Page 21 of Bears Not Included

They know who I am.

I clutch my heart. My breathing grows shallow, and my thinking gets distorted. I whirl around the room, but that makes me want to throw up now that I’m convinced, I willingly ate poison disguised as candy.

They tricked me. They know my name. I’m going to die after all. My thoughts are muddled and hurt my brain.

Fuck.

My skin starts to sizzle from the inside out. Perspiration slithers down the center of my spine. I’m both anxious and exhausted. But the heat—oh my god. It’s so hot, I want to tear off my skin.

I’m tossed about in a nightmare I can’t wake up from where invisible flames whip every inch of my body.

I resist the urge to scream until my lungs burst. I want to know what I did wrong to end up here like this. Why? My motivation was so innocent. I wanted to prove to my mom, in death, that she was right; fairy tales existed. But now this.

And as I’m falling apart, the blinding, thunderous fact that they know who I am sends consistent and brutal shock waves through me.

“Just breathe, pretty girl. You’ll be all right.”

My pride won’t let me ask what they’ve done to me or why they’ve lied to me when they said I wouldn’t die. I won’t give them the satisfaction of verbalizing my frantic apprehension. But what do I expect? Honesty from a group of psychos? Yeah right.

The fever inside me soars to scary heights. If I’m going to die, please let it be quick, not because I can’t handle pain—physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional pain I’ve carried around with me nearly all my life—but because this is what is going to make my captor hard. This is what they’re getting off on, and I won’t be used for their entertainment. I won’t be giving them a hard-on.

Except whatever attempts I make to curb the crumbling down of my entire body are squashed when something even weirder starts to happen.

My breasts start to ache at the same time that I realize the slickness between my thighs came from my pussy. I’m disgustedly aware that wetness clings to the folds of my sex. My clit throbs, and no matter how hard I press my thighs together to stop the colliding sensations there, the more I feel them.

I’m weighed down by the extra heaviness in my already full breasts. My nipples are like pebbles and excruciatingly hard. So hard, I think they’ll shatter like glass under the heat of my whole breast.

I look down, and my skin is stretched over the engorged mountains of my breasts. What is happening to me?

More wetness leaks from my pussy onto my thighs. I’m gasping for air now, and instinctively, I cover my breasts, thinking they’re going to burst at any time.

“What…” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It’s hoarse, strained, and layered with terror.

But the touch of my breast ignites a new hunger inside me. I have to touch them. I have to squeeze them right now, or I’m going to implode. But I don’t because I won’t give them the satisfaction.

I’m like a caged animal as I stumble around the place, looking for relief but not finding any because I don’t know what I’m looking for.

My breasts continue to swell. Dear god, help me.

I bend over, but from my eyelashes, my gaze darts around the perimeter of the room. I don’t know what I’m looking for because I don't know what's happening to me.

I want to touch my pussy. I want to squeeze my breasts so hard because it feels as if something is inside them that needs to come out. I’ve bitten my lip so hard that specks of blood drip from it.

I can’t take this feeling anymore. I want to come, and the realization shocks me to the seat of my soul.

I want to come. I want to feel something between my legs, yet everything seems to be centered around my breasts.

They’re seeing me like this. I am barely in control of my own body. I don’t know how much longer I can keep my hand from touching the wet inferno between my legs. I’m as unfamiliar with feeling this intensely sexual way as I am unfamiliar with rocket science.

“What did you do to me?” I shout, but my throat aches, and I’m hoarse, as if I’ve been screaming nonstop. I sound weak and defeated. And obscenely aroused.

“You chose that bowl, pretty girl.”

“I…”

“Is your pussy wet?”

“Fuck you.” I lean all my weight over the table now, my arms threatening to give way any minute, but I use every bit of strength I have in me to utter those words.

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