The fingers not wrapped around my throatfind their way down, sinking underneath the pajama pants. I beg my mouth to tell him to stop, tell him he can't touch me, but I'm so fucking needy I think I might actually cry if he doesn't.
"What were you thinking about, my little hunter?" he asks, his tonemaking it clearhe already knows.
I grit my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of the answer.
He chuckles, biting my earlobe and tugging on the flesh as his fingers find their destination between my legs. "You're so fucking wet, Isla— Christ." A big finger teases my entrance, swirling the wetness back up to my clit, "Tell me you don't think about me when you make yourself come."
Against my will, memories of doing just that flash across my mind, and I bite down on my tongue to keep the truth from escaping.
Another wicked laugh escapes, the warm air hitting my neck and leaving goosebumps in its wake. "Come on, little hunter. Open that pretty mouth and lie to me." His fingers taunt and tease me, never giving me the satisfaction of rubbing where I need him to or filling me the way my body craves.
"I don—" The words are cut off with a choking moan when one of his fingers finally slides inside my pussy, the stretch already incredible as he pumps it in and out, a groan so depraved it's nearly a growl rattling his chest.
Finger working me slowly into a mess, he lifts his head to gaze down at me, lust written in the lines across his face, the swirling red in his eyes dancing fervently, crimson smeared across hislower face, both dry and still wet smears of my blood creating a macabre scene that leaves me both terrified and delirious with need.
"Come on, Isla. You can do better than that," he taunts, adding a second finger and rubbing his thumb against my clit, forcing a cry from my throat. "Try again, baby."
Baby.
Holy fuck.
I've never really liked that word, but dripping with condescension from his mouth, it's the filthiest, sexiest thing I've ever heard.
"I don't," I finally manage to whimper out, even while my hips move with him, riding his hand like a wanton slut.
"Oh, you don't, huh?" He looks down at where his fingers fuck into me, moaning at the wet, sloppy sounds. "Well, you definitely will now." A third finger squeezes in, and I scream, the stretch nearly unbearable with how large his hand is, and the motherfucker just chuckles again, enjoying every second of how strung out and desperate I am to come.
Leaning in, he grunts into my ear, all pretense of laughter and teasing gone as he doubles his efforts, pulling a choked scream out of me with every thrust of his hand, "You'll never get off again without thinking about me and how I stretch this naughty little cunt out with just my fingers. You'll spend every night fucking yourself wondering if you could even take my cock since your pretty little pussy struggled just to take these."
The cruelty and hatred behind his words make me hot all over, full of both shame and need. I know he's right. This moment will haunt me forever. But I'm so close, nothing he says would deter me from soaking in the pained pleasure he's giving me. A sobbingfuck youslips out before I can stop it, and for a second, I wonder if he didn't even hear me.
But his response comes right when he wants it to. "Yeah, fuck you too, sweetheart. Now come all over my fingers. Make a fucking mess for me."
Pleasure washes over me immediately, drowning out any embarrassmentI might feelat his cruelty. The only things that matter right now is riding out the orgasm, wave after wave as I cry out, and the squelching of my cunt as it squeezes around his fingers almost painfully. His groan leaves goosebumps all over my skin as his hand works me through it.
Overstimulation sets in, and I try to push him away, but hekeeps working, wanting the discomfort, craving it, needing it as he watches my face twist in agony.
When he finally releases me, my legs collapse, and I fall to the floor. He looks down impassively, licking the mess off his fingers with depraved, smug satisfaction. His eyes drift closed, savoring the taste of me.
He squats down, elbows on his knees in a gesture so condescending, I want to slap him, but my body refuses to cooperate, still coming down from the high. Running a finger through the trickle on my neck, he stares at it and takes another lick, like he needs just one more drop.
"What did we learn today?" he asks.When I refuse to answer he does so for me,"Locked doors mean do not enter. Don't do it again. I've given you free reign of every room that you canmake use ofhere,this isn't one of them."
Then he walks away, leaving me literally bleeding on the cold floor, feeling even worse than I did when I found out he was fucking following me.
How the fuck did that just happen? I discovered he did something fucked up, and somehow I'm the one who ends up a ball of shame and self-loathing?
Barely containing the tears trying to escape, I tiptoe to the shower and wash off all the remnants of blood and the releasebetween my thighs, wincing at the sensitivity.When I reenter my room insweats,there'sa bottle of water, ibuprofen, and two littleheart-shapedbandagessittingon my table next to my phone.
The dam finally breaks, and I sink to the floor, sobbing.
I've never felt so filthy, so used. I've been degraded and fucked every way someone could possibly imagine, yet I've never felt wrecked like I do right now. Like he stripped me bare, took every bit of my soul, and left nothing behind for me to continue living.
Everything he's said and done up until this point has been manageable, but using my body like it's a weapon against me is fucking sick.
He'sfucking sick.
And if he thinks he can get away with it,hehas no idea who he's dealing with. Sex is the language I speak more fluently than any other, the currency I've used to pay for emotional intimacy for years.
