Page 13 of Driving My Obsession

I click it and a news article comes up.

Alcohol contributed to the crash that cost a professional dancer her career this weekend. Jaws of life were needed to extricate Oaklyn Grey from...

My eyes move away from the words and fall on the image attached to the article. Stage lights shine on Oaklyn, but they aren’t the seedy low-budget lights from the club. She’s bathed in an actual spotlight as she’s frozen in time with a look of sheer concentration on her face. Her arms lock in a graceful pose, stretching to the side as her torso defies gravity. One leg stands below her, the toe of her shoe the only point making contact with the ground. Her other leg stretches behind her and creates a nearly straight line from her foot to her shoulder. Red hair winds into a tight bun on her head, elongating her neck. A pale pink leotard clings to her skin, every curve of her body visible. While it provides more coverage than what she wears when she strips, it’s somehow more alluring. Less isn’t always more.

My mind places the image beside the woman I’ve seen with my own eyes—two distinct versions in two very different situations. The mental depictions merge until she straddles the line between two different worlds.

As I study the picture on the screen, I forget the dirty version of Oaklyn Grey and focus on this clean, beautiful creature before me. I’ve seen her nipples in person, but seeing the way they cast the slightest shadow beneath the fabric of that pink leotard hardens my dick in a way her straightforward nudity never did.

I look around the empty apartment before I lower my gray sweatpants and pull out my dick. My mind wanders, and I imagine this sweet, green-eyed creature in the crowd as I fight. She cheers me on and likes what she sees because I don’t have any scars. In this fantasy, I look normal and she doesn’t look like a whore. I stroke my cock to the idea of landing a winning blow and bursting through the crowd. Rushing straight for her, I toss her body over my shoulder and head toward the locker room so I can pound my post-fight energy into her pure cunt.

I run my fingers across the screen as I keep stroking myself with my other hand. I touch the juncture between her legs. The skintight fabric hugs her mound, and I envision spreading that material and using her until I’ve fucked the fight out of my body.

I tap the keyboard, and the printer beside my desk roars to life. After the wheels spin for what feels like an eternity, her picture slides onto the tray. I grip the warm paper with my free hand and place it below my dick. My hand strokes harder and faster to the person Oaklyn was before she became a whore.

I come, spilling beads of pleasure across her picture and smearing the fresh ink. As soon as I’ve ridden out the waves of release, anger brews in my gut. Hatred swirls with attraction. A need to kill her collides with a need to make her mine. I’m obsessed with the girl she was before she became what I hate. In more ways than one, her life is such a tragedy.

Now she’s my tragedy, and she needs to pay.

* * *

Oaklyn

I’m running latefor work, but it’s not my fault the bus arrived fifteen minutes past its usual time. When I burst through the back door, a whoosh of humid air blankets my face. Would it kill Jake to turn on the air conditioner? He probably likes to see us covered in sweat.

One of the girls enters the dressing area and curls her lip at me. I’m accustomed to their bitchy attitudes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get sick of it. I’m Jake’s little obsession, and that doesn’t sit well with them. They were his prior playthings until he moved on to someone else. Until he moved on to me.

She glances at the wall beside her and rolls her eyes. I follow her gaze to a picture taped to the painted concrete. A picture of...me? I step closer and recognize the image depicting the last time I looked happy. I looked alive.

My heart sinks into my stomach. This picture brings horrible memories to the front of my mind; it’s the one the local news outlets plastered all over the internet after the accident. My ankle throbs while my heart aches to go back to the time in my life when nothing mattered but pursuing my lofty goals. Now my goals are sad. Pitiful. Pathetic.

Just like me.

I turn toward my station and find more pictures taped to the mirror. Tears threaten to stream down my face as I rip the long-forgotten images from the glass and crumple them in my fists. When crumpling isn’t destructive enough, I shred them until I can’t see my smile or my lively eyes. My arms and legs ache for the familiarity of those dance moves. They call to me like an old language I can no longer speak. An empty void remains where my heart used to beat as I’m forced to see how much my life has changed. I’ve been taken from the top of the world and driven beneath the soil. Now I’m rotting, decaying a little more every day. I breathe, eat, and sleep, but I’m dead inside.

The other dancer turns her nose up at me as she wraps her hair into a bun and heads for the floor. How the fuck can I step onto the stage and dance after seeing what my life was before it became what it is? Who the fuck is deranged enough to do something so cruel? One of these girls really wanted to hurt me by rubbing my reality into my old wounds, and I hate that they’ve won. Tears cloud my eyes, but I wipe them away before they can fall. They may have won, but I refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing the pain cutting a path through my makeup.

Jake enters the dressing area and pauses at the picture taped to the wall. He’s the last person I want to see, and he’s definitely the last person I want looking at images of me in my element. He pulls the picture from the wall and runs his fingers over my figure.

“You look like a little Barbie,” he says. “How did a Barbie like you end up on a pole?” The way he studies the picture sends a chill up my spine. His gaze shifts to me, and my lungs refuse to draw breath as he steps closer.

I turn away, but he doesn’t stop until he’s pressed against me with his hard cock grinding into my lower back. “Please, don’t,” I whisper, not wanting to draw attention from the front of the house by speaking louder and telling him off.

He crumples the picture in his hand. “That isn’t you anymore, and it will never be you again. Accept what you are and stop fighting it.”

Tears burn the backs of my eyes as his hands raise my skirt. He pushes my chest to the desk and throws the crumpled picture at my head. It bounces off the side of my face and rolls to a stop at my feet as he lowers his fly and pulls his dick from his slacks. Hungry fingers grope for the edge of my panties, then he pulls them aside with a grunt. I go to scream, but his sweaty hand covers my mouth and nose. My tears finally fall, lacing through his ringed fingers as he silences me.

He pushes into me and I drop my full weight onto the flaking black paint. My makeup smears. My vision blurs. I scream into his hand and beg him to stop, but nothing will deter him now. His sweat slips into my mouth and burns my lips. My stomach clenches and I retch. I consider opening my mouth a little wider and sinking my teeth into his hand, but I still need this job. Even after he does this to me, I still need this job.

The metal door behind us crashes shut and fills the room with glorious sound. I watch in the mirror as Jake panics and pulls out of me, rushing to put his cock back inside his cheap pants. His eyes search the room, then he rushes to the door, opens it, and peers outside. He must not see anyone, because he returns to me. I can only hope he’s too shaken up to try again.

He leans over and brushes my tear-soaked hair away from my face. “I always knew that’s how I’d end up inside you. You had so many chances to give yourself up your own way.” He slaps my cheek three times before grabbing his gun from his office and rushing outside to hunt down the source of the interruption.

I lower my skirt and drop into the chair. My chest rises and falls faster than it should, and I’ll hyperventilate and pass out if I don’t regulate my breathing. I close my eyes and force myself to take controlled breaths. I’ve never been assaulted like that. Most of my life was spent in a cushy environment that kept me overprotected and far away from villains such as Jake. Now I’ve been abandoned by those who once shielded me, and I’m doing a piss-poor job of protecting myself.

This job blurs the lines of consent. People can reach out and betray every ounce of your personal space for a fucking dollar. Maybe ten if you’re lucky. To people like our patrons and Jake, I’m just a thing to use.

I wipe away the tears and makeup stains, then slide my heels onto my feet. The thought of dancing tonight literally hurts my soul and sends phantom pains throughout my entire body, but if I’m still here when Jake returns, he’ll finish what he started.

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