You've never been this close to a man in your entire life. You don't know how to move, what to say, you don't even know where you're allowed to speak. It's not like you're approaching your boyfriend, or someone you trust — this man is a stranger to you, and not a pleasant one at that. Petty, violent, hot-tempered — you'd be lying if you said you didn't fear him. As you hoist yourself onto his lap, you wonder how broken you'll be by the end of this night. You wonder how you'll pick up the pieces of yourself when you're reduced to fragments. If your eyes are filled with doubt and fear, his are lit by a different light — they look like those of a hungry lion, eager to sink its teeth in, to deliver the first bite where it counts.

His hands are warm, scalding. They brush against your hips and you hold your breath. His thumb presses against the protruding bone of your pelvis, slips beneath the elastic of your panties, pulls it until it snaps against your skin.

"These are useless," he says. His tone is slow, drawn-out, but still sounds like an order. This man exudes authority as if he breathes it out of his lungs. The Reddit user had said he worked for some important government agency, maybe the secret service — you wonder what kind of man he really is, beyond the title. Maybe he's exactly as he appears now: lethal, dangerous, unreadable. With a sharp, precise gesture, he pulls down your underwear. You try to dissociate yourself: it's not you, it's not happening to you, you repeat to yourself. But when his thumb brushes against your sex, you tremble. You light up. A jolt of shivers runs through you and your hands rest against his shoulders, while your breath burns in your throat.

"So sensitive..." he murmurs. His thumb passes between the lips of your sex and stops where there's a hole that has never, not even once, been violated. You don't know what kind of ceremony or delicacy you expected — you just know it feels wrong when the tip of his thumb enters you.

You bite your lower lip. It doesn't hurt, but it's not pleasant either. It's annoying, foreign. He moves his wrist with a sharp gesture and his thumb plunges into you all at once, tearing a moan of pain from you. The skin pulses around the finger that now fills you, your heart is agitated in your chest, like a caged bird flapping its wings desperately.

"You're fucking tight," he hisses. His words brush against your ear a moment before his teeth close around your lobe. He starts sucking and licking it while he begins to push that finger into you roughly. The pain doesn't subside, on the contrary, the more he pumps those thrusts, the more your flesh pulses and contracts around the intruder. He continues to push his finger for several seconds, then pulls it out suddenly and your body relaxes, finally free from the discomfort. Your hole contracts in emptiness and your head spins. You don't even have time to recover before his large hands land on your hips and flip you onto the couch.

"No-" you murmur, and you don't even know why you do it. His eyes turn mean in an instant.

"No?" he almost barks. "Who do you think you are to decide?"

You knew it. You knew you shouldn't have made him angry, yet it slipped out. You bite your lips and close your eyes, turn your face to the side. You wish you could disappear. However, he grabs your chin and turns your face so you're forced to look at him. "Don't you remember what I told you before?" he asks.

Yes, you remember. You have to look at him, always. Even when it's difficult, like right now.

You nod.

His large hands move up your belly. They don't slip under your tank top but touch your breasts from above, the palms massaging until your nipples become hard and erect. He stares in amazement for a few moments, then pulls off your tank top too and you remain completely naked, vulnerable as a knight without his armor.

"Not much," he says. His words don't hurt you. You've lived with yourself all your life, does he really think you don't know? All bones and pallor, weak, without even a shred of muscle. He has no idea what it means to live in a sick body, in a body that would do anything to die — in a body kept alive artificially by drugs that didn't even exist ten years ago. You keep quiet. It's not important what you think or how you feel when you enter this house, you're an object, a doll. His doll.

He undresses. His shirt falls to the floor and you watch his chest. It's muscular, toned, but covered in scars and tattoos. The beauty of the black ink against the skin takes a backseat. You can't help but be morbidly fascinated by the deep, calloused marks of his healed wounds. It's not a romantic fascination, but rather a visceral curiosity. How did he get them? Does he really do a dangerous job, then? What kind of life has a person who bears such marks lived?

"Do you like what you see?" he asks, smirking. You know he's referring to his muscles. It wouldn't make sense to deflate him, to say that it's not the shape of his toned body that strikes you.

"Yes," you reply. You don't know if it's the truth. He likes the answer. He frees his huge sex and grips it in one hand from the base. The glans points towards you, almost threateningly. The thought of it entering you scares you, because even his thumb caused you pain. You hope he's fast. You hope he hurries. You hope you can go home and forget all this, at least until tomorrow.

"Touch it," he commands, and so you reach out and touch it. It's hard and veiny, heavy, like yesterday. You blush at the thought of having taken it in your mouth and, although it wasn't a great blowjob, it was still your first. You wonder if he ever thought about it during the day... You think not. Why would he, after all?

For him, these things are normal, routine.

He lets out a slow, drawn-out sigh. He places his hand on yours and forces you to give him a long, slow caress. You watch your palm slide against his turgid sex and your head spins. It doesn't seem real to you, it doesn't seem possible. It's as if it's happening to someone else.

"Look at me," he orders.

You raise your eyes to his and it feels like you're sinking into them, drowning. His free hand tightens around your neck and takes your breath away, if only for a moment. He pushes you roughly against the couch and moves your hand away from his sex, then aligns himself with your opening. You feel the large glans press against your moist skin, but he still doesn't force himself inside you. His eyes scan your body, hot as magma. You have the feeling that your skin is actually burning where those dark irises are scanning.

Something inside you believed he would have spoken. Said a word, just one, but instead he remains silent. His hands slide down your thighs and squeeze them, spreading you wide open, exposing you completely. You press a hand over your mouth as a squeaking sound escapes your lips. You're so ashamed that you feel like you're going crazy.

Then, the shame and anything else you might feel or think, disappear. Jungkook pushes into you almost cruelly, forcing your body that resists that intrusion, putting strength to sink into you even when you moan in pain, almost screaming. Your eyes immediately fill with tears, but he doesn't take pity. His hands are firm on your thighs, keeping them spread even though they are now shaken by spasms. You would like to break free from his grip and run away from that pain that is blinding your mind, but you can't. He's too strong, too dominant, and you put yourself in this situation fully aware of what you were going to face.

He continues to push himself inside you and you wonder why he has to be so damn long, so horribly big. You feel every inch tear you apart and widen you to the impossible. Your skin closes around his sex, covering it and adapting to it, taking on a new dimension it has never had. The pain is excruciating. You feel the flesh pulsing and the skin pulling, but he doesn't care. When he gets so deep that you feel his testicles pressing against your labia, he grunts. He stops and you don't know if it's a good or a bad thing, the pain goes crazy and at the same time subsides. But then with his hips he makes a movement that makes him slide out halfway and immediately plunges back into you, violently. You feel like screaming. You scream for real. You realize you did it when you feel your throat burning. Jungkook's hand presses over your mouth.

"You'll make me go soft if you do that," he complains. His words are hoarse, whispered. You can't stop your tears, you've never felt such pain. You try to calm down, to isolate yourself from yourself, but now it's harder than ever. Jungkook continues to push and push and with every blow inflicted you feel closer and closer to collapse — or maybe you've already collapsed, shattered into so many pieces that you've been completely reduced to dust.

He puts his hands on your breasts, massages and squeezes them, separates them handling them and increases the rhythm of his thrusts. You hiccup and bite your lower lip to avoid making any sound. You feel a metallic taste invade your mouth. You don't know how long it goes on, you just know that at some point even the pain has become mild, as if that whole part of you was asleep, anesthetized. When he comes, Jungkook does it with a growl. He arches his back and you realize how beautiful he is. It's a unique beauty, his. It's scary.

He pulls out of your body the moment after filling you. You lie on the couch like a rag doll. You don't move, you barely breathe. Your head spins as if someone had hit you hard. Jungkook gets up, moves away. He curses under his breath and then disappears. He comes back a few minutes later with a cloth. He throws it at you. It's wet, warm.

"Clean yourself," he orders. "Then get dressed and leave."

You pull yourself into a sitting position with difficulty. It hurts terribly. You clean yourself as best you can with the cloth, then you get to your feet and your knees tremble. You retrieve your clothes from the floor and put them on, you'd like to hurry, but you're slow, sore, clumsy. You're putting on your sweatshirt when Jungkook reaches you again. You think it's to give you the money, instead he presses something between your lips. A pill. "Swallow it," he says, "You weren't thinking of trapping me with a pregnancy, were you?"

Your eyes widen, surprised. Such a thought hadn't even crossed your mind. Your body can barely stand, let alone host another life. You swallow the pill because you don't want to bore him with your personal dramas: your illness is your business and that's it. There's no reason why a man like that should know the details.

You pull your hood over your head. Jungkook fiddles with his cell phone. "I've made you a transfer," he says. "Try not to get your phone stolen again tonight." He says it as if it were your fault. You don't reply.

"See you tomorrow," you simply say.

"No."

You raise your eyes, surprised. Have you been fired? You wonder with horror, but then Jungkook starts talking again. "I'll let you know when to come back. I'll have to be away for a few days."

You nod. He has a responsible job. I guess it's part of the game, being constantly on the move. Who knows what he does, who knows what his life is like, who he really is... You don't think you'll ever find out. Your relationship starts and ends with sex. There will never be an opportunity to get to know each other, not really.

You don't know if the thing displeases you or comforts you.

You don't know how good it is to get involved with a similar person.

You don't say anything else to each other. You don't wish each other good night, or anything else. You close the door behind you and it's simply over. You know it happened only because your sex aches with every step. You reach the elevator and lean against the wall, your heart beating agitatedly in your chest, your mind trying to ignore the discomfort.

So this is your life now.

You just hope that time will make it less painful.

You don't expect it to be pleasant.

Bearable, at least.

Bearable would be fine.