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Another slips past my lips, and my eyes widen.
Itisa moan.
Oh my God. I’m moaning.
I suddenly become hyper-aware of my body and the way my writhing movements have become chasing. Every time he moves, I follow. My chest is burning from his rubbing and the lust that has started to spread through my veins. He keeps sending electric spikes from my nipples all the way to my stomach and lower.
It feels the same as when I touch myself. Only better.
That’s impossible.
That’s…no.
“Stop,” I choke. “Please…please, stop.”
He accelerates. “How can I stop when I know how much you’re loving this?” His words are strained now, his breath shortening.
I’m too late to understand what’s going on. One hand lets go of my boobs to grab his dick as he straightens up. He lets go of my left tit to lift his top, probably so he doesn’t dirty himself.
That’s when I notice them. Three scars on his stomach. Amongst the ridges of his perfectly defined abs. His skin is darker than mine, a light brown that seems almost golden. And there are three thick places where the tissue has hardened and turned white against his skin.
Don’t forget, I command myself.
Three deep scars.
Do. Not. Forget.
I gasp when I feel the warmth of his cum on me and ribbons land in my mouth.
“Fuck,” he pants. “You’re one hot fuck toy, Elisabeth.”
I shake my head, looking away from the flash blinding me. I feel him get off me, naively believing the nightmare is over. That’s until I feel him pushing up the hem of my nightie.
Nois at the tip of my tongue, and yet it doesn’t come out. I wish I could say it’s because I’m scared. I wish I could say it’s because I don’t want it.
The truth is much scarier than that.
The truth is the excitement and lust running through my veins is what scares me the most.
“Give me the phone.” His order is curt. He has no patience in him. There’s tension in his tone. Hunger.
I feel a gloved finger press against my panties. He’s at my entrance, and it’s wet.
It’s so wet I can feel it all over my crotch.
“Holy shit,” he chuckles. “You’re so turned-on.”
“I’m not!” I scream. There’s a rage inside me. The shame is pushing anger through my limbs. “You got what you wanted. Just stop.”
How could I possibly be enjoying this?
Didn’t my body get the memo when my brain decided this was a terrifying and traumatizing experience?
Or did it get it and is indeed loving these exact facts?
“See, I think you didn’t listen to what I wanted. I said give me tears and begging. I said convince your daddy to give us the money. Right now, all I’m seeing is a little slut enjoying herself.”
Without moving my panties, he presses harshly against the damp material, pushing it past my entrance.
