AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I have to hurt your cunt so I can fuck you.” Emerson’s voice is level, but there’s tension at the edges.
I’m shivering. I feel practically delirious. “You want to hurt me other ways,” I hear myself say. “You like for me to cry.”
“I do want to hurt you other ways,” he admits. “It would make you so wet, little painter. It would make your cunt clench so hard. Oh, fuck. Just like that. It would make your pussy tighten just like that.”
I let out an embarrassed moan. He said he wanted to hurt me, and I liked it. I don’t know who I am anymore.
I would let him do it. I want to give him this. I want Emerson to take it. The darkness I have inside of me. The shame. The hurt. I want him to fuck it out of me. I want him to hurt me in whatever way he’s talking about.
Here, with him, I’m allowed to want that.
Emerson lets out another groan. Thinking of him that way—thinking of him with control over my body that way—it almost makes me come again. Oh, Jesus, I’m desperate to be past this place. I’m desperate to have all of him inside of me. I rock back against him, struggling, pushing.
“So brave,” he says. “So good. You can cry, little painter. Let it out. Cry for me. Let me see everything.”
One powerful thrust of his hips, and he tears into me. He warned me but I’m still shocked. The scream gets free before I can stop it.
Emerson curses, again and again, while I sob. He’s fucking me through this pain. Hard, cruel strokes.
“Take it. You can take it. It’ll feel better soon.” His fingers find my clit again. I don’t believe him. He’s broken me irreparably. I’m about to tell him when the stinging pain begins to fade under his fingers.
I try to get up from the stool. He can fuck me on the floor. Or in his bed. “I want to see your face. Please. Emerson, please.”
His hand comes down on the back of my neck and turns my head forward.
“Just for a minute,” I plead. I want his arms around me for a minute. I want to see the blue-green perfection of his eyes. I want to kiss him. I want to feel how close we are. I want to feel even closer.
“Don’t turn your head.”
“I want to. Please. I want—”
He reaches in front of me and knocks the canvas off the easel. It falls sideways and tips onto the floor, paint up. Emerson pulls out and wrenches me down. Puts me on my knees. I catch myself on the canvas. Both hands in the ocean now. For three heartbeats I’m scared, but then his fingers are at work. He pushes back inside. All my dangerous desires return. This is wrong. This is filthy. To be fucked on a painting like this. On the floor. It’s good.
I should have known better than to doubt him. He watches me so carefully. He wouldn’t do this unless I could take it.
He pulls out, leaving his tip inside, and pauses. Emerson’s fingers dig into my ass, rough and unforgiving. I think each fingertip might leave a bruise, that’s how hard he squeezes. He’s pulling me apart around the head of him, still impaling me. “Your blood is on my cock.” His voice is choked. “It’s so fucking hot. I’ve never seen a more beautiful red. Hold on tight, little painter.”
Hold on tight, because he’s lost control. His strokes rattle me. They shake me. They feel so good. I lift my head up and catch a glimpse of us in the window. I look awestruck, and so does he.
“You’re looking at me like I’m art,” I say. “You’re making me into a painting.”
Emerson freezes.
Cold crashes into me like I’ve done something wrong. He takes one harsh breath, then a second, and his hands are so tight on my hips that it hurts. Not a controlled hurt, either. Not when he decided to break me open for him. As if he wants to crush me.
“Is that how you feel?” He jerks me upright by the throat. Rough. Uncaring. I whimper with the shock of it. His other hand goes between my legs and he’s not easy on me, he’s not gentle. “Like you’re a piece of art? Something I acquired for my collection?”
I shudder against him. “I can’t come again,” I try to say, but he doesn’t stop.
“I don’t care.” Emerson forces it out of me. He makes it happen. Pinned against him. His clothes feel like sandpaper. As it peaks, mortified moans spilling out of my mouth, he shoves himself inside so hard I cry out. “You’re on display,” he murmurs in my ear. “Only for me. In my collection. Only to come around my cock.”
Tears leak from my eyes. “Emerson.”
But he seems galvanized from my words, as if the accusation that he treats me like art has made it real. As if he’s accepted it as fact. “You’re art, remember? I want to see you come, to hear you come. I want to feel your pretty little canvas around my cock.”
His muscles bunch as he comes, working to pump himself inside me.
He’s painting me. On the inside.
