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Oh, for God’s sake. He’s going to make sure to punish me in every way he can think of. I could have gotten myself out of this if I had only been a little faster.
It’s obvious what he’s looking for. I hate giving it to him, but I can’t sit here like this all night. “Can I please get up and go to the bathroom?”
“No. You’re going to stay right where you are.”
“What was that you said about not wanting to buy another mattress?” I get up anyway, even though there’s hardly any space between him and the bed. When he tries to block me, I elbow him in the ribs.
I don’t know why I did it. I’m just so tired of this. Tired of being afraid. Tired of never knowing what’s happening next or which version of this psycho I’m going to meet.
But maybe, all things considered, I shouldn’t have gone that route. Because now the psycho grabs me by the throat with one hand—then wedges the other between my thighs, grabbing my pussy hard enough that tears spring to my eyes.
“When are you going to learn?” He starts flat-out squeezing my throat, and the pressure in my head makes me sure it’s going to explode. “I don’t know who told you that you get a say in anything that goes on under my roof, but they were dead fucking wrong.”
At least I’m able to breathe when he shoves me onto my back, but it doesn’t last long. He’s on top of me again before I know it, again cutting off my air. “You belong to me.” And like he wants to prove it, he takes hold of my pussy again, rubbing hard, brutally, laughing while I weep silently for lack of air.
“This pussy is mine. This body is mine.” He’s breathing hard, like a beast ready to go for the kill. “If you go anywhere, it’s because I said you could go. If you stay, it’s because I want you exactly where you are. Understood?”
I slap weakly at his hand, trying to remind him that I need to breathe if he wants me to live. The instant he eases up, I suck in a deep breath, choking and gagging.
“Answer me,” he demands, pulsing his fingers, squeezing and releasing my throat until he drags a dismayed moan from between my lips.
“Understood,” I gag out.
“I don’t know if I believe you. How do I know you aren’t only saying this to make me stop?”
“I mean it!” I sob. “Please!”
“Please, what?” Now he presses so tight against my pussy that it feels like he’s going to tear through my panties. “Please take this sweet, fresh pussy? Is that what you’re begging for?” He takes the waistband and starts pulling the panties down.
“No! No, please!” My voice is barely audible, not like he would listen. I slam my fists into his hands, his arms, his chest. It’s like trying to punch steel.
“Now, what did I tell you?” he asks, pulling the panties over my feet and throwing them aside. “It only gets me hard when you fight like that. So which is it? Do you want me to stop, or do you want me to fuck you?”
“Stop!” I croak, even if I know it’s not a genuine question. This is all another game. A game where I hold no cards. He has the entire deck.
“Are you sure you want me to stop?” He teases my lips, stroking them almost playfully and sending white-hot sizzles of pure, unbearable sensation racing through me from head to toe. It’s never been like this, not in all the times I touched myself. Like I’m losing control of my body, like his touch is unlocking some part of me I didn’t know existed.
“Well?” He’s grinning, savoring my agony. “Are you sure you want me to stop? Because from where I am, it’s feeling warm and wet down here. You should learn to make up your mind.”
I’m so embarrassed. I would close my eyes even if the deepening pleasure of his touch didn’t already make me close them. I want to enjoy this, to lose myself.
I want him to stop because this is humiliating, the way he knows how to undo me like this. It’s not fair. It’s disgusting and shameful. And if he stops, I’ll die.
“That’s right,” he murmurs from somewhere far away, his voice barely a hum over the rush of blood in my ears. “Give up the fight. Take what you want.”
But I don’t want this. I want him to stop, to take his hands off me, to never touch me again. I want him to let me go. I want him to let me get on with my life, which I will never, ever complain about for any reason as long as I live. I want him to forget we ever met.
So that must be why my hips start rolling in circles, my pussy desperate for his fingers to go deeper, to touch me where I’m slick and throbbing. It actually hurts.
“Greedy,” he observes with a nasty little laugh. I open my eyes just enough to look up at him—his eyes are half-lidded, his nostrils flared, and his mouth partly open as he takes one shallow breath after another. I am totally at his mercy, and I hate myself for loving it, for being so desperate for more.
The twitching of his lips tells me he sees that, that somehow, he knows, and my hatred for him only deepens even while my hips start jerking and a wet spot forms under my ass.
“You’ve been denying yourself for so long, haven’t you?” His voice is surprisingly soft, almost crooning the words. “This sweet, pink little pussy. Nobody’s ever touched it before me, have they? Nobody but you, I bet.”
I squeeze my eyes tightly shut like that will blot out his voice, but it’s no use. I hear him and his nastiness loud and clear. Even though it disgusts me and makes me hate myself for loving this so much, I can’t help but react to what he’s saying. It’s nasty, but that only makes me burn hotter than ever.
“Did it ever feel this good before? When you were touching yourself in your room late at night?” I strain upward, hungry for what’s building—because yes, of course, I’ve touched myself before. I know what it feels like when an orgasm is on the way, and oh, fuck me, it’s on the way now.
