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“Don’t call me that.” Two successive whips come down on her breasts and pussy, causing her to yelp and sob. “You lost the right to call me that.”
Tears stream down her cheeks even as her holes open and close and stretch and beg against the toys. I bring up the intensity enjoying the sight of her cum all over the mattress. I’m going to make her drench the sheets on and on until she’s all spent.
I whip her in rhythm with the vibrator and she cries out as the orgasm is wrenched out of her.
“You didn’t deserve that, but I will torture you with it.” I hit her across the pussy and turn up the speed of the vibrator.
Every time an orgasm is dragged out of her, she breaks out in sobs, writhing and causing the binds to tighten against her porcelain skin.
Skin that’s filled with my marks, all red and angry and mine.
Her face is flushed, streaked with tears and sweat that rolls down her neck and coats her body.
With each orgasm, she grows lethargic, all pumped up to the brim with an overload of stimulation. Every time I think she can’t come anymore, she does, with a low moan and a jerking of her hips.
But not once does she beg me to stop. She takes it, every depraved part of it. Her eyes even shine with desire whenever I whip and force orgasms out of her.
This girl was made for me. Her submissiveness is everything I’ve ever yearned for. Everything I wanted.
But something about her eyes bothers me. They’ve gone back to that sad state, the absolutely dim and lifeless state.
I undo her bindings and she flinches every time my skin meets hers. Considering the number of orgasms I pulled out of her, any touch must feel like lightning.
Annika slumps on the bed, her lips parted and dry. She’s definitely dehydrated. Is that the reason she’s lifeless?
I turn off the toys and remove them from her.
She whimpers but doesn’t attempt to move, drowning in a puddle of her own arousal.
I planned to finish this by having her admit she’s wrong, and saying she’ll choose me this time, but something tells me this isn’t the right moment for that.
“Are you done?” she whispers in a hoarse, raw voice.
“I’m only getting started.”
“Stop this madness.”
“Beg.”
“Please.” She sniffles.
My muscles tighten and the healed bullet wound burns. “You’re begging for the wrong reasons. You’re begging for your family when you should be begging for me.”
“I can’t just cut myself off from them.”
“You can. I’ll make it happen.”
Her chin trembles and fresh tears stream down her cheeks. “This isn’t the Creighton I know. This isn’t the man I fell in love with.”
Her sadly delivered words and the anguish behind them wrap a noose around my neck.
She hates that she loves me—orlovedme. And I want to bathe in the blood of whoever changed her mind.
Of whoever made her dig a knife, or more accurately, a bullet, into my chest.
“The Creighton you knew was shot dead by you.”
“Creigh…”
