When he looks at me, I admire the femininity in his long lashes. When he talks to me, I bloom, and he laughs.
I feel safe, and in control; I love my friends.

But control borders on chaos.
He's grabbing me, pulling me to him, his arms are too strong. I smile to regain some sense of control, I know this game; I made this game.
He throws me. As I crash into the chair my neck snaps back, and I crack my head. Before my eyes clear, he is on me.
He laughs at my attempts to dislodge him. As I squirm, he pokes at my sides, sliding my shirt up to expose twitching flesh. He flashes his boyish smile at me as he pins me down, grabbing at my flesh. I'm screaming no, the hopelessness of my struggling settling on my chest.

This isn't happening. I look away; maybe he'll stop. Focus on something far away. Pretend I cannot feel him pressing down on me.
But that won't stop him. That's part of the game. That's flirting again. It emboldens him - and he'll do ANYTHING to get me to look at him again.
I try not to encourage him but I cannot control my horrified gasp when his hands stumble around the sensitive areas of my body. Nothing I can do will deter his foul hands. They're pressing, rubbing, pinching, and I cannot scream, for he takes advantage of my open mouth to kiss me again.

There is no escape. When I turn to him, he is kissing me again and again, pressing his wet lips into mine. Bile rises in my stomach.
When I turn away, he bites at my ears, or neck, or worse, he lets his mouth travel further around my body.
My arms come up to fight him off, and he grabs them and holds them with his own.
I had not expected there to be so much power in their sinew.

The smells at his throat, the definatively male ones, are smeared on me. As they smother me I begin to cry - but I will not let him see it.

I throw myself away a final time. My upper body crashes into the coffee table and the pain floods through me, but I am free of his hold. He's laughing, asking me to come back, pouting.
I can see it in the childlike innocence of his smile. He does not know what he is doing. It means nothing to him.
But standing in the toilet alone, I know it doesn't mean nothing.
I feel naked thinking about it, clutching at my only remaining shred of dignity - the bruise on my shoulder from the table I threw myself over to escape.
He has clawed everything else away from me.
And I have nowhere to go
but back out there.