Part Four

Sarah's Perspective

and the main reason this is rated T

Trey is just as I saw him in July, except his hair has grown slightly and he got a new lip piercing that is so incredibly yummy. After I flashed him, he gleefully brought me out here to what he calls the stock yards, where all the bands park their various vehicles. This one is big enough for just one bed. Trey explained to me that, while the band travels, one or two guys will sleep while the others stay up front.

He has a very deep voice that makes even the most boring conversations, like an incredibly long diatribe about getting lost on the way to Baltimore, so sultry and sexy to listen to. My heart is going crazy just sitting here, watching him speak. I just want him to stop talking for a moment so I can plant a kiss on those pierced lips of his, those pierced, full lips…

Right as he starts talking about paying tolls at a turnpike, I lunge at him and press my lips to his. It's kind of hard to get used to that piercing at first, but a few minutes in, I'm a pro. After a minute or two, he moves his tongue gently into my mouth, exploring the insides while he runs a hand through my perfectly fluffed hair, messing up its fluffiness. But that's okay. I put my tongue in his mouth, feeling like this is my heaven and I'm just having myself a bit of ambrosia.

Ooh, he really likes that. He's moving his hands from my head to my waist, encircling me tightly and pressing me close to him. He's sweaty from doing the show. I'm sweaty from jumping around so much while he did the show. There's not really that much of a difference, just a verb or two. Now he's moving me down onto the bed, an act that causes my adrenaline to rush and my heart to beat so fast that I feel like I'll die of ecstasy. I'm lying on my back, looking up at him, gazing into the eyes of my dirty punk angel.

"I've been dreaming of you," I said without thinking. God, how teenybopper does that sound? That sounds like something a 12-year-old would say to Justin Timberlake. Trey looks confused for a moment—Oh God, I blew my chances—but then he smiles.

"That's so cute," he remarks, making me blush. "What kinds of dreams?"

"Oh, the kind that makes my friend Marie blush," I told him. "She's kind of a prude."

"I'm not, baby," Trey reassured me. "I'm not." He paused to lick his lips seductively. "Take off your shirt. I want to see that perfect pair again." I gladly obliged, slowly peeling off my shirt before tossing it across the room, as it was. Smiling flirtatiously, I reached my back (I'm flexible) and unhooked my bra, sending it flying across the room as well. My heart wouldn't stop beating, beating, beating as Trey came up to me, pounced on me, started touching me all over…

I don't want to do this anymore.

I really don't want to do this anymore.

This is why my sexually explicit dreams are just that—dreams, scraps of thought cobbled together by my subconscious and thrown at me in a half-assed manner while I sleep. They're just thoughts, thoughts of things that I thought I would really want to do in reality. But as Trey starts to do things that make me thoroughly uncomfortable, all I want to do is go home. I want to go to sleep in my bed, watch some comedy shows, and dream of more innocuous things like riding ponies in fields of flowers or whatever it is I used to dream of as a little girl.

"No," I whimpered. "No," I repeated at a hoarse whisper. "No!" I said at a normal tone. "NO!" I shouted. "STOP IT, STOP IT RIGHT NOW!" Trey sat up.

"Or else what are you going to do, huh? Slap me? Kick me? Bitch, I've taken much, much worse in bar fights and lived to tell the tale. Your little slaps and kicks won't even hurt me. Now, shut up so we can do this thing." Do this thing? Bitch? Who does he think he is?

"I'm serious!" I cried. "Stop it, I don't feel comfortable anymore!"

"Too bad," Trey told me, snarling. Right as he was about to pounce on me again, I lashed out and kicked him square in the stomach. He was lying when he said I wouldn't hurt him—I distinctly heard the breath leave his sickening little lungs as he fell onto the floor with a satisfying smack.

"I hate you!" I screamed, on the verge of tears. "I hate you, I hate your songs, I hate your lip ring, I hate your ugly tattoos, I hate this bed, I hate this band, and most of all, I HATE YOU!" I heard Trey scramble to get to his feet as I got out of the bed, searching for my abandoned shirt and bra.

"Looking for these?" Trey asked, holding my necessary items aloft.

"Yes," I replied, which was the wrong choice, because he took my shirt, one of my favorite shirts, and ripped it in two with his bare hands! Tears overflowed from my eyes as he destroyed the shirt I bought when Marie and I went to Little Five Points for the very first time. There was a cherished memory of mine, gone forever, ruined by this terrible excuse for a person. He smirked as he took my bra, grabbed one cup in each hand, and tore the little middle part in half, effectively ruining a $35 bra.

"How about now?" he asked.

"You're evil!" I screamed, hugging myself to protect what modesty I had left. "You're rotten and all you want is sex! If you treat women so badly, don't be surprised if you never find a wife!"

"Good! I hope not, if all women are bitches like you!" Trey barked.

"THAT'S IT!" I lunged out at him, but he grabbed my wrists and held me there. I was trapped. Oh God, someone help me, someone please help me…