She doesn't get to stop

He met me in the same aisle near closing. I volunteer to lock up. That is not an accident.

You're going to come until you can't hold the book, he said. I said okay, very quietly. We had already picked the number of times and the signal. He stood behind the chair with the remote and I read aloud in a whisper because he wanted proof I was still in the sentence. Every time my voice stalled he turned it up. I came, and he didn't turn it down. I tried to close the book. He put his hand on the page. Keep reading.

The third one made my eyes wet. A sound almost got out and I swallowed it. He liked that. That's the forced part: not surprise, the refusal to let the orgasm be the end. He fucked me after, bent over the returns cart, a hand over my mouth not because I was loud but because the idea of noise was the threat. I still came quiet. He finished on my thigh, under the skirt, and I shelved the cart before I cleaned up.

I'll renew it. I like having a reason to walk that aisle and remember I shook and nobody on the floor above heard a thing. Quiet is not the same as small. I am not small in that chair. I am just not interested in an audience that needs a soundtrack.