I close my eyes, trying to block out my reflection, trying not to see the desperate thing I’ve become.
Breathe deeply, pulling air into lungs that feel too small.
I try—God, I try—to think past the pulsing ache in my pussy that feels like it might kill me, the sweat cooling on my spine, the heat that hasn’t stopped simmering since he put his mouth on me and then walked away. But I can’t think clearly, can’t breathe properly, can’t see past the need that’s consuming me from the inside out. I’m so empty I could cry, so desperate I can barely remember my own name.
And maybe I do cry—maybe the tears are already falling, mixing with the mascara on my cheeks.
My thumb moves anyway, seemingly independent of conscious thought.
Soft.
Silent.
Inevitable.
Click.
The red light blinks faster, more urgently now.
A tone sounds somewhere behind me in the room—quiet, almost gentle, unassuming. But it slices through the silence like a verdict being read, like a sentence being passed, like fate being sealed.
Then I hear him move at last, breaking his frozen observation.
The sound of a zipper lowering slowly. A breath released. Footsteps deliberate and measured.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Predator finally moving in for the kill.
He steps into my field of vision in the mirror, and for one suspended second, I swear he’s beautiful in the most terrible way—sharp jaw that could cut glass, ice-blue eyes that promise cruelty, that silver hook gleaming beside his open slacks and thethick, hard length of him standing proud and pulsing, dark with something twisted and hungry and inhuman.
He doesn’t look at the remote still clutched in my trembling hand.
He looks at me.
“You really are a stupid little whore,” he says, and the way the words fall from his lips?—
Like a compliment wrapped in condemnation.
Like a prophecy he’s been waiting to fulfil.
Like a punishment he’s going to enjoy delivering.
He steps closer, movements predatory and controlled, crouching down so we’re face to face in the mirror. His cock brushes my cheek, hot and insistent, and I flinch instinctively. He laughs, low and dark and utterly satisfied.
“Didn’t I tell you what would happen if you pressed that button?” he asks conversationally, as if we’re discussing the weather.
I nod, unable to form words.
“And you did it anyway, knowing the consequences, knowing exactly what it would cost you.”
Another nod, small and ashamed and uncertain.
I’m not sure anymore if I’m ashamed of pressing it or of how fucking good it felt to make that decision, to reclaim some tiny piece of agency even if it was illusory, even if he planned for me to press it all along. Like I took back a fragment of power he never really gave me in the first place.
He leans in close, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, his breath warm against my ear.
