Jennifer Hillier: Creep

She caught him staring and met his furtive gaze with a steady one of her own. His mouth went dry. Before he could lift a hand to wave, the bell rang.

Weaving around the swarm of students trying to get to class on time, he followed her, making sure to stay a few paces behind. Her short, flared skirt topped a pair of coltish legs, and her cropped sweater revealed a hint of tummy. Her beauty set her apart from everyone else at this bum-fuck school. She didn’t belong here.

He wanted to know her.

He made it all the way to her classroom door, trying desperately to think of something funny and clever to say. Before he could put it together, she abruptly turned to face him.

“Are you following me?” Her cat’s eyes flashed, narrow with suspicion.

“No,” Ethan said indignantly, despite being caught off guard. “This is my class.”

“Since when?”

School had only started two days before. “I enrolled late. Is that okay with you?”

She blinked at his tone.

“You’re very suspicious, you know,” he said. “Do you really think you’re that good-looking?”

He moved past her shocked face and into the classroom, taking a seat at the very back of the room. She sat a few rows ahead, and he stared at the back of her hair, imagining what the silky strands would feel like in his fingers. He had no idea what class he was in and didn’t particularly care. It turned out to be American history, a class he’d already taken at another school. It didn’t matter. As soon as the bell rang, he headed straight for the guidance office to officially register.

He saw her every other day for five weeks before she spoke to him again. The class had just received their midterm papers back and her eyes were on him when the teacher reached his desk. He’d received an A on his paper, the grade marked in red at the top corner of his title page.

“Nice work, Ethan,” Mr. Bristol said with a smile. “You’re writing at college level. Keep it up.”

She was waiting for him by the door after class.

“Walk me home,” she said. It wasn’t a request. It was a command.

“Walk me home,” he said, and she smiled.

Ten minutes later they were at his house.

“Are your parents here?” she asked as they entered through the side door. She shrugged out of her light cardigan and looked around the small but well-decorated space.

“George and Helen are my foster parents.” His eyes darted to her face to gauge her reaction. “They both work till seven.”

She smiled a smile he couldn’t interpret. “Wish I had foster parents. I’m staying in a group home.”

He knew that already but nodded politely. “You want something to drink?”

“Not really. Where’s your room?”

Thirty minutes later, books open and cast aside, she was naked from the waist up.

She lay underneath him on his bed, her long hair fanned out over the pillow. She smelled of lilacs and rain forest and he couldn’t stop kissing her. Her lips were a wonder all to themselves, at times soft and yielding, at times hard and demanding. In the background, the radio was tuned to a rock station.

He was propped up on top of her, eyes squeezed shut, humping her with his pants still on. He didn’t ever want to stop kissing her. His palms massaged her bare breasts and he was delirious with joy and desire. When he opened his eyes a moment later, he saw that she was staring at him, a small smile on her face.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, slowing down.

She nodded, but her expression hinted at something different. Placing both her hands on his chest, she pushed him gently off her.

He sat up on the bed, confused. Had he done something wrong? Were they finished? Had she changed her mind?

“Don’t worry,” she said, as if she could read his thoughts. “Just getting into position. I want to get closer to you.”

She pulled her jeans down, then her underwear, motioning for him to do the same. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dark thatch of hair between her legs as she climbed on top of him. When he tried to lie back on the bed, she shook her head.

“No, stay like you are.” She sat on him, reaching down to help him slide inside her. A groan escaped his lips. The wetness and warmth were beyond words.

Sitting up, locked together like this, his face was right against hers. He kissed her deeply and another groan escaped him as she started moving her hips. Her hair was so long that the soft ends tickled his thighs.

He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands-at the moment, they were around her waist, pulling her to him, but did she want them somewhere else?

She stopped kissing him long enough to ask, “Is this your first time?”

He nodded. “Should we-I can go see if George has condoms…”

Without slowing down, she reached behind her, taking both his hands in hers. Her eyes were fixed on his when she placed his hands around her throat.

“Squeeze,” she said.

He stared at her, his hips still rocking under hers. “What?”

“Squeeze.”

He obliged her and closed his fingers around her delicate neck, but gently. He understood what she wanted, but he didn’t want to hurt her.

“A little harder,” she said. “It’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me, I’ll tell you when to ease up.” Her eyes were focused on his and she kissed him, her tongue searching his mouth urgently.

There were no words for the exquisite pleasure, no words to describe the incredible feeling of connectedness he had with her at this moment. It was better than anything he could have imagined. She threw her head back, thrusting into him faster. Almost without thinking, his fingers tightened.

A few seconds later, he pulled his hands away from her throat, scared he’d hurt her.

She took his hands and put them back. “Don’t worry.” Her eyes were locked on his and her voice was patient. “I’ll tell you when it’s too much. Really, I like it. It intensifies it for me.”

She tilted her head back again, placing her hands behind her, palms resting just above his knees. Her thrusts were long and deep. Leaning forward, he devoured her breasts. His hands stayed around her throat as she wanted, squeezing. It wasn’t long before he began to lose himself in her again, and he only vaguely heard the DJ on the radio announce the next song.

“Creep,” by Radiohead.

“I love this song,” she whispered, extending an arm toward the stereo to turn up the volume. “It makes me feel so…”

She didn’t finish her sentence, but he didn’t need her to because he knew what she was trying to say.

“Creep” was about obsession, unrequited love, and self-pity… feelings he understood all too well.

She didn’t slow her rhythm and his orgasm quickly approached. He tried to hold it off, tried to think of something else so it wouldn’t be over too quickly. He conjured up images of the foster father who smacked him around, the kids at school who snubbed him, the home for boys he’d lived in for two years after his mother died.

And all the while he kept squeezing. But inevitably, an incredible warmth began to spread throughout his body and he gave up. Sighing deeply, he closed his eyes and went with it, squeezing her delicate throat harder and harder.

He dimly felt her writhing in his hands, bucking and smacking at his face and scratching at his arms, but between the heady music and his approaching orgasm, there was no way to stop.

He felt himself let go, felt the pent-up release of weeks of watching her, waiting for her, dreaming of her. He came so hard he shook. Thrusting his hips upward into hers, he milked every moment, the pure bliss washing over him, controlling everything, controlling nothing.

When he opened his eyes a moment later, she was slumped in his arms, her forehead on his chest, still as a rag doll. He kissed the top of her head, spent and exhausted, but she didn’t move, didn’t speak.