Title: Secretly Powerless
Author: Michelle K
Spoilers: "Full Disclosure"
Summary: You could cry victimization.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.
For how_i_lie. Happy birthday.
Secretly Powerless by Michelle K
You never wanted to be a helpless person, nor do you think of yourself as one, but sometimes you use your mind to paint her as a predator. A thief who'd stolen your free will, seduced you into something you didn't want. (Of course you did want it that's part of the reason why this is a lie.) You had no control, no say. She wanted and she took. You aren't a bad person, just a victim. (You like to tell the same tale about Hoynes.)
This is her fault.
This is her fault, and no one could blame you.
(Except: everyone would.)
Your feet are on her pillows and your legs are spread. She hovers over you, her hand between your thighs, mouth on one of your breasts. Her fingers are inside you, thumb circling your clit. You are not one who whimpers, but she makes you come close to begging as she prolongs the wait for your orgasm.
"Christ," you hiss, your hips bucking against her hand.
She presses against your clit as she curves her fingers. You don't come right away, but it is her rubbing you inside and out that makes it happen. Makes you say her name, makes her fingers sticky, makes you wish that you could do this all day. But once will have to be the fill for both of you.
Now, it's her turn, so you give her what she gave you. Nothing more, nothing less. Fucking.
You love it. Sometimes, you even think you love her.
Your mind does nothing if not work overtime.
You know you blame her to erase the guilt, and you often wonder if she does the same. Tells herself she would never cheat on her husband if people didn't tempt her, burrow themselves so deep under her skin that she could do nothing else but invite them into her bed. (Maybe rationalization is a disease she passed onto you. Or vice versa.) The difference between you is that you would have the guts to say your lies aloud, while she would let the silliness die before it left her mouth. (You've thought about someone finding out for a long time, so this feels like a fact to you.)
This is your fault.
This is your fault, but you'd never take responsibility.
(Except: you're not that stupid. Neither is anyone else.)
Abbey always compliments you on your long fingers. You always remind her that you had no say in it. "And if I did, I'd make myself shorter. Would've made my childhood a little more bearable."
"No one's childhood is bearable," she replies.
"I said a little more. Not completely."
You zip up your skirt. Your blouse is askew, and your oh-so-wonderful fingers still smell of her under the aroma of her soap. You know you linger on her skin.
That will help you come tonight, when you're alone.
"But, if it matters so much to you, I'll make sure I get to keep my fingers in this hypothetical situation in which I redesign my body."
"All I ask."
"Could've fooled me."
You kiss her. She buttons your blouse and you smooth out your skirt.
You know neither of you is the villain or the victim. She is not out to destroy anyone, let alone you. You've never fucked anybody you didn't want to. (Well. Maybe once or twice, but loneliness can make you less than choosy.) You selected this together. You wanted this. She wanted this. (Don't fool yourself by using the past tense you want it still.)
Both of you are to blame.
Both of you are to blame, but the only ones who can point fingers are the two who know.
(So: You'll keep blaming her.)
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