Free Gagged by Aubrey Parker

matters into my own hands, all those old memories come flooding back, and it’s simply not worth it. I wish she’d accept it and stop acting like I have a terminal disease.  
    “Please stop worrying about me, Jas.” I look at the still-whispering box. “And please. Turn that thing off and get rid of it, okay?”  
    Jasmine watches me for a long second.  
    Then she gives me a sad little smile and tosses the beautiful box into the garbage.

CHAPTER TEN
    A URORA

    I CAN ’ TSLEEP .  
    A T FIRST I think it’s my headache. It never really left. I thought food might help, so I ate dinner in front of the TV with Jasmine, failing again to study and hence tightening the screws on my time crunch. But I had no energy left, so I succumbed. And yet the headache persisted; I couldn’t get comfortable no matter what I did. I drank plenty of water, too, because sometimes that helps. I took some ibuprofen. But then it became apparent that only sleep would make the vice stop squeezing my temples, so I admitted failure and hit the sheets. But I tossed and turned the minute I lay down, my mind turning without pause.  
    I think Caspian is the problem. He’s creeping me out. I seriously wonder if this is the kind of thing I should report to someone. But to whom? He sent me a present. It’s gross, but it’s not like he came over here and laid hands on me.  
    That thought sits with me for a while, lying there in the dark: the idea that I could definitely get him in trouble if he’d touched me inappropriately instead of giving me the kind of gift that bold men give their lovers.  
    I’m not Caspian’s lover. So can I tell on him somehow? No matter how I slice it, I can’t decide who might care, because I don’t think anyone would.
    But still … the gall. It’s aggressive, what he did, and my anger at the man is keeping my headache alive. I thought I hated him before, and then I met him and saw how he batted us around like a cat toying with injured mice. Jasmine was willing to do anything for that interview, and combined with her crush on the asshole, she was going to do pretty much whatever he wanted.  
    You say I should wait an hour until you damn well feel like showing up? No problem, Mr. White.  
    You say I should accept the five minutes you’re willing to give me and thank you for it? Of course, Mr. White.  
    I toss. I turn.  
    You say I should slip my panties down to my ankles and lift my skirt so you can use sex toys on me, and I should thank you for the gift? Why, yes — I’d be delighted to, Mr. White .  
    My back hurts. Probably because I’m sleeping on my side without anything between my knees. My friend Iris, who’s majoring in anatomy, says to sleep with a pillow between your knees so your pelvis lines up straight. So I put a pillow between my knees. My thighs, really. It’s a bit too high. I squeeze it.  
    You say you want me to spread my legs so you can put your penis inside me? Well … if you say so, Mr. White .  
    I’m between sleep and wakefulness. Consciousness is gossamer thin. I drift, still feeling the headache, feeling like it’s because all my muscles are tight and I’m tense and I need a massage.  
    If I had a massager, I’d use it.  
    I think of my mother’s back massager, when I was younger. I used that.  
    And I flinch because of all those old memories, but this time the associations are distant. I’m rocking before I realize it, and the pillow is brushing me where I seem to need relief most.
    My hand slides downward. I’m half-inside a dream, half-outside. I feel like I’m two people. One isn’t responsible for my actions, deep in the partial dream, doing what I’m told because there’s really no two ways about it. The other is watching me. Shaking her head. Reminding me of how pleasure quickly departs, leaving the shame and pain.  
    I remember the massager.  
    I remember the pain.  
    But still I can’t stop being irritated by Caspian, who was such an ass yesterday,