The Thrust by Shoshanna Evers

stranger looking back at her in the mirror in Trent’s bedroom.
    Am I still in there?
    Yes. She was. She didn’t look like herself, as Trent had said. Her face seemed to disappear behind the shaggy brown hair. No longer was she the redhead she’d always identified as.
    She didn’t feel beautiful—she felt hidden. She wouldn’t stand out in a crowd, certainly.
    Trent had told her to make use of some of his wife’s clothing so she could look as different as possible. Now she was dressed in jeans that were too big on her, and a heavy dark gray hooded sweatshirt.
    Is this what his wife used to wear on cold mornings, perhaps? Or was the oversized, comfy sweatshirt a sentimental token she’d saved, but never worn?
    God, Clarissa looked different. Unrecognizable.
    That’s good. It’s a good thing. It’s what she wanted, right?
    The door creaked open and she gasped in surprise, ashamed for some reason at being caught staring at herself in the mirror like a vain girl.
    “Just me,” Trent said. “Can I come in?”
    She laughed. “It’s your room, Trent. You have more of a right to be here than I do.”
    He was looking at her in a way she hadn’t seen before. Did she really appear so ugly now?
    “I keep feeling like I’m looking at someone else,” he muttered.
    “It’s still me,” she said.
    She tried to put a brave smile on, to show him that it didn’t matter if she didn’t look like herself. It was only temporary. The dye would wash out, and her hair would grow.
    “Come here,” Trent whispered.
    Clarissa slipped off her shoes and walked over to him, coming to rest between his legs.
    He pressed his newly-shaved head against her breasts, hugging her to him.
    “This used to be my sweatshirt,” Trent said. “I left it at Karen’s dorm the first time I spent the night, and she kept it ever since.”
    “Do you want me to take it off?”
    Trent shook his head. He pulled her down onto his lap, cuddling her gently, as if she were frail and might break easily.
    He looked like . . . a soldier. And if she never saw another soldier again it would be too soon.
    It’s still Trent. Just like she was still Clarissa.
    “Tomorrow’s a big day,” she said, trying not to focus on his new look. “Are you scared?”
    “Not for me. But . . . I’m terrified of losing you. Promise me you’ll stay by my side.”
    “I will.” She was terrified too. It helped knowing he understood the danger they were putting themselves in. He had no misconceptions.
    His mouth sought hers with an urgency that surprised her, and she kissed him back just as hard. She needed to feel everything tonight.
    Because what if it was their last night?
    No. Don’t think that way.
    Trent rolled her over onto her back, pulling her jeans down and her sweatshirt up, revealing the pale globes of her breasts.
    Her nipples tightened in the cool night air, and she moaned as he sucked each one into his mouth hungrily.
    Usually he took her in the missionary position, but tonight was different. He was different. With his shaved head, he too seemed like another man all together.
    Trent pushed her onto her stomach and straddled her from behind.
    She moaned in fear, but what was she afraid of? Not Trent. He might have a soldier’s haircut, but he was not one of them. He was a good man.
    “It’s okay,” he whispered, his muscular chest pressed to her back. His breath was warm in her ear. As if he knew her innermost thoughts, he said, “It’s me, it’s Trent.”
    His cock was hard, pressing against her thigh insistently.
    She pushed her bottom up, granting him access to her pussy, wanting to feel him inside her, filling her.
    “Oh God,” he groaned, sinking into her with one heavy thrust. She cried out from the sensation, and he reached around, capturing her clit with his fingers.
    The rhythm built within her. She rocked her hips, meeting him thrust for thrust, and he rubbed her bud hard, fast, until she exploded, her body shaking as spasm after spasm