"It's just, you know, he really hurt me," I say, to the bartender who has long ago stopped pretending to listen. The bar is loud, and almost everyone else is having a blast. Loud hip hop plays on the digital jukebox, girls are dancing sloppily and spilling their drinks on the grimey floor. We won a sports game, I'm not sure which, and the mood in the Cantina is celebratory. Well, except for me, perched on a stool and drowning my sorrows in a very strong Long Island Iced Tea.

The bartender doesn't comment as he washes glasses in the sink behind the bar and lines them on a rack to dry. That's maybe nice of him, I think, because most people that I talk to about my ex tend to start calling me pathetic and telling me to get over it.

But not this guy. He wears an expression of bored indifference that actually kinda reminds me of Hux. The same expression my ex would wear when I rambled on about complexities of a serial killer's mind, or the alarming presence of traumatic brain injury in so many subjects, or random Victorian crime cases that had gone unsolved for a century. He would get that same glazed look in his eyes, mouth turned down at the corners… I sigh wistfully and take another sip from my neon-pink crazy straw.

I really thought Hux was the one. After all, we dated for three years, and he was my first everything. First kiss, first blow job, first sexual partner period. We hadn't moved in together yet, mainly because I was a broke college student and couldn't afford rent at the fancy high rise where he lived. Even splitting halfway, it was way more expensive than renting a room in the student ghetto, two blocks from campus. Hux lived miles away, which was fine because he drove a fancy Lexus with heated leather seats. But I would have been dependent on public transport that was neither cenveinant nor reliable.

But all of that would change once I finished school. I was going into law enforcement, with a side of criminal psychology, and the opportunities in these fields were practically endless. After all, crime is always on the rise, and somebody has to investigate and bring justice to the innocent civilians of Chandrila.

"I know we came from different worlds," I press on, cheeks heating in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol I'm consuming. "He has a family. They go to the Alps for skiing season and The Hamptons in the summer and I think his father owns a yacht. And of course, I grew up in foster care and I've never stepped foot outside of Chandrila. So, very different backgrounds."

"He never took you on vacation?" the bartender asks, and my head snaps up in surprise that he's been listening at all.

I smile sadly. "I don't think he wanted me to meet his family." How embarrassing that would be for a guy like Hux. It was obvious that I wasn't his type, but I thought - I mean, I had figured - after so long together he would get over it. I might not be a towering bleached-blonde-amazon with double-d sized breasts or a big booty worth twerking, and I might only shop at the Goodwill instead of the designer stores, but I have other positive traits. I'm smart, and funny, and… I figured that was more important In the long run. That Hux would realize it wasn't important in the long run, my looks and lack of wealth Wouldn't my wit and ambition and humor outlast my fading physical looks, anyway? And maybe, had I been a better girlfriend, it wouldn't have mattered.

But in the end, our socio-economic differences hadn't even been the biggest issue. Hux could have gotten over the fact that I wasn't from a good family - or any family, being an orphan and all - and that my breeding would have given his mother the vapors. He could likely have put the money issues aside and felt more inclined to include me in the important parts of his life if not for one thing.

I suck at sex.

Not in a good way, either.

Just the thought has my face flaming hot and my stomach twisting with shame. What kind of girl was I? Hux is good looking, tall and lean with shiny copper hair and clever hands. Everywhere he went, women drooled and tripped over themselves to catch his attention. Part of it is that he radiates wealth, I suppose, in his expensive name-brand clothing, fancy watch and luxury vehicles. It gives him a particular confidence, as well, an arrogance that had somehow attracted me. Maybe because I'd never felt like I was worth a damn. Maybe because I wanted to feel so sure of my place in the world, that I was deserving of everything just like him.

Except he had been born and reared that way, into that entitled confidence that seemed ingrained in his very DNA. And I seemed to be born into a more meak, people-pleasing kind of DNA. A worrier, clingy, annoying.

And I didn't get the fun Daddy Issues that my friends complained about, either. I didn't sleep around, because it didn't interest me. I never got horny, I never craved a cock deep inside. It was exciting when Hux and I first got together, because it was new and strange and unknown. It was amazing that he even paid attention to me, and I felt a warm pleasure in my chest whenever he kissed me or took my hand. Nothing more than a warm feeling. It didn't spread between my legs or make my heart beat faster. It didn't make me want to tear his clothes off or drop to my knees for him. I didn't feel dizzy with desire or a burning, all-consuming lust when I kissed Hux. Below the belt, I didn't feel anything.

"We weren't compatible in the bedroom," I say, swirling my straw around my drink.

"Meaning…?" Bartender Guy arched his eyebrows, a curious grin tugging at his lips.

"Obviously," I conclude with another sip, "I am a frigid bitch and he wasn't going to put up with that any longer." I slump against the bar pitifully, wishing my biology was different. Most likely I had the addiction genes, so I probably shouldn't even be drinking. After all, my mother had been found overdosed in the hotel room she had been renting, and me patiently waiting for her to get up and feed me pizza rolls. My father had called 911 when she wouldn't open the door, then left because he had a warrant. I remember him kissing my head, the scent of cigarettes and dirty hair imprinted in my memory so strongly that I can still smell it, years later.

He had been murdered a couple weeks later in a botched drug deal. I never saw him again.

But I didn't want to wallow over that, because I had spent too many years doing just that growing up. It's better to wallow over my ex and the fact that, sid months later, I still feel like absolute shit over being dumped. My heart still hurts, though I can't say that I miss anything other than the comfort of knowing that someone cared for me.

"You just gotta get back out there," the bartender says. "There are plenty of fish in the sea. Go get some strange. Maybe try ladies. Get a vibrator." He shrugs and chuckles at my mortified expression. I can't hold his gaze, I'm so embarrassed. I want to tell him that it's definitely not for lack of trying - Hux was eager to experiment in what might get me going. Toys, porn videos, even inviting another woman to our bed - but none of it did anything but make me feel defective. I tried masturbating, but had to quit when my hand cramped, feeling silly and disappointed.

Obviously, there is simply something wrong with me. My bits don't work. Maybe the sexual part of my brain is shriveled and underdeveloped. It's not for lack of wanting or trying.

Someone calls for drinks down at the other end of the bar and he turns to assist. I quickly - feeling dumb for burdening a stranger with my stupid woes - slurp down the last of my drink. I put my cash down on the bar and turn to scan the room. My housemates had dragged me here, across town, to party and enjoy cheap drinks. But they're still dancing and doing shots and joining in chants. Nowhere near ready to leave. With a sigh, I shrug on my jacket and grab my purse, exiting the bar.

It's a cold night, the sky overcast and dark. The moon is hiding away behind thick clouds that threaten snow. I hop on a bus that will drop me a few blocks from home, counting myself lucky that I happened to leave at the right time to find it near a stop. There are a few other passengers, a couple nurses in their scrubs and orthopedic shoes with tired faces after a long shift. A young looking student with headphones and a possessive grip on his backpack. An older man laying across the bench in the bag, his beard long and tangled and the same steely gray as the thinning hair peeking out from under his knit cap. We all rode in silence, tugging the cord overhead to alert the driver to our stops.

The line didn't go past my house, but three blocks north. I tugged the cord and thanked the driver, who yawned in response, before disembarking. The neighborhood was quiet, save for someone's loud stereo from inside a house and a loud clunker that crawled past, slow and likely searching for a specific address, in need of a new muffler. I kept my hand wrapped around the mace I carried in my purse, though I wasn't terribly uncomfortable. The student ghetto was mostly people like me - working minimum wage jobs and taking classes, trying to get by without accumulating too much debt. The houses were old, post-war structures intended for growing families. Bedrooms shoved in haphazardly, awkward shaped bathrooms, galley kitchens and living rooms meant for entertaining.

I share a house with two sisters, Paige and Rose Tico, and a guy named Finn Storm. We all get along quite well, a bit like a multicultural, mismatched family. The house is dark when I climb up the rickety porch steps, and I use my key to turn the deadbolt and step inside. It's eerily quiet and empty - usually, at least one of us is home. I lock the door behind me and toe off my boots, hang my coat and purse on a peg by the door, and head inside.

In the kitchen I grab a box of crackers and a bottle of water. I adjust the thermostat since no one is around to claim it's too warm, and head up the creaky stairs to my bedroom. My roommates like to complain that I prefer the house too warm, and they never let me hear the end of it, when the bill comes each month. But the house is dark and chilly and no one is here to seat my hand away. They'll appreciate me when they stagger home, drunk and merry, to a cozy house.

I head into my room, not bothering with the lights as I set my snacks down and start to change. There's really no better feeling than taking off a bra or peeling out of skin-tight jeans after a long day. I settle for an oversized nightshirt, a thick pair of knee socks that Rose knit for me - in a bright, obnoxious orange and white stripe design - before turning to peel back my quilt and fleece blanket. I have one leg poised on my bed, about to climb in, when a hand wraps around my mouth and a large frame presses into my backside.

I gasp silently, muffled by leather-clad fingers biting into my cheeks, broad palm shoved against my mouth. Another arm as strong as iron winds around my middle, rendering my immobile. I pant against the smooth, supple leather, breath coming in tight, panicked bursts. My eyes are painfully wide open, but it doesn't help. I can't see this intruder, only the bedroom window shoved all the way open and my curtains stirring in the gentle winter breeze. All of the self-defense classes Paige had dragged me to seem to float out of my brain as I stand there, frozen with fear.

"Don't scream," a voice purrs into my ear. Warm breath washes over my cheek, causing goosebumps to prickle over my skin. Each individual hair follicle stands at attention. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Well, the odds are not in my favor of that being true. For some reason, a statistic pops in my head - 38% of assaults occur during home invasions, buybacks staggering 60% of rapes occur in them, too. Helpful that my mind can remember a stat I read two years ago, but I can't remember how to disarm an attacker when I went to self-defense classes only three months ago.

"Just tell me where the disk is, and I'll be out of your hair. We can pretend this never happened," the man - because he's far too large and his voice too deep and gravelly to be a woman - says quietly. As though I won't call 911 as soon as it's safe. As if he won't kill me as soon as he realizes I have no idea what he's talking about.

I make some muffled noises against his hand and he says, "I'm going to let go of your mouth. I don't want to hurt you, but if you scream, things are going to get messy."

The word messy conjures up crime scene images in my head. Bloody ones. I gulp but nod quickly.

His hand slowly eases off my face. My cheeks ache from his fingers digging in. I clear my throat as his hand comes to rest over my throat, fingers splayed in such a way that my thunderous pulse is racing beneath them. "I don't have any disk."

His sigh is exasperated. "Of course you don't." He spins me around, so quick I let out a soft "oof" and stumble. I'm met with a figure dressed from head to toe in black. Including a black ski-mask with goggles over the eye-holes. Probably night-vision, I realize. This is no friendly neighborhood thief, no fiend looking for something quick to steal to afford a fix. I gulp as he slouches down, knees bending so our faces are level.

"You have something that belongs to me, little girl. It's a disk. It's small, it's red, and it's mine." His hand at my throat tightens, applying pressure to the sides rather than the front which would cut off my air flow. Instead, he slows the blood flow, and it's a strangely heady sensation. Dizzying. Weirdly… pleasant. Before I can make sense or examine this information, my eyes kind of roll back and a burst of heat slams between my thighs. A completely foreign sensation that makes me whimper.

The intruder's head cocks to the side, curiously, and tightens his grip. "The disk, sweetheart. Where is it?"

I can't find my voice because the tension at my throat is doing strange things to the rest of my body. My nipples tighten into hard peaks, tingling. My stomach tightens as if anticipating something. And my pussy feels swollen, like each nerve ending is alive and desperate for attention. My panties feel wet, and it's hard to get enough air - though not because he's manipulating my airway, but because I'm panting.

What. The. Fuck.

Instead of speaking I shake my head, which is difficult without my neck to help me. He watches, face unreadable thanks to the mask. But I get the sense he's studying, which is humiliating, because my body isn't responding with fear, like it should. Instead I feel hyper aware and sort of desperate and I squeeze my legs together for some kind of relief. The man strokes my throat, easing up on the pressure. My head throbs deliriously as blood surges up to my brain. I sway a little in his arms.

I'm gonna wind up like those sorority girls Ted Bundy murdered. Only, I'm not innocently passed out in my bed and being attacked in my sleep. I'm getting turned on by this masked invader instead of petrified and frozen with fear. My legs feel like jelly and I'm leaning against his arms, which hold me up easily.

"As delighted as I am by your response to me strangling you," the man says in a voice that tries too hard to be flippant, but in reality is very husky, "and while I am eager to see what else I can do to you, first I need to find the disk."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I respond, again, and the sound of my voice surprises me. It's husky too. My heart flutters as he sighs, frustrated, and shakes his head.

"That won't do. I know you have it, sweetheart. You don't have to cover for him." The hand resting at my throat inches up to my jaw, thumb stroking my skin tenderly.

"Who?" I ask, distracted by the arm that's hooked around my back sliding lower. One large hand lands on my bottom, fingers gathering the material of my nightshirt and inching it upwards. I swallow - afraid, incredibly aroused ax I had never been before, confused - and hold as still as possible to see where this goes.

"Your little boyfriend. You don't have to pretend, darling. We know he stashed the disk here, thinking it was safe. No one would suspect sweet little Rey Johnson of anything, would they?" He chuckles darkly, and fear lances through my chest like a blade. He knows my name. He knows my name, and where I live, which means that someone has been following me and I had no idea. It's a very humbling thought, a terrifying realization. My lip trembles as I try to think of any kind of response, but that cuts off when I feel a finger gliding between my buttcheeks and pressing against the damp crotch of my panties.

I jerk in shock, and he retreats, squeezing the globe of my asscheek in one hand, kneading my flesh and shushing me. "It's ok, you're ok," he says in a placating tone. His fingers inch their way down to my crotch again, short, probing touches that only increase the cocktail of adrenaline and desire swirling potently inside of me. It's like my fear only sweetens my arousal, and I am sure I will study that extensively later on, when I'm not in imminent danger. But for now, it's all I can do to sort of keep my wits about me as he strokes my very wet pussy.

My hips start rocking against his finger once they discover that swollen nub, and he presses down on it, rubbing rough circles that make me breathe harshly and my legs quiver. "Fucking gloves," he growls. I gasp and whine as he brings his hand away. He flips the bottom of his mask up, exposing surprisingly full lips and pale skin and a chiseled jaw. I realize I never even considered how he looked, and shame creeps up my chest and neck and fills my cheeks with a hot blush. What is wrong with me? I couldn't get this turned on for Hux, who I found very handsome, but for some psychopath thief I am practically a puddle of arousal. I think there's something wrong with me - some of my wires must have been crossed in the developmental stages - to make me this fucking abnormal.

He bites the tip of the index finger of his black leather glove and tugs his hand free. Then he spits the glove absently on the floor - lips smirking in a mischievous sort of way - and starts rubbing me from the front. "Aw, poor thing. You're dripping, darling. Want the bad man to make you cum before you give up the disk?" My vision swims and my knees bend weakly as he applies just the right pressure in just the right spot to make a moan erupt from my throat, a strangled noise so filled with pleasure and longing that I hardly recognize it as my own.

There's no time to reply, however, as he grabs the elastic around one of my thighs and rips it. The sound of my gasp and tearing fabric fills the room, and then there's a breeze on my most private parts before his hand is back, sliding throat my folds like a knife gliding through warm butter. He groans, the sound shooting straight to my core, and I'm suddenly clinging to him with my fists curled into the material of his black sweater. It's the only thing keeping my upright as my legs feel sort of numb.

"What a naughty girl you are, Rey. Getting so wet for me, aren't you? What kind of girl does that?" he asks. Watching his plush pink lips move and his deep voice come out makes me squirm slightly against his clever fingers, twisting slightly as he grips my chin tighter. I wonder if I'll have bruises from this when all is said and done.

I figure his question is rhetorical, meant to egg me on, embarrass me. I don't answer. But that's not good enough, and he slides his hands to my throat again. Excitement and anticipation erupt in my stomach and chest, like a million butterflies beating their wings. He grins, pleased by this reaction, and starts to squeeze again.

"I asked a question, Rey. What kind of girl," he pauses, suddenly plunging a finger deep inside of me, wrenching a startled sound from my throat, "gets so fucking wet when she's being threatened and burgled by a dangerous stranger?" He slips another finger inside of me, and my walls clench down, greedy, trying to pull him deeper. He grinds his palm against my clit as his fingers pump into me. My hips make halting thrusts, desperate for more, needy. "Say it, Rey. Tell me."

"A-a dumb girl?" I ask in a confused, unsteady voice. It's like my brain can't focus on words when my cunt is being so wonderfully plundered.

"Mm, no. Not dumb. Try again, sweetheart." He smiles softly as I gasp and shiver. It feels like a wave is cresting, dragging me higher and higher as he holds my throat, tightening the grip incrementally. My vision blurs as I hurtle towards a peak, filled with such delirious arousal that I don't feel tethered to the earth. I pant and moan and shiver as his hand fucks me. Coherent thought is beyond me, I can't answer his question - so instead, he does. "Only a bad girl would get so wet for me, darling. And I have a feeling you are very bad."

And then he dips down, half dragging me by the throat to close the distance, and our lips crash together as my orgasm hits me. It's like nothing I've ever felt before, completely consuming, making the soles of my feet feel hot as my toes curl, and my pussy clamps down on his fingers buried deep inside, and I feel like laughing and crying as my eyes roll back in my head.

Thank god he's there to hold me as I shake apart, because I can't hold my body up as sensation washes over me. But the bed is behind us, and he carefully drops me onto the mattress. I lay there, heavy-lidded eyes watching as he begins to unbuckle his belt and open his fly.

"You're probably wondering if I forgot about the disk," he says, grabbing the back of my knee and pushing it up and open. I'm not wondering anything, actually, but he goes on anyway. "I haven't. I'm going to fuck you into a coma, then tear your fucking room apart while you drool. Sound good, doll face?" I start to push myself onto trembling hands, wondering if he's serious...

But then he fists his cock, pulling it out of his underwear, and my eyes go wide as half dollars. Even in the darkness of my room, I can see that he's quite big. Bigger than Hux, for sure, which is all I have from real life to compare it to. I can't help but gape at him, high key nervous that he's going to tear me in half. He climbs on the bed while I'm trying to process this, murmuring, "You better not give me the clap," before settling on top of me. I flop back, staring up at him. I don't know what to do with my hands.

He braces on one arm over me, the other lining our bodies up. I feel the head of him - hot and thick - pressing at my opening. I suck in a breath as he sinks inside, slowly, savoring it, I think. I can still only see the lower half of his face, studying a mole on his cheek as he grins his teeth and hisses.

"Fucking tight," he mutters, seemingly to himself. "Can't believe this - fucking hell, so fucking wet - that's it, that's a good girl." His voice is intoxicating - he could be reciting the phone book for all I care, so long as that deep, velvety voice continues. It burns a bit, stretching me wide open to make room for his thick, swollen cock. He thrusts shallowly, the friction incredible. I wind up fisting the blankets and arching my back as his weight pins my lower half to the bed.

We both make satisfied sounds once he's finally completely inside, filling me more than I've ever been filled before. He drops a sloppy kiss to my lips, my chin, my pulse point before he drags his hips back and pauses, just the tip lingering at my entrance. I frown in breathless confusion and he smirks down at me. "Hold on to something, sweetheart," he instructs, and the warning in his tone is enough to make me reach for the metal bars of my headboard. "And you listen so well, that's lovely," he coos. "Here, let's do those pretty little tits." He pushes up my sleep shirt to my chin, and the cold air only hardens my nipples even more. I suck in a sharp breath, but before I can say anything, he's slamming into me like a freight train. The force of his thrust almost knocks the wind out of me. My grip on the headboard bars turns white-knuckled as he sets a punishing pace. Rough, frantic, hard - the sound of our flesh meeting and the wet slurping of my pussy being impaled over and over fills the room, along with my startled moans.

Hux never fucked me like this. It felt like fire chasing through my veins as he fucked me. It felt like the whole house could be falling down around us and I wouldn't have noticed. All that exists is him, above me, panting and groaning and murmuring encouragement as I took everything he could give. Sweat slicks our bodies despite the cool air blowing through my window. Time seems to stop or pause as my pleasure climbed higher again.

"So pretty with your tits out for me, taking my cock so good," he says. "Maybe you're not a bad girl, after all." He grins crookedly, maneuvering my legs so that I am folded in half with my ankles over his shoulders. Somehow, he plunged deeper, the angle changing allowing him to strike something inside of me just so. I moan, wordless and embarrassingly loud, and he slows down and seems to laser in on hitting that spot again and again.

His hand moves to my throat. "Where is the disk, Rey?"

My eyes roll back at the pressure. Fuck, why does this feel so good? My heart thumps triple time as he continues to fuck me and squeeze the sides of my throat. My vision blurs, another climax only moments away. I couldn't have given my name, let alone the location of a disk I know nothing about.

"Please," I whisper, my voice raspy. "Please, I don't know - just don't stop."

"Say Ben," he says, hips picking up pace. "Say 'please don't stop Ben,' ok?" He's breathless and the lower half of his face is flushed pink. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

"Ben, please don't stop - Ben, Ben, I'm - I'm gonna -"

And then I do, shattering into a mill pieces with a high-pitched whine and quivering limbs, muscles contracting hard around his cock like my body is trying to pull him impossibly deeper. Everything is blurry for a moment, I can't stop shivering - and then he (Ben? It must be his name because why else would he have me call him that?) groans and shoves himself as far in as possible, grinding our pelvises together as he cums. I feel heat deep inside, realizing that it's his spend, and for some reason that's even hotter despite the dangers of pregnancy and sexually transmitted disease. It's almost like he lost control, and my pussy feels so good he would rather deal with the consequences than finish anywhere else.

He collapses on top of me, panting wryly against my hair, crushing me under his weight. He's still dressed, while I'm mostly naked except for the shirt rucked up around my armpits. After a long moment, he rolls off of me to the bed beside me. It's only a twin, not meant for two adults - it's probably not made for one person of his size, honestly - and he braces a leg on the floor to stay beside me. We stare at each other for a long, silent, tense moment - neither knowing what to say.

The spell is broken by a hoot and shout outside my window, the slamming of car doors, and then footsteps on the porch below. My roommates. Shit.

Ben - I guess that's his name - jumps up and shoves his softening dick into his pants, snatches his glove from the floor, and pulls his mask to cover his chin. My heart slams against my ribs as he crosses to the window, navigating the mess on my floor too easily in the dark. Must be night-vision goggles.

"I'll be back, Rey. Lock this behind me," he warns, tone not entirely sweet and definitely a little threatening. Then he hurries gracefully out the window, disappearing to wherever he comes from, leaving me breathless and terrified and leaking cum onto my favorite blanket.