I don't believe a single word. Neither the trembling voice, nor the dimmed eyes, nor that forced, barely noticeable smile. It's all a mask. Thin, almost transparent, yet still a mask. Beneath it—an abyss. I feel her pain on my skin, as if its waves crash into me again and again, penetrating my chest, under the ribs, into the very heart. Her soul trembles like a candle flame in the wind, and every look from her seems to scream, to plead: "Notice. Notice the real me." She hides behind words, behind cold, mechanical actions, but inside—she beats in agony like a bird trapped in a cage.
When the girl takes off her last piece of clothing, it seems to me that not clothes disappear—but protection. It's not her skin that is laid bare, but her wound. Raw, unhealed feelings hidden beneath the fragile shell of her body. Slowly, silently, without a trace of provocation, she sinks to her knees before me. And there's no desire in that movement—only lostness. Only a yearning to disappear, dissolve, trade pain for a fleeting illusion of closeness.
I am stunned. My heart clenches into a fist, my chest tightens with a sudden wave of horror. I realize what she is about to do—and something sharp and painful flares up inside me. Not passion. Not arousal. But fear. Despair. A pain so sharp I want to scream. No. I won't allow it. Not like this. Not now. Not out of guilt. Not because she wants to forget, to erase everything with this gesture, as if all that has happened to her could be washed away by the body, by touch, by a shadow of desire.
I sharply grab her by the shoulder, lift her, sit her on the edge of the bed. There's no harshness in my fingers—only determination, painful, desperate. She throws up her eyes at me—full of confusion, pain, shame. I see in them a girl—lost, frozen, soaked in the rain—reaching her hands forward, not even hoping to be warmed.
"Want intimacy? You'll get it," I say, starting to undress. But inside, a hurricane rages. I don't want sex—I want love. I want her. The real one. The one I have seen before. Smiling. Laughing. Tender.
"I don't want to make 'love' with you, as you like to say," she snorts. "I want sex. Rough. Like with other men. No feelings. No words."
She tries again to push me to the edge. But I hold on. I see how she is destroying herself. And I don't want to be her tool in this self-destruction.
"Can you last all night?" Katrin asks, and bitterness flickers in her voice. It's like a quiet confession, as if she herself doesn't believe her words but says them anyway. Something more than just playfulness freezes in her eyes—a shadow of despair hidden behind her challenge.
"Yes," I answer without looking away. As if on the edge of a knife, between what I say and what I feel, lies an abyss. "If you're ready—to be real all night."
"What about your beloved institute tomorrow without you?" Rebel Girl laughs, her laughter sharp, almost cruel, as if she is trying to hide something she can't hold inside. Grimacing, she turns to me, but her eyes are gloomy.
"I'll go, don't worry. I have enough strength for everything," I say, although I feel everything inside beginning to pulse, as if my blood is burning with that very thought—all that matters now is her.
"We'll see what you've got," she bites her lip, her lips trembling slightly from mixed feelings. Anxiety? Or is it a game? Unknown, but her gaze is a challenge.
"But it will be how I want, not you," I say quietly. My words tear through the air like a blade, sensing every movement, every look of hers. "No lies. No games. Only truth."
"Oh, love again?" She rolls her eyes. Her voice is full of sarcasm, but underneath is something else. I feel it—a slight crack in her mask. "Instead of sex, you're shoving feelings at me again?"
"Don't worry..." I step closer, my breath warm on her skin, my fingers barely touching her cheek, feeling her heart respond to the gesture. "Both. All night."
I stand naked before her, and her gaze burns me no less than my touch. My skin shivers from the chill, but also from a burning anticipation. The atmosphere is electric, and the air between us seems to compress to its limit.
"Lie down on the bed," my voice is low, almost hoarse, filled with desire. Too intense.
Katrin sinks onto the sheets, her movements like slow motion, as if savoring every moment of my gaze, every step toward her. And then, when her body touches the bed, she spreads her legs. Wide. Without shame. Without hesitation. It's not an invitation—it's a demand.
I grab her ankles, pulling her roughly to me, and her body slides across the soft sheets. There's fire in her eyes—not just from arousal, but from something deeper. As if at that moment everything she has hidden is breaking free.
"The special effects are so-so," she snorts, but the smile at the corners of her lips can't hide that her arousal is growing by the moment. Mocking, provocative—her words are not just a game but a challenge.
I am silent. Instead of words, I bend down and kiss her thigh, feeling her tremble under my lips. Her skin is hot, slightly salty from passion, and my fingers slide, exploring her with every movement, sensing her response to every touch.
"You're unbearable, you know that?" I whisper.
My movements become slow and deliberately unhurried to savor every moment until her body loses its pride and resistance. Her lips press tightly, but her body is already betraying her, arching in response to my touches.
I start kissing her thigh, never taking my eyes off her tempting pussy. With each kiss, my tongue joins—warm, greedy, unhurried, exploring every inch of her skin, as if I want to memorize her taste by heart.
"Why do you put up with someone like that?" Her voice is broken, with a high-pitched break, as if every word is uncontrollable. My fingers sliding over her find the right rhythm. She barely moans, as if the sound escapes by itself—quiet, muffled, full of impatient desire. Her body involuntarily responds to every touch: she slowly arches, moving her hips to the rhythm dictated by anticipation. A slight tremor runs down her back, her heart races faster, and her breathing becomes uneven. She feels impatience burning inside—warm, sweet, tormenting.
"Because I can't live without you," I say without thinking. It's sincere, and I know she will feel it. But I am wrong.
Rebel Girl immediately grabs my hair, her fingers wrapping around me so tightly I feel pain. Her eyes burn not with passion but with cold fire. It isn't punishment—it's what she considers her right.
"One more word or hint about love—and we stop immediately. I'm tired of hearing it. At first it was funny and fun, but now it just pisses me off," her voice is sharp, and her grip only tightens; in every cell of her being, I feel her desire to control me.
I try to laugh, but her grip becomes firmer.
"You're a rebel, but not a prostitute or sadist," I mutter, but every look she gives is harsher, her strength unyielding.
She leans closer, her breath burning my skin.
"You're so lucky," the girl hisses, her words like poison, but in them is also power and strength. "You have so many discoveries about me ahead. I stopped playing. Now I'm just as I am. And now…"
She lets go of me, but only to grab my hair again, guiding me toward her body with a hardness I like.
"…let's stop babbling with words and start using them properly."
The girl, still holding my head, tilts it toward her lap with a clear hint of what I am supposed to do. There is a subtle but unmistakable command in her movement, impossible not to feel. Her breath grows more ragged, as if each movement gives her pleasure, and she can't hide her impatience.
I begin to do what she wants, or rather, to lick her. My skin responds to every gesture, every touch. The moisture and warmth of her body blend with my feelings, and I feel myself burning from this desire — to be close, to satisfy her.
Gradually she calms, and her grip loosens, but her hands still gently touch my hair, as if reminding me to continue. That pressure makes my head throb, but I decide to do what I promised. Despite the pain, I know it is worth it. The desire in her eyes and her silent expectation push me forward, making me forget everything else.
At first, her moans are muffled, sounding irritated, but gradually her resistance weakens, her breathing becomes heavy and uneven. And then she takes control again.
"Now enter me. Or do I have to teach you everything from scratch?" Her voice trembles, but I know there is an iron will hidden in it that cannot be broken. "Twice it annoyed me already. Don't make it a third."
I enter sharply, making her gasp. Her legs wrap around me, and in the next moment her heels dig into my back, pulling me deeper. We move in a furious rhythm, merging pain and pleasure into one.
I am completely inside her, and thoughts become hazy. All that exists is her, her body, and the passion intertwined with aggression. But tomorrow… tomorrow I will deal with it. With her words. With her game.
Today… today I decide to drown in her, to allow myself to sink into her body, her scent, her moans, thinking of nothing but the present moment. I want to drown out all doubts, all anger and resentment, dissolve in sensations like in sweet oblivion. And tomorrow I will decide what to do with her and her behavior — with the storm she brings into my life.
I don't believe what she says — every word seems fake, as if another meaning hides behind it. But I need to find out why she started acting like that. Why coldness and harshness appear instead of the previous openness, as if she hides part of herself from me. I am tormented not only by anger but also by pain mixed with the desire to get to the truth. Because, despite everything, I still want to understand her.