I slam my fingers deeper, grinding the hook harder against her clit, my voice a vicious snarl.
“Say it. Say you like it. Say you need it. Or I’ll split you open until you can’t walk.”
Her scream tears out of her, desperate, ruined. Her body convulses, slick flooding down my hand, her thighs quaking as she shatters again.
And then the words tumble out, broken, hoarse, soaked in shame:
“I… I like it. Fuck—please, I need it.”
The confession detonates inside me, hotter than blood, sharper than glass. My cock throbs, my grin stretches wide and feral. I drag my soaked fingers out of her, smearing her slick across her stomach, her chest, painting her in her own surrender.
“Good little fairy,” I rasp, voice guttural. “You’ll never stop needing it. And I’ll never stop giving it until you forget every word but mine.”
Her chest heaves, every breath ragged, her lips still trembling from the words she never meant to give me.I like it. I need it.
Music to a monster.
My fingers glisten in the firelight, dripping with everything I wrung out of her. Wetness coats my knuckles, warm, shining, proof of her betrayal of herself. I smear it over her lips first, slow and mocking, until she whimpers and tries to turn her head.
“No,” I snarl, catching her jaw with my other hand, forcing her face back to mine. My grip is iron, bruising, unyielding. “You confessed. Now swallow it.”
I shove my soaked fingers past her lips, pushing deep against her tongue. She chokes, gagging, tears spilling fresh, but I don’t stop. I curl my fingers, smearing her own release against the roof of her mouth, pressing until she has no choice but to suck me clean.
Her muffled sob vibrates around my hand, and my cock throbs hard at the sound. Her throat works, swallowing every filthy drop I push into her. Her eyes burn up at me, defiant even as her body betrays her again, her tongue dragging across my fingers like she can’t help herself.
“Good girl,” I rasp, dragging my fingers deeper, fucking her mouth slow, filthy, until saliva and slick drip from the corner of her lips. “Taste what you begged for. Taste what you need.”
Her lashes flutter, her throat working, every swallow another nail in the coffin of who she used to be.
When I finally drag my fingers out, strings of spit and wetness connect us. I smear the mess across her cheek, down her neck, marking her with it.
Then I grip her chin again, forcing her to look at me, my smile feral, unhinged.
“You’ll never spit me out,” I whisper. “Not my cock. Not my blood. Not my love. You’ll swallow me until I’m the only thing left inside you.”
Tahlia
My mouth still tastes like him.
Salt. Iron. Shame. Need. It coats my tongue, clings to my teeth, refuses to leave no matter how hard I swallow. I want to spit it back in his face, but he’d only make me lick it off the floor.
So I hold it.
I swallow it.
I let it burn inside me like acid.
He’s sprawled against me, heavy, breath thick and ragged, blood smeared across his throat where I cut him, across his chest where I clawed him, across my lips where he forced me to taste myself.
I should feel ruined. I should feel broken.
But what coils in my stomach isn’t ruin.
It’s fire.
Every word he forced out of me, every sound he dragged from my throat, every filthy confession—I hate him for it. I hate myself more. Because the hate is slick and wet and trembling between my thighs. Because the hate feels like need, like hunger, like something I’ll never escape.
My body aches for what he’s already given. My skin burns for more.
