Page 83 of Never Forget

“Look what a mess you are. Covered in my marks, full of my cum, and yet still so hard and needy.”

“Fuck me…”

“Again, pet?”

“I need to—Nnyyhh⁠—”

I make a frustrated sound, and Scott chuckles.

“Which is it, Naz? Do you want me to let you come for the, what, sixth time today? Or do you want me to fuck you again?”

“For the love of—Uhnh. Scott! Fuck me already!”

Scott tsks. “Such a greedy little cum dumpster. You want me to fill you up some more? Fuck you until you’re crying, then plug you up until I’m ready to breed you again?”

The sound I made in response, half cry and half moan, was because of the vibrator he’d been holding against my prostate for what felt like hours. Every time I got close, he’d take it out, sometimes holding the toy in front of my face so I could see how wet it was. It dripped with the remnants of the last load he’d left inside me, when he didn’t let me come because I’d provoked him out of boredom.

“If you want it, you’re going to have to beg for it.”

“Please,” I whisper, sounding particularly salty that I was being made to beg when he was holding his phone above me, taunting me with his cock pressed against my ass and a wicked grin on his face.

I love to hate him. Love to hate the things he does to me, the way he makes me feel. The way he strips me down to my basest instincts until I can’t see or think past my physical need.

“No, no pet. Louder. So I can play it back for you while I wreck this greedy hole of yours, then again whenever you decide to act like a brat. And then when I get tired of fucking you, I’ll keep it to jerk off to, remembering how much of a needy little nobody you are.”

“Fuck. Okay, okay. Please! Just fuck me already.”

“Louder.”

“Please! Please, God. Please!”

“No, not God, pet⁠—”

“Scott,” I wine, voice gravely with need. “Please.”

“There’s a good pet. You want this?” I remember the way he was pressing his cock against my rim, barely penetrating me, drawing out my torture.

“Mmmph—Yes. Please give it to me. Please fuck me.”

I don’t even sound like myself. Whoever that man is in the recording is no longer me. It certainly doesn’t sound like the man I portray when I’m on stage, or the public persona that I’ve cultivated as the tall, tattooed, muscled drummer for one of the world’s most popular rock bands. It doesn’t sound like the guy who, even in private, rarely shows emotion or weakness. The one friend everyone goes to for advice. Always in control. Always cool and collected. Playful sometimes, aloof when I need to be.

The man in that recording is soft. Whimpering. Submissive. Exposed. Free.

But it’s not me.

The last parts of the recording don’t register. I don’t realize the silence that has settled over the room until Scott’s hand lands on my knee.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how⁠—”

Only then does it occur to me.

The recording.

That’s the recording Scott made. The same one he did, in fact, make me listen to at least twice that day.

Scott gets to his knees in front of me, invading my space, begging me with his eyes and body language to hear him. I blink back at him, nothing else registering other than the fact that I let this man make a whimpering mess of me and record it. I let him turn me inside out, in more ways than one, and now I’m being faced with the consequences.

His hands hold my waist, his torso between my knees.