“Please God, forgive me for being a sinner and a whore.”
Hanna woke up with the whispered words on her lips, so automatic they were unconscious. She was caught in a moment of confusion between sleep and waking, breath coming in short pants, the sensation of her fingers still moving between her thighs making her hips jerk involuntarily.
The aching flutter in her belly held the promise of her erotic dream. She made an effort to pull her sticky fingers away, but the brush of them along her wet slit swelled into a need to be filled, to be penetrated like she had been in her dream—something her mother would have dubbed a nightmare.
Hanna knew about sex. She’d read books on the subject at the library when she was supposed to be studying history or geometry, secreted away in the corner, turning pages slowly, eyes growing wider and wider as she absorbed the forbidden information like a sponge. Her panties grew wet, her sex squishy between her thighs in a way she understood, biologically—lubrication was required for the penis to enter the vagina without resistance—but confused her thoughts. She understood the mechanics perfectly. What she didn’t understand was how it all made her feel.
She just knew, however she felt, she wasn’t supposed to be feeling it. Her mother had guilted and shamed her from birth on the subject of sex and the woman would have been proud of herself to know that Hanna woke whispering a prayer of forgiveness for nothing more than a wet dream. A biological response, like breathing or hunger pangs.
Hanna’s mind wandered, remembering her dream, even though she chided herself, told herself it was bad, wrong. She might not be in control of those thoughts when she was asleep, but she could prevent herself from thinking them when she was conscious. She worried her fingers up and down her slit like counting off beads on a rosary—although she’d never held a rosary in her life, the Catholics were all going to hell, according to her mother—her internal conflict making her hips twist. It all did nothing but serve to arouse her even more.
Her pelvis seemed to have a mind of its own, bucking and rolling, the inner walls of her vagina contracting still, as if searching for her dream man, the one who had been inside of her, pumping in and out so deliciously. What would it feel like, to have something that size deep inside her womb? Her own curiosity was torture. Her body responded, no matter what she did, her nipples growing hard, her sex wet, and it was enough to drive her mad. How was an inquisitive, inexperienced girl supposed to remain pure?
Hanna turned her flushed, red face into her pillow, remembering the man from her dream more fully, bringing her shame to the surface. Her dream man was handsome, a cowboy type, like her stepfather. Marshall Young was tall, rugged, and ripped. She’d gotten an accidental glimpse of the man’s body coming out of the shower once, and it was an image she had burned in her mind. Her dream man could have been his brother, maybe even his twin, with a broad, hard chest, defined abs, a strong jaw. Her stepfather made her feel secure in his presence, and that’s just how he dream man had made her feel.
Just the thought of the man who had invaded her unconscious, his flesh pressed against hers, sweaty and strong, made her skin tingle. Unable or unwilling, she wouldn’t analyze now. Instead, she slipped her already wet fingers inside herself, two, then three, pushing her hips up as she forced them further in, needing to know how it felt to have something, anything, in there. Curling them, she hit a soft spot deep inside that stole her breath as she moved to the rhythm she relived from her dream, a frantic pace, as if he rode her.
She knew it was wrong. Her dream, this act, all of it was a sin. But somehow her body didn’t care. Her body wanted what it wanted. It wanted this, to be penetrated, to surrender, to be pounded and ridden and taken, again and again.
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