Forbidden: A Standalone Read Free

drowned it however I could. When the therapist had told me I’d done something so terrible, such an anathema to me, and I didn’t have a substance or an orgasm to drape over the news, I did things without thinking. My determination to be good had gone out the window, and I’d lunged for that lying doctor. I remembered being hauled away screaming, strapped down, and I remembered the injection.
    It wasn’t until I woke up secured to the bed in a mental ward that I knew what it was like to be distanced from my brain. I could separate the drug thoughts from the real-me thoughts. The drug thoughts were blank and foggy, and the real-me thoughts were black holes where information should have been. Things floated by as if someone was changing the station from a comedy to a thriller to a terror fest to colored bars that went eeeeeeee .
    I’d stabbed Deacon.
    No, it was a lie.
    You know it’s true.
    Not.
    Yes.
    Not.
    You did it.
    Never.
    I turned my head. Nothing in that room could upset me, because the space was absent of stimuli. The room was still grey, still bathed in light, and in the corner, a silver disk got lost in the vents and alarms dotting the ceiling.
    A camera.
    If I screamed—and I believed I could—they’d know, and they’d come for me. Or not. I wasn’t ready to find out.
    I’d been strapped to beds for long periods of time, usually with my legs spread farther than they were now, often with my knees bent. When I was left in that position, it was so I couldn’t press my legs closed and give myself an orgasm. By the time Deacon came in, I was wet with anticipation and ready for anything he dished out.
    In the hospital, my ankles and wrists were bound so I couldn’t hurt myself. I was wet all over again. I tried to close my legs and couldn’t. And no one was coming to slap or fuck me. Not even one of Deacon’s friends. Not even Debbie. I wasn’t strapped down so I could stew in my own lust. I was strapped down because after Elliot had told me I’d stabbed Deacon, my mind had gone white hot.
    Fuck.
    Even as I got angry at myself over this forgotten thing, I felt the bloat of arousal.
    You’re swelled, kitten.
    Swelled didn’t mean horny. That was easy enough. Swelled meant I needed it. Sex. Hot and dirty fucking. Masturbating couldn’t stop a swell. Rubbing my cunt on the pillow, vibrators, dildos, eggs, none of them chased away a swell. Only penetration, anywhere, by a warm-blooded man, took care of it. Until that happened, I couldn’t function.
    It had never been a problem. I took what I wanted, made no commitments, found willing participants wherever, whenever I needed it. I was on three forms of birth control, for fuck’s sake. I got tested weekly. I wrapped it up. Past that, my first priority to a swell was getting rid of it, and I was mindless in my pursuit. For Deacon, it became a challenge—to know when I would need it, predict it, and put me in a position where he could withhold penetration. He created the unique torture of being tied in knots, naked, cunt out, ready as he tugged the rope and I begged him to take me.
    “I need to finish, kitten. How would it be to have people arrive to a party without the table set?”
    He’d hurt me to forestall satisfaction, leaving my ass a deep shade of pink and my little tits sore, putting me on the edge and keeping me there for hours, until I wept.
    Had I killed Deacon? My master? Why? How? Oh God, what had I done?
    The holes in my mind closed, filled with the thick caulk of sex. I needed it. I needed to feel good. I needed my mind to go blank with pleasure for a second or two, to clear the pain out like a firehose. I could be in for a swell. I needed to feel good. Needed.
    “Now!” I cried. “Bathroom!”
    Bernie, a big, dark-skinned guy with a kind face, came through the door seconds later. “Hi, Miss Drazen.”
    He smelled of man, and though he wasn’t the best looking guy ever, I was painfully aware of the cock under his blue cotton