Golden Boy Read Online Free Page B

a moment and takes hold of my legs.
    Now he is above me, his torso at a right angle to the bed. I hear the smack of his thighs hitting against mine. A horrible squelching sound is getting louder. He’s sliding in and out freely now, but still roughly, because I’m too tight and small for this. Not made for this. Pain travels up my legs and numbs my toes. I’m embarrassed at the way my body bends, embarrassed at the way it shakes and opens for him. I’m embarrassed and confused as to why I care that I feel ugly, why I want to put my hands over my penis and stop it lolling around. The pain is sharp at the entrance point and dull further inside me. I worry. I wonder what it’s touching. It seems to hit against my stomach. The disbelief and shock shake off a little and the pain mutates into something so strong I have to speak. I slowly take the pillow off my head and grip it tightly above me on the mattress. My throat opens and my voice joins the cacophony of quiet sounds.
    ‘Oh my god, please!’ I beg him, earnestly. ‘Oh my god, please. Hunter. Please.’
    ‘Shh, shh,’ he breathes, not looking at my face, his mouth open, his hips moving fast, a strange, confused, flickering spark in his eye. Intent. Excitement. Curiosity. Awe. Desperation. Embarrassment. Realisation. Shame. Want. Need. That opaque gleam. Then, the furious frown and movements of someone who wants to get something over with, get it done. I can hear a slapping sound, I can hear wetness, I can hear the whomp whomp whomp of concave things hitting other concave things and the air passing between them. I can hear the quiet creak of the bed. I can hear and smell and feel Hunter’s breath on me.
    ‘Oh my god,’ he murmurs to himself. ‘I’m gonna . . .’
    His body buckles and crouches over me. Hunter lets out a long, low moan. His face is against my chest. His arms stretch out, feeling blindly for my shoulders, then hold them. I wait, while he hugs me.
    Maybe twenty seconds pass, and he looks up, not quite meeting my eye. He looks surprised, tearful, and kind of grateful. Grateful and desperate. He wipes a shaking hand around his face.
    ‘Sorry,’ he mutters. He moves up the bed. I’m lying on my back. He lays on my left side, still inside me, his arm across my chest, his face turned towards me on the pillow, lips next to my ear. I am staring at the ceiling, but I can feel him watching me.
    I frown, my breathing slowing, and look down my body. ‘Did you come in me?’
    I look over at him, and I see him panic again, then that cloak of anger going up. The petulant lip comes out. ‘What do you care?’
    Hunter moves down the bed. He pulls his penis out of me quickly and I let out an ‘errr’, a strange, sick, stuttering, reproachful, apologetic noise. He buckles up.
    ‘What are you complaining about?’ He pulls on his jumper, which he gets out of his bag. ‘Don’t tell and I won’t tell about you. Don’t tell your mum, either. She’s got enough problems with you and your spacker brother to begin with.’
    For some reason, I shake my head and whisper, calmly: ‘I won’t.’
    Hunter packs up the empty beer bottles.
    ‘He’s not a spacker,’ I say.
    Hunter looks at me like he’s five years old again, like I’m being mean to him in the playground. It’s his look for when I’ve done something he doesn’t like.
    ‘Whatever,’ he says.
    Then Hunter isn’t there anymore, and it’s just me, lying, legs apart, like a dead bug, flattened to the mattress by pain, and blinking rapidly with my mouth open. Like I can’t believe what just happened, happened. Like I don’t know where I am. Like I am in some alternate reality where there is a possibility that Hunter is a bad person, that my average little bedroom is the scene of a crime, that I could be quietly forced into something so abhorrent I can’t even think the word in my mind and that it could all be over in five minutes.
    I hear the creak of the stairs as Hunter’s shoes tap down