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taste of chocolate

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“Don’t touch me.”

She hums. She stills. The water in the faucet drips, the bright lights are far too jarring, far too jarring for his taste, for anyone’s taste, and he’s trembling. But she doesn’t pull away.

The bedsheets rustle slightly. They’re itchy. And they’re baby blue.

Just like her dress used to be back then…

He shivers, even though the heater is cranked up higher than high. The air is dry and loaded with electricity. Her blonde hair smells of vanilla shampoo.

Silence surrounds them like a cocoon, and he sighs.

“’m sorry…” He says, finally, and his voice is broken and tiny. Like a petrified animal.

Layla never really talks, when he gets like that. When his own skin becomes too much, and when his spine tingles with something he can barely classify as panic. She rubs a soft, kind circle into the small of his back, and he buries his face further into her plump chest. He knows she’s smiling above him, her lips gentle. So, so gentle.

Billy’s naked, curled up in himself. Shaking and trembling, eyes clenched shut. It shouldn’t be this scary. It shouldn’t be this paralyzingly terrifying. It shouldn’t be this… embarrassing.

“We don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to.” Her voice sounds lower than usual, and he shakes his head like a small child would. He pulls her closer towards himself, as he panics, as he doesn’t know what to do.

“But I want to…” His voice is barely audible, a hushed breath, a broken chirp. “I… I want to.”

It’s been almost a year since… well… He doesn’t really like to remember about simultaneously the saddest, yet the happiest day of his life. That was the day he lost his parents. That was the day he dropped his plans for revenge. And that was the day he woke up within Layla’s embrace, for the first time in his life, feeling at home.

Physical touch is still just as terrifying for him.

Soft pecks to his cheeks, or her hands threading through his hair, or her fingers, intertwined with his. He feels like an idiot. Because he’s petrified, and his body grows warm and soft, but his heart pounds and his lungs won’t listen to him, he wants to cry every single time.

And now he’s in bed with her.

Because he asked her to. Because he knows that she knows what to do to ease his pain and his anger, confusion… fear. Because she’s not at all like the men at prison, well, obviously, but sometimes he still wakes up terrified, drenched in cold sweat.

“Billy, you’ve got a nice cock there….”

“Now why don’t you turn around, pretty boy?”

“Oh come on, what are you, a virgin, Brown?”

He doesn’t even realize he’s sobbing against her chest, clinging to her back, his blunt nails digging into her pale, silky soft skin. And she’s just threading her fingers through her hair, her lips pressed to his forehead in a motionless kiss. He doesn’t want to remember his time in prison. He doesn’t like to remember his time in prison.

But he thinks of it all the time.

“Shhh, I’ve got you…”

She’s rocking him back and forth. And he feels himself slip under something warm and soft and comforting, like back then, when she undressed in front of him and joined him in the bathtub, and he felt small.

He feels small now, too. A good kind of small. A wonderful kind of small.

“C-Can you kiss me… Can you kiss me… Please kiss me. Please, please kiss me…”

Billy looks up at the girl with glassy eyes, tears treading in his lashes. And Layla understands. Of course she does.

Her soft lips cover his, and he lunges forward. Desperate. She immediately pries his lips open, slips her tongue inside, licks down his crooked, uneven teeth, and suddenly, it’s not enough.

He whines. He wraps his spindly lips around her, like he’s trying to melt into her, like he’s trying to melt into her ribcage, like he’s trying to become her heart.

“Don’t leave… Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave,” he’s whining into her lips, hot tears spill down his cheeks as everything grows warm and soft. She tousles her fingers in his dark hair, scratches down his scalp.

“I’m here, Billy… I’m not going anywhere…. I promise… I promise…”

Layla gentle bites down onto his lips, just to ground him, and he clenches his eyes shut, he digs his fingers into her spine and he cries softly.

“We don’t have to do anything at all, Billy, we don’t have to.” She whispers, she caresses down his stubble, reassuringly, and he chases her touch, he chases her lips. His hair is a flurry of inky black as he shakes his head and clings to her body.

“Please… Please… Layla… Please…”

What is he asking for? What is it he wants, so badly?

She kisses down his throat, kisses up and down his collarbones, massages his arms, his shoulders, and he whines. Her hands skim down his chest, his stomach, just below his navel, There’s a silent agreement that she won’t go lower. But it’s still too much.

Her soft, almost butterfly like, touch suddenly becomes too heavy, too suffocating and he jerks away.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats over and over again, as he rips at the sheets. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“You don’t have to apologize, Billy,” she sits up on her knees and lifts her hands, like she’s calming a frightened animal, like she’s trying to show him, that she can’t hurt him. She won’t hurt him. “It’s okay… It’s all fine….. We have all night…. Okay? All night….”

There’s a delicious, plush softness to her belly, a gentle roundness to her curves, he stares up into her face with wide, teary eyes. He’s disgusted with himself. He’s disgusted with his behavior.

Because he truly, desperately, agonizingly wants her to have him.

And because he can’t fight the fear.

Why can’t he just be a man? Aggressive and demanding and passionate, taking what he wants, just like the guys in prison used to muse about.

Why can’t he just not be afraid of her fingertips… Why must she lie with this wreck of a person in her bed…?

“Billy…”

She’s cradling his face. She’s moving lower. She’s peppering his face in kisses, in soft pecks. Her lips kiss away his tears, skim down his jawline, his cheeks, forehead, temples, nose.

And he pulls away slowly, a ringing silence in his head, like she’s pulled out all possible thoughts from his brain. Like she kissed right through his skin and bone, stole his memory. He feels small again.

He loves her so.

Within seconds he’s lounging forward, buries his face in her lap. He’s so hard it hurts.

“Can we do this now…” He whimpers, sputters some half-formed phrases against her belly, as he tries to fight the embarrassment and the discomfort. “Right now… Please…. Please, Layla…”

“Are you sure, Billy,” she whispers as she scratches up his back with her long, painted nails. It sends shivers down his spine…

“Please…” He looks up at her, he tugs at her wrist, pulls her down to lie with him, buries his face into the crook of her neck. “Please, please, please, please, please…”

Her palm runs down his ribs, his waist, stops upon his hip. He shudders.

“Can I touch you?” She whispers, heated and hot. “I have to touch you… for this… I need to touch you.”

He freezes for a moment, tears of absolute fear welling up in his eyes, but he takes a deep breath, he tries to force his lungs to cooperate, and it barely works.

But her thumb rubs circles into his hipbone and he melts. Again.

“Y-Yeah…” He agrees, hesitantly, and she lets out a shaky breath.

Layla rolls him onto his back, presses his shoulder blades into the mattress. Then she slowly lowers her mouth towards his nipples, presses a kiss to the hardened nub. Smiles when he shivers, when he lets out a shaky whimper, airy and high.

And then she straddles him.

Her hot, wet cunny presses right into his length and Billy lets out a sob, feeling both terrified and aroused beyond belief. He doesn’t even have a scrap of control when she leans into him, when she noses down his fluttering pulse and skims her nails down his chest.

“We can stop anytime you want,” she promises and Billy bites his lip and he clenches his eyes shut and he sobs like a baby. “Billy…. Billy, listen to me…”

She lounges forward and her cunny drags across his length and he cries even more. His body is stiff and motionless, hands balled to fists. Layla pets his chest and his face, forces him to unclench his teeth, to look up into her face. His cock jerks when he notes the crimson blush upon her cheeks.

“Billy… Billy, I love you.”

Time seems to freeze.

He nearly suffocates when she kisses him again. When she takes hold of his hands and places them upon her waist, and he, on reflex, wraps them around her body, pulling her down even lower, pressing her soft body flush against his own.

Her hand finds his length, guide him up towards her entrance and he jerks, but relaxes immediately.

Because she lets out the most heavenly sigh. And because heaven’s gates open, when she slowly, cautiously, sinks down his length.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he whimpers, falls back onto the mattress, sinks into the pillows. The sensation is something akin to absolute, divine bliss. He chokes, he sputters, he nearly suffocates.

And then he starts crying.

Soft sobs, hiccups, he doesn’t even let out any sounds, he just cries, as soft as hurt child who fell and hurt their knee. A hurt child, who payed with his entire existence, with his entire life, for a mistake, they did not commit. A hurt child, who just longs for someone who’ll kiss their wounds.

And Layla… Layla does just that.

Because she kisses him, slow and gentle. And she whispers soft coos of reassuring words against his throat. She moves, slow. Not at all aggressive. It’s more for comfort than for sex. Just the feeling of her hot, tight body wrapped around him, has his eyes rolling back, and a fresh load of tears spill down his cheeks.

“It’s alright…. It’s alright…” She whispers, breathlessly.

And he feels his tip drag across her velvety walls. He feels himself relax, he feels himself become even smaller. Billy’s not sure if he can talk. His tongue won’t listen to him.

She moves in slow, sensual circles. So slow. So gentle. Not at all what he imagined sex to be. He thought of it to be animalistic and rough, almost painful, painted in terror. But instead it’s… soft. And gentle. And so, so… wonderful.

“Layla…” He moans, arching his back, as she clenches around him, as she kisses his throat again. “I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry…”

“What are you sorry for, Billy,” she asks, almost amused. There’s a soft lull to her voice. “There’s nothing to be sorry for…”

“I… I pulled your hair…” He gasps, and tears spill down his cheeks. “And I was… I was so mean to you… I didn’t…. I’m so sorry I pulled your hair…”

She giggles, breathlessly.

“I forgive you… I forgive you, Billy…. I love you… I love you so…”

His hips move on their own, he tugs her down towards him, breathes against her lips.

“And I love you… I love you, I love you… I love you so…”

It’s like a dam has broken. Like she opened a door, he’s not sure he can close, ever again. But he doesn’t care.

Because he gently kisses her cheek, and he whimpers, and sputters some half broken words and whispers against her lips. Because he cries, and his tears catch in his dark curls, and his lashes tremble against his cheeks.

Years of pent up softness, gentleness bubble up to the surface. He was a gentle child. He was a kind, open boy. He was soft and wide eyed. He hates what he became. This anxious, worry-riddled monster, who hurts everyone around him. Who cries himself to sleep at night. Who doesn’t deserves to-

Layla speeds up slightly. Layla pulls him right out of his head. She clenches around him, she moves her hips in circles, up and down, up and down, up and down, all while her lips skim down his throat, his collarbones, his nipples, his shoulders.

It’s impossible to resist.

He spills inside her. Far too fast. Far too quick. Embarassingly so. But she just sighs in content. Like that’s all she was looking forward to. Like that was what she needed.

His member jerks within her, he can feel her tremble slightly, and a small smile tugs at her lips. He knows he’s big. He knows he’s coming loads, and loads, and loads, he doesn’t remember the last time he came. But he also knows, that she didn’t come at all, and he hides his face in the pillows.

But Layla doesn’t let him hide for long. And Billy doesn’t have the heart to feel embarrassed when she kisses his lips again, just a soft, chaste kiss, as she allows him to ride out his orgasm, as she allows him to bask in the afterglow, a few tears spilling down his cheeks, as he lets out a small whimper.

“I’m sorry…” He apologizes, for whatever reason, but Layla shakes her head with a soft smile. She climbs out of his lap, out of their bed, pads barefoot over the floor to grab a fluffy, blanket.

He shivers and trembles, like he’s having a panic attack, but she doesn’t mind. She throws the thick, warm blanket over him, and immediately joins him. Allows him to bury his head under her arm, like he always does.

“I’m sorry…” He apologizes again, but less pitiful this time. More of a sigh. More of a soft whisper. And she presses a gentle kiss to his hair.

“Tonight was about you,” she murmurs. “You did good Billy… I promise…. I promise you did good….”

And he relaxes. All tension spills from his body, and he nearly falls to through the mattress form the overpowering calmness he feels suddenly. He looks up at her, eyes tired but cautious, still.

Layla looks him up and down, her hazel eyes glimmering in the faint lamplight. She licks her lips. And they both need this. They both need this last phrase.

“You’re a good boy, Billy.”

He hiccups softly, snivels, lifts his head to face her completely. His heart has never been this light. And his lips have never craved her mouth more.

She smiles into the kiss, he can taste the faint promise of chocolate on her tongue, and, for the first time, he’s not scared of the consequences of the taste. He embraces it. Because nothing about her could hurt him.

Not her hands, her eyes, her mouth, her fingertips. Not her gender, her long hair, her soft breasts, her, just as soft, plush belly.

Not even the sweetness of chocolate upon her lips.