Submerged"

She walked in, said hi, and sat down on the sofa. She refused a drink and barely looked at me.

“So, how were the roads on your way here?” I asked.

“Empty,” she replied.

“And how are you feeling?”

“Like everyone else, I guess.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

She always did this—dismissing me so casually, it almost felt rehearsed.

Quietly, she stood up and sat down next to me.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” she said.

“Okay,” I replied.

She kissed me. 

A wave of discomfort shot through me. She’d been dragging me along for months, barely speaking or texting. She shut me down every time I asked anything personal, scolding me for ruining “the vibe” between us. I wasn’t sure what vibe she meant. Everything about this felt uncomfortable. Normally, I felt at ease in flirty interactions, but with her, I felt small and exposed. I hated it.

And yet, I was horny, and horniness always complicated things. I kissed her back. 

She gripped my hair and pulled me onto her. A warm rush of wetness soaked my panties. I straddled her, my thighs pressing around hers. She gripped my ass, pulling me closer as she kissed me again – a sudden, unsettling shift from the distant person she had been just minutes ago.

My hands wandered through her soft, dark hair, which always smelled of shampoo. I liked that you could only smell a person when you were close to them, as if inhaling someone’s presence was, in itself, something intimate. But there wasn’t much intimacy between us. Not really. I barely knew anything about her, and she didn’t seem to care much for the details of my life either. Fuck, stop overthinking. Get out of your head.

I leaned back, breaking the moment. She looked at me with confusion, her eyes flickering away –almost irritated, as if I’d ruined something.

I took her chin gently in my hand and tilted her face towards mine. My other hand slid between her thighs. I pressed my forearm rigidly against her pussy and locked eyes with her.

“Do it,” I said. “Grind yourself.”

I couldn’t read her eyes. There was a pause, a short moment of uncertainty, but in an instant, her expression changed, and she started moving just as I told her.

I could feel her clit pressing against the bone of my arm. The friction of each movement ended with a sensation that I could almost hear as a soft tap. She breathed heavily, tender moans escaping her lips. I placed my other hand on her throat.

“Keep going,” I said. 

She nodded. 

My pelvic muscles clenched – it was almost painful, but I wanted it. 

“Please don’t stop,” she moaned.

“Shut up,”

My grip tightened around her neck, her cheeks were flushing red. She looked so vulnerable, that for a moment, I could almost believe she actually liked me.

“Noura,” she sighed again.

The way she said my name sounded almost sacred. 

“Shut the fuck up,” I answered.

The room echoed with her moans. I had taken her far, but I could feel she wasn’t done yet – she wanted more. My arms burned with exertion, each motion sending shockwaves of pain through my muscles, and I was soaked. 

With her last bit of defiance, she grabbed my arm that was holding her throat and squeezed so hard that I could feel her nails digging into my skin. She was about to orgasm. Her eyelids could barely lift, her lips parted just enough, yet she still found the strength to look at me and say:

“Tell me what I am.”

I smirked. “You’re a slut.”

She nodded.

“Say it,” I ordered.

“I’m a slut,” she said in between moans.

“Good girl… Say it again.”

“I am a slut.”

“Again.”

“I’m a.. a… I’m gonna cum… I’m about to c… I’m cuming… I…”

Her body arched and rose, pulled upward by the intensity of her climax. For a fleeting moment, the room around us dissolved, leaving nothing but the reverberating sound of her scream. I held her neck a little longer, unsure whether it was for her pleasure or my own. She shivered for a few more seconds before her body surrendered to gravity, sinking back into the sofa.

I got off her lap and sat beside her. My whole body ached with the sweetest kind of pain. We remained like that for a few minutes, wordlessly. Then she looked at me and said,

“Thank you.”

“You were fun to watch,” I answered.

She smiled, almost genuinely.

“I’m going to use the bathroom and head home. I’d rather be home when they start bombing.”

I nodded.

She got up, and within five minutes, she was gone. The pain in my body turned into an unbearable discomfort. Here I was again, caught in the shame of wanting more, the weight of it pressing down on me.  She hadn’t even asked if I wanted to finish. Alone, the emptiness deepened, and the distant sound of explosions barely registered.