Font Size:
To open me.
One hand parts my thighs. The other rests under my chin, guiding my gaze back to my own reflection.
“Look at how wrecked you are.”
His fingers trail up.
Spread me.
Slide through what’s left of my resistance.
“And look how wet you still are.”
I close my eyes.
He slaps my thigh—just once.
Sharp.
Not angry.
Just a reminder.
“Open. Them.”
I do.
And what I see?
It isn’t horror.
It isn’t shame.
It’s hunger.
Mine.
“Say what you see.”
I don’t answer.
He presses two fingers into me—slow, tight, relentless.
I arch.
He curls them.
“Say it.”
My mouth shakes.
My reflection moans before I do.
“Me.” I choke on it. “I see me.”
“Say it again.”
His thumb circles my clit. Still no rhythm. Still no mercy.
