The Rules (Moving the Chains)

by Kata Čuić

  “Should I purchase a nicer set?” I ask as I slide down one bra strap then the next.

  He leans against the wall as he watches me undress completely. “For a one-night stand? I wouldn’t bother. That shit’s expensive.”

  I pause in the middle of unlatching my bra. “You do understand I want more than once, correct?”

  “I thought you said you didn’t want a relationship?” He scrunches his brow, genuinely confused.

  “I want to enjoy sex more than once before my choices are taken away from me,” I clarify.

  His expression softens again. “Got it. Keep going.”

  I fling my bra onto the desk littered with makeup products. It looks less out of place there. I slide my underwear down my thighs. “You are certain my granny panties will not ruin the moment?”

  He barks out a laugh. “If it’s just a hookup, the lights will probably be off anyway. No point wasting money on a guy who isn’t going to get to see your body more than once.”

  I had not anticipated financial frugality being part of his rule set, but I suppose I should not be surprised. There are plenty of examples of professional athletes wasting their money, and Alex is absolutely the type to learn from others’ mistakes.

  My body is on full display for his appraisal. He does not seem the least bit aroused by what I have to offer. He sighs, which makes me even more self-conscious.

  “Now, what?” I croak.

  He shrugs. “More conditioning.”

  That doesn’t boost my confidence at all. “You are not going to get undressed?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Just you today.”

  My patience is nearing an end. “What is the point of this?”

  “To find out how confident you are in your own skin.” He points at the lower bunk.

  I shake my head. Him lying naked on his friends’ bed is one thing, but I am a complete stranger to them.

  He rolls his eyes, then strides to the bunks to pull his blanket down and spread it across the bottom bed. “Better?”

  I climb onto the mattress, following orders. “Much. Thank you.”

  “If you’re worried about being polite in the middle of a hookup, then you’re going to be disappointed again. It’ll probably happen in a room at a party house. You won’t have much control over whose bed it is.” He settles on the mattress beside me.

  “Just like apologizing does not make one weak, showing consideration for others isn’t a bad thing either,” I tell him. “I can get what I want without desecrating someone else’s space.”

  He grins. “If you want someone to desecrate your space, then you’re going to have to be a little less picky.” His smile falls away to be replaced by a frown. “Never take a guy back to your room unless you want him to know where you live. Dudes can get as clingy as chicks if they have a sense of ownership. Letting them see the place where you sleep can lead to that.”

  “So, you admit that people’s beds are sacred spaces?”

  He turns on the TV. He won’t meet my gaze, but there’s a slight lift at the corner of his mouth that gives him away. “You’re the worst. You know that, right?”

  I grin and roll onto my side to watch him. I have no interest in the television show. My breasts look as tempting as possible in this position, pushed together with a deep valley of cleavage. His eyes never stray from the screen. He truly will not cross this line between us. Fascinating.

  I use my arm for a pillow. “What do you talk about when you’re with them?”

  He arches an eyebrow. “With Rob and Evie? Uh…everything, I guess.”

  A change in the pitch of his voice leads me to believe he may be lying. I do not know his friends nor the nature of their relationship, so I cannot be certain. Of course, we have taken turns lying naked on their bed, so their friendship is obviously one that seems unaverage to me.

  “No. I mean the women you are with. How will I know what to say? What should I talk about?”

  Alex snorts. “There’s no talking.”

  I know for a fact there is plenty of moaning and grunting. I’ve heard that for myself before. “Is that one of your rules? Or is that something else I should abide by for safety’s sake? Will simple conversation make a man feel too much for me?”

  His eyes narrow before he ever turns his face toward me. “You’re so obsessed with rules, but I’ve got bad news for you.” He also rolls onto his side until we are chest to chest. It doesn’t feel as intimate as it does threatening. “The only rule is that there are no rules. People will do whatever the fuck they want, no matter what.”

  This is not part of his game. The vehemence in his tone is born from experience. I cannot imagine what that might be. His life seems so charmed from my perspective.

  “If that is true, then why bother teaching me at all? Why not let me fumble in my own way?”

  He sits up suddenly. His back is to me, but it looks like he scrubs his face with his hands. “Because you have to know what the rules should be to break them in a way that gets you what you want.”

  “How did you learn which rules to follow and which rules to break?” I hold my breath. I am dangerously close to his lines again, yet I cannot resist.

  He glances over his shoulder with a grin. “Self-experimentation.”

  I blink at him.

  He lifts his chin. “Show me how you touch yourself. What gets you off.”

  An inferno sweeps across my skin, beginning at my chest then unfurling to reach my fingers and toes. I imagine I must look like burning paper, slowly charring and curling at the edges. “I don’t need to pleasure myself. I want someone else to pleasure me.”

  He shakes his head then resumes his position beside me, stretched out on his side. “You’re going to be in for more disappointment if you think a one-night stand gives a rat’s ass about your pleasure. The whole point of sex without a relationship is for everyone to take care of themselves. If you don’t know what you like—what does it for you? Then, you could sleep with every guy on campus and never find what you’re looking for.”

  “Great.” I roll my eyes. I stare at the bottom of Alex’s bunk to give myself something to focus on, so I will not give in to the urge to cry. “I am running out of time for my freedom. Once I am married, I will spend the rest of my life chained to someone who does not care for my pleasure. I am doomed either way.”

  I startle when Alex’s big, warm hand wraps around mine.

  “It doesn’t have to be that way,” he whispers, his gaze steady on mine. “It won’t be if you learn how to take care of yourself. For yourself.”

  Oh so slowly, he drags our joined hands down my body to rest between my thighs. With his index finger aligned on top of mine, he presses down then slides up my seam.

  I suck in a sharp breath, then release it deliberately as he increases the pressure of his touch—my touch—against the sensitive bundle of nerves that flame to life beneath his careful watch. He guides me in concentric circles that expand and then retract, a heavier caress followed by a feather light one.

  I have never been able to do this for myself. I have explored, yes. I have manipulated, experimented, tried my best. At first, it felt shameful, forbidden. That alone should have been enough for my rebellious self to reach the peak, but it never was. It was my first clue that I could not break this barrier alone. As months turned to years, my shame became frustration.

  Something must be wrong with me.

  Alex’s piercing blue eyes never leave mine. He barely blinks. I know what he’s doing. He’s watching—studying for clues in every rise of my chest, flicker of my eyelids, the movement of a strangled moan in my throat.

  “Let go,” he whispers, his breath brushing my bare shoulder. “Stop thinking about the mechanics of it. Quit fighting if it’s what you really want. Close your eyes and feel.”

  I am desperate to end my suffering—to reach that unattainable goal, for release. I close my eyes and listen to the rasp of his every inhale and exhale. I feel the heat of h
is body seeping into mine, luxuriate in the scent of his expensive cologne.

  As I lose myself in the rainbow of sensations, my body relaxes. He dips our fingers down again. I’m wet. He draws our hands back up to spread the moisture and increases the pressure tenfold. I arch my back and spread my legs wider, a silent plea for more. Of what, I do not know. Just that I need it. The same as I need air, and sunlight, and freedom.

  He never touches me with his lips, but he blows a gust of hot breath against my neck. My nipples pebble in response. My breasts feel heavy and wanting, but that emptiness is eclipsed by the flicker of our hands faster, faster, faster. It’s not enough.

  More.

  I tilt my hips up, searching.

  So close. So close.

  I throw my head back, reaching.

  It’s not enough.

  Garbled words in nonsensical languages flood my tongue with no meaning behind them. I am fluent in gibberish.

  In a flash of motion, our fingers slide down and into my empty channel. He grinds the heel of my palm against my clit and curls our fingers together inside me.

  Relief. Agony. Ecstasy. Too much. Not nearly enough.

  I cry out only to be silenced by Alex’s lips on mine, his tongue licking into my mouth with the same rhythm as the dance of our fingers.

  Shudders rack my muscles until they’re limp pools of gelatin beneath the sheath of my too-tight skin. The tide ebbs away so slowly and yet so dangerously fast that I can’t stop moaning.

  I can never leave this bed that does not belong to me. Part of me will be trapped here forever.

  The warmth of his hand, his mouth, and his person disappears, leaving me a shivering mess. My body hovers in space and time—caught between who I used to be, who I am, and who I long to become.

  With heavy eyelids, I watch as he sits up and stares at his hand.

  I cannot fathom what he is thinking. I am certain I will never think the same way again.

  Unceremoniously, he wipes my arousal on his sweat pants then stands. He clears his throat several times. “You need to go.”

  Oh. I think I understand after all. He broke his own rules—with his fingers, his tongue, his lips. He is ashamed of himself. Throwing me out is his self-made coping mechanism.

  I never imagined I would feel pity for Alex Fossoway. He is teaching me far more than I bargained for.

  “Amira?” He doesn’t face me though he snaps his fingers several times with the same hand. “Tutoring session? In twenty minutes? I’m guessing in the library?”

  The library is so far away. I am not entirely certain I can walk. I am not entirely certain I can fight this round of tears, and they would not even be for myself.

  He picks up my clothes from the floor and retrieves my bra from his roommate’s desk, then throws the bundle at me. “There’s a guest bathroom across the hall if you want to clean up.”

  I watch silently as he sits at his own desk and wakes up his computer. In profile, his face is hard and expressionless. He looks like he might be starting his English Lit assignment.

  No, wait. That’s my job now.

  I have never experienced helping someone else before. I have always been the one who needed help. If I am going to make a career as a psychologist, then he’s giving me invaluable early experience that I did not anticipate.

  I swallow moisture back into my throat and work as hard as I must to rebuild his broken psyche. “Is this what I should expect? After?”

  Many women complain about being shown the door after the main act has ended. Just because I have never experienced it for myself does not mean I’m completely ignorant. Though, in hindsight, I suspect these are the women who are interested in more than physical relationships. Even if they are unwilling to admit that truth to themselves.

  Alex confirms my suspicions. “If you want no-strings, then yeah. If you want to be held after, then this isn’t the route for you.”

  After this experience, I am not so sure what the route for me is. Can I truly separate my own hang-ups and emotions from my career? Do I feel too much or not enough to be successful at this profession? “Do men also experience this…exhaustion after? Do they not need time to recover?”

  He barks out a laugh, but it sounds…strained. Different. “Usually about twenty minutes if you want a second round. Ability varies.”

  “Should I not want a second round? Would that encourage feelings?” I know what I want. I want to be held. I want to be cherished in a way I may not get to experience after marriage. I am not seeking an answer to my own questions. I am merely providing the space for him to offer his expertise in this area.

  He shrugs. “Depends on how good it is. If it’s the best you’ve ever had, then I say milk that cow for all it’s worth.”

  Cows are not the animal I usually hear this phenomenon associated with.

  “I thought it was called a unicorn dick?” I have also heard women speak of this mythical creature.

  Alex’s head thumps against his keyboard. His entire body shakes with laughter that fills the room and shifts the mood into something light, brighter, better. Goal achieved in this instance. He picks his head up and grins though he still does not meet my gaze. “Yeah. It’s called a unicorn dick.”

  I have only experienced my first success, but I am eager for more. I squash the horrible feeling that this will somehow be my downfall. Nothing that feels this good could ever be bad. “How will I know if I find it? What should I look for? Length, girth, stamina? Recovery time?”

  A smile curls his lips. “I think that’s probably different for everyone. A porn-sized schlong isn’t going to do it for a small woman. A chick who’s been around the block a time or two isn’t going to be satisfied by a micropenis.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” I muse aloud. “I have heard many women say that a skilled tongue is better than any penis.”

  “No carpet munching for you,” he blurts. Then, he mutters, “I can’t believe I just said that.”

  “Why not?” I peel myself away from the mattress to begin the process of redressing with limbs that feel too heavy to cooperate. “If I only have a short time to experience everything, then I want to know all of it.”

  “STIs can be transmitted through oral. A guy can wear a flavored condom if you’re in the mood to blow, but a dental dam is harder to find and less comfortable from what I’ve been told.” He shakes his head. “Jesus fucking Christ, I can’t believe I just said that.”

  I file away all these terms to Google later. Some of them are new. “I thought you said good girls always swallow every drop?”

  Finally, he looks at me. His eyes are frigid. “You wanna be safe, or you wanna be stupid?”

  “Fine,” I agree. Though I am desperately clinging to this breakthrough, I still feel discarded and used after one of the most erotic experiences of my life. I am not certain I can go through with this. “I want to be safe. No carpet munching for me.”

  He closes his eyes on a long sigh before opening them again. They are only cool now. “If you want head, then you should go for it while you can. You’re right. Most women prefer that anyway. Just, uh…make sure you get a good look at his face in decent lighting. Cold sores? Hard pass. You have to understand the risks. Start getting regular sexual health screenings. At least if you catch something, you can treat it early.”

  I pause with one boot on and one off. This is another very real risk I had not considered. “Has this happened to you?”

  “No,” he breathes, then crosses himself.

  The gesture makes me smile. It is the first time I’ve seen any evidence of Alex’s supposed Catholicism.

  “When will our next lesson be?” I try not to sound overeager. I am certain I fail miserably. Can I truly detach my emotions from a physical act that is only a stepping stone on the path of my career? Clearly, this is the biggest question I must answer for myself.

  “Next week,” he says, then turns around to face his laptop again.

  “Why a whole
week?” I whine. Apparently, I have my answer.

  “Because you have homework to do, and I think that’s the minimum amount of time it’s going to take you. Being an RA and having a private room will help a bit.”

  “I thought you said never to bring a man back to my room?”

  “You’re not going to,” he insists. “You’re going to practice fingering yourself until you can get off every time.”

  “That’s too much pressure!” I shout.

  He grins over his shoulder. “That’s what she said.”

  This is torture. I don’t have this much self-control. No one does. It’s inhuman. It’s…torture.

  Evie sighs. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I glare at her and Rob, spooning on their bed. “Mind your business, Papageorgiou, or I’ll mind it for you.”

  “Watch it,” Rob growls.

  “Fuck off, Falls.” I resume pacing the room. Repeatedly walking in front of the TV they’re watching isn’t even enough of a distraction.

  Rob sighs, too. Swear to shit, their sighs are even starting to sound the same. It’s fucking weird. He whispers loud enough for me to hear, “He always gets like this during a dry spell. Just ignore him. Mike and I have been doing it for years.”

  “I am not in a dry spell!” I yell. To the people who are less than a yard away from me. Hopefully, the whole floor heard that. Or not, now that I think about it.

  “Really?” Rob draws out. “Then, prove it. Sit the fuck down and do…something else. Anything else.”

  “Fine.”

  It’s actually a great idea. I sit at my desk and palm my phone, then bring up all my favorite apps. Fuck me. Or not. No one is online. I have at least twenty girls lined up. How the hell is not a single one of them available on a Wednesday at eight at night? What? Do they spend their weeknights actually doing homework instead of scrolling their phones? Lame. I erase their contact info. I don’t want to fuck someone like that anyway.

  “Why don’t you go take a shower?” Evie suggests. She sniffs. Abnormally loud. “You smell like sex. And you’re still wearing the same sweatpants three days later.”