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The tip of his thickness nudges my entrance, and his fingers trail through my folds, smearing around my arousal. “Even now, I still make your pussy wet. You’re dripping, Camille.”
My breath hitches at the naughty words. He’s the only man who has ever spoken to me in such a vulgar way and I have to admit it does something to me.
Clearly warps your brain from thinking straight.
I’m so incredibly turned on. I’ve blocked out who is behind me and what he’s threatened. Right now, I’m lost to what his fingers do to me.
Stroking. Massaging.
I’m about to lose my mind.
“Put your hands on the balcony. Brace yourself,” he whispers into my ear.
I do because I’ve lost all sense.
He strokes and strokes until I can’t help it, and I feel my legs parting for him. He thrusts himself inside me an inch or two, kissing my neck with his soft lips as he moves his hand down to stroke between my legs.
Someone below shouts, drawing my attention to the growing crowd below. I’m instantly brought back to earth, the pleasure from moments ago evaporating into pure humiliation.
I sob out loud, but the people below us can’t see my tears, all they can see is a naked whore being taken from behind on a balcony. Taunts from high school ring in my ears, as the people below us laugh and shout up at us. I see people taking out cell phones and pointing them up at us, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Unwilling to watch my life implode before me.
He moves his hips and thrusts until he’s halfway inside me, and then again, until he’s buried to the hilt.
“Please, please, don’t,” I beg him as he’s fucking me, but I’m spreading even wider as he pumps into me.
He knows how to move just right. He varies the rhythm, going from slow to fast and then slow again, and pleasure pulses inside me. For the first time in ten years, I’m going to climax. When he picks up the pace and pounds me hard, I realize I’m moaning aloud. Flames lick up between my legs, heating my pussy to inferno levels.Oh God, it feels so good.
I’m sick. I’m disgusting. I’m panting like a dog in heat, and I can hear the shouts of the crowd below us getting louder.
I stare down below, unable to look away from dozens of pairs of hungry eyes staring up at me. Bastien groans, his breath harsh and guttural in my ear. His muscular arm is wrapped around me now, and it feels so good to have him hold me against him. I sob harder because I’m frightened and hurting, and I want his strength to be a comfort. It’s not. It’s a blunt weapon.
He shouts loudly as he explodes inside me. His hot seed spilling into me pushes me over the edge and electric jolts of pleasure shoot through me. My pussy spasms, clamping down on him, and I cling to the balcony with a whimper. “Oh yes, oh yes…” I didn’t realize how desperately I needed this release until he took me.
He continues to pump, riding out his orgasm until he’s emptied inside me.
As he slides out of me slowly, his semen spills onto my thighs, reminding me of what I’ve just done.
Whathe’sjust done.
Thank God I’m on birth control because the thought of being tied to this monster for life terrifies me.
He pulls me back by my hair and whispers into my ear, “Nasty little slut.”
A wave of horror washes over me. That’s what the other kids called me in high school. Emilie used to lead their chants and he knows it. It’s why he said it. Everything Bastien does is calculated.
He releases me, and I hug myself, weeping. I sway for a moment, my knees weak, and then I spin around with my back to the jeering crowd below.
He’s gone, leaving me to deal with the aftermath.
When I try to open the balcony door, I find it locked. I‘m trapped out here, nude, while people point and laugh.
Just like before.
A dizzy spell sweeps over me, and I fall to my knees. As if this day could get any worse, the sky opens up, and large drops of rain pelt into my skin. I’m soaked, shamed, and alone.
The next thing I know, the door opens, and two security guards, one old and one young, rush toward me. They lift me by the arms and pull me into the room. Neither one looks at my naked body, and If I had a voice, I’d thank them. They lower me onto the couch and one of the guards holds out a hotel robe, his face wrinkled in disgust. I’m sobbing, blubbering.
“He made me do it,” I plead. “He had a knife.”
