Mom locked me in chastity

Chapter 17

Wednesday afternoon. Both parents are out. Jordan offered to help with college applications. I didn't want this, but saying no would raise questions.

So here we are.

"Your parents said you're applying to community college." Jordan opens his laptop. Doesn't look at me.

"That's what they think."

Now he looks up. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I'm also applying to RISD. Pratt. CalArts." The confession comes out defiant.

"They don't know?"

"No."

"Maya—"

"I don't want to talk about it. Can we just get this over with?"

"Show me what you have so far."

I turn my laptop toward him.

"It's good. Technical. Safe." He highlights a paragraph. "But it doesn't tell them why you create. Just what you create."

"Isn't that enough?"

"No." His eyes meet mine. "They want to know what drives you. What you're trying to make visible."

"Pain. Wanting. Things we're supposed to pretend don't exist."

"Say that. Exactly that. Raw and honest."

We work in silence. He suggests changes. I type them. The air feels thick. Charged.

"Maya." He closes his laptop. "I think about you constantly."

My breath stops.

"I know I shouldn't. I know it's wrong." His hands grip the table edge. "But I can't stop. It's destroying me."

My breath catches. This is the moment. The question I've been afraid to ask finally forces itself out.

"Do you love me?"

His entire body tenses. Jaw working around words that won't come.

The silence stretches. Unbearable.

I stand. He watches me move around the table. Confusion and want war across his face.

"What are you doing?"

"Jordan. Do. You. Love. Me?" I ask again. Forcing him to face it.

"Maya—" He looks away. His entire body tenses. "It's not that simple."

"It actually is. Yes or no."

"I can't—" He stops. Starts again. "I'm sixteen years older than you. I'm your father's best friend."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have."

My hand moves before thought catches up. The slap echoes through the quiet house.

His head snaps to the side. Shock flashes across his face. Then something darker.

I climb onto his lap. Straddle him in the chair. His hands come up automatically. Grip my hips. Not pushing away. Holding on.

"Maya, we can't—"

I kiss him. Cut off the protest. He responds like he's been starving. Hands fisting in my hair. Mouth desperate.

I roll my hips. Feel him hard beneath me. The belt prevents what I want but the friction makes me gasp anyway.

"God." The word tears from his throat. "You're going to kill me."

"Good."

I move again. Grinding down. Learning the shape of him through fabric and steel. His breathing goes ragged. Hands tighten on my hips.

"Maya. Stop."

"Why?"

"Because I can't think when you're—" He cuts off with a groan as I move again.

"I don't want you to think." My hands map his chest. His shoulders. "I want you to feel."

"I feel too much already."

I capture his mouth again. Kiss him until neither of us can breathe. His hands slide under my shirt. Trace patterns on bare skin. Every touch makes the ache sharper.

I reach between us. Find him through his jeans.

"Maya, you don't have to—"

"I want to."

My hand works his zipper. He doesn't stop me. Just watches with dark eyes as I free him. Wrap my fingers around hard heat.

His forehead drops to my shoulder. "Fuck."

I stroke slowly. Learning rhythm and pressure. The sounds he makes guide me. Show me what he likes.

"Tighter." His voice is wrecked.

I tighten my grip. Speed up. His hips move into my hand. Chasing friction. Chasing release.

"I want you inside me." The confession tears free. "I want to know how you feel. How you'd fill me."

"Maya—" It comes out strangled.

"Tell me you want that too."

"I do. God, I do."

His breathing goes ragged. Irregular. I feel him getting close. The tension building.

"Come for me." I whisper it against his ear. "I want to feel it."

He does. With my name on his lips. Pulsing into my hand. Hot and slick and proof of wanting he can't deny.

I don't let go immediately. Just hold him. Feel the aftershocks. Imagine what it would be like if the belt wasn't there. If he could actually be inside me. If I could feel this heat where I ache for it.

The wanting is almost painful.

His breathing slows. Reality creeps back in. I see it happen across his face.

"Tell me you love me." The words are quiet. Pleading.

He goes still. The warmth between us turns cold.

"Maya—"

"Just say it."

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"Does it matter?" He gently moves me off his lap. Fixes his jeans. Won't meet my eyes. "The answer is the same."

The rejection stings worse than before. Because now he can't even claim physical distance. Can't pretend we haven't crossed lines.

"You're a coward."

He doesn’t respond. Stands. Gathers his things with shaking hands. At the door, he pauses.

"Promise me something."

"What?"

"Whatever happens. Promise you'll go to art school. Promise you won't let them trap you forever."

The words land strange. Final. Like he's already imagining a future where we don't end up together.

Where he walks away and I'm left with nothing but wanting.

"Why does it matter to you?"

"Because you deserve freedom. Even if I can't give it to you." His hand is on the doorknob. "Promise me."

"Fine. I promise."

"Good." He opens the door. Doesn't look back. "I'm sorry. For all of it."

Then he's gone.

I stand in the empty dining room. My hand still sticky with proof of his wanting. My body still humming with need he won't satisfy.

He thinks about me constantly. It's destroying him.

But not enough to say three words.

Not enough to stay.

Not enough to fight for what we both want.

I go to the bathroom. Wash my hands. Watch evidence of his desire disappear down the drain.

Back in my room, I stare at my college applications. At the artist statement we refined together.

I create to make visible what's usually invisible. To acknowledge pain and wanting.

The irony isn't lost on me.

Jordan won't acknowledge what we are. Won't make it visible. Thinks staying silent somehow makes it less real.

Fine.

I'll go to art school. I'll be free. I'll choose myself.

And someday he'll realize what he gave up.

What he was too afraid to claim.

What he let slip away because three words felt more dangerous than losing me.