, cliche lines as he fucks me.

“You’re perfect like this,” he’d probably say as he drove into me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and thrust the shampoo bottle faster.

I wish it were bigger. I wish my ass hadn’t begun to heal already. I wish I had a real voice whispering into my ears, and not just the water pounding down around me.

But I don’t have any of those things. I keep massaging my clit, and I clench tight to make the bottle feel just a little larger.

“Wo ai ni,” Chase would say.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Every corner of my mind is obsessed with him, and it took me fleeing to realize… to realize…

I can’t finish that thought. I can’t. I won’t.

But my body knows, and I stagger as waves of pleasure wash over me.

As orgasms go, it’s mediocre.

God, Chase really has ruined me.

I pull the shampoo bottle out of me, resisting the urge to throw it across the bathroom. Shame and heat make my cheeks flush red, and I hurriedly get up so I can wash the bottle and set it aside. This was such a bad idea. I shouldn’t have listened to my body, but it seems like ever since Chase first laid his hands on me, it’s been controlling me instead of the other way around.

Humiliated beyond belief, I scrub myself red with the thin washcloth. I get out of the shower before I can do anything else that’s equally stupid, turning the water off and staring at the steam-covered mirror.

I’m just glad I can’t see myself.

I get dressed and head back out. Baba is sitting on the bed, fiddling with his phone.

Dread pools in my stomach, washing away the remnants of pleasure.

“You didn’t call anyone, did you?” I ask.

Baba startles and looks up at me. “What? Who would I call?”

I look at him for a moment, something uneasy building within me. He’s lying to me. I don’t know why, but he’s lying to me. “Please tell me you didn’t call Giulio Pavone, or Chase Vicious, or… or…” I don’t even know who else he could’ve called. “Damn it, Baba!”

I’m already near tears from shame, and I let out a frustrated cry as I think about just how easily he could destroy even this attempt at freedom.

As I think about how easily I’d go back to Chase if he came to fetch me.

Would I beg him to take me back? Would I moan and whimper and cry out in ecstasy as he punished me and fucked me?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Why would I call Chase?” Baba asks me, looking concerned at the outbreak of emotion that I so rarely show. “He’s not going to… no, never mind.” Then he looks at me. “Although he’d probably want to know that you’re all right. He likes you, you know.”

I wipe hurriedly at the corners of my eyes, not wanting my father to see how affected I am by this whole thing. “No,” I say quickly. “He’s not… He’s not one of the good guys, Baba. He’s just not. You have to trust me on that. Okay?”

“You keep saying that.” Baba gives me a plaintive look. “May May, I don’t know what happened, but if you’re in trouble, maybe we should go to the police. I have a few friends on the force, you know. Since I was a public defender.”