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“You like dirty pictures?” he asks, shifting his grip to my arm and holding me tight as he snaps one of me. “I like dirty pictures too.” He traps me against the table with his chest, a fucking quarterback and me at a hundred and ten pounds, and grins down at me. He presses his little cock against me.
“Get off me, asshole.”
“What did you say? Not impressive? It’ll feel pretty impressive when it’s inside you, fucking Mad Elena.”
He sets the phone down behind me and grips my ass, kneading my cheeks hard.
“They’re right to call you that, you know? You’re a fucking weirdo.”
“Fuck you! Get off me or you’ll regret it!”
“I’ll regret it? How’s that? What are you going to do besides get on your knees and give me what I want while I get it all on video for posterity?” He shifts one hand to my shoulder and picks up his phone with the other.
“I don’t think so, asshole,” I tell him and bring my knee up fast and hard between his legs. There’s an instant of silence, a heavy, weighty moment. I watch his face as pain registers and feel his fingers dig into my shoulder.
“You. Fucking. Bitch,” he hisses the words as his face turns beet red. He curls up a little, not letting go of me as he processes the pain.
I try to shove past him, but he only tightens his grip and uses his bulk to keep me pinned.
“Get off me!” I scream as he straightens, a dark, angry look on his face. He is so much bigger than me. So much stronger. And the way he wants to hurt me right now, it’s not just to humiliate me. It’s worse. Much worse.
“Or what?” he asks through clenched teeth.
“Or you deal with me, asshole,” says a voice I know. A voice that makes time stand still and sends shivers along my spine. A voice I haven’t heard for two years but one I’ll never forget. One that’s darker and more violent and powerful than pathetic Jason Cole could ever be.
