Again.
She sobs, a wet, broken sound.
And that’s it.
That’s the moment she breaks, not all at once but in increments.
Not all at once.
Just in her eyes first.
Just in her voice when it shatters against the silence and spills out like blood on concrete.
“Please,” she whispers, barely audible.
“What was that?” I ask, pretending not to hear.
“Please—fuck—please just—let me?—”
“No,” I say, pulling my fingers out again.
I lick the taste of her off my fingers with deliberate slowness.
Slow enough that she watches every movement.
Deliberate enough to be cruel.
Cruel enough to make my point.
“Not until you say it right,” I tell her.
She stares at me like I just stole her soul and licked the blood from my fingers, like I’ve committed some unforgivable sin.
She’s right in her assessment.
I did steal something from her tonight.
I am doing exactly what she thinks.
This isn’t sex in any conventional sense.
This isn’t seduction or romance or mutual pleasure.
This is domination—the kind that reaches inside her chest and rearranges everything she thought she knew about who she is, what she wants, and what she’s still capable of surviving.
Her breath is broken, coming in short gasps.
Her thighs are trembling violently.
Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears and defiance she doesn’t have the strength to carry anymore.
And I fucking love her for it, love that she’s still trying because she’s still trying to hold on to something.
Still trying to pretend that if she doesn’t say the words, she won’t mean them.
So I punish her for the pretence.
I shove her back against the seat, spread her legs wider with a hand under her knee, and slap her pussy once through the denim—just hard enough to make her gasp.
