I want her screaming. I want her begging.
Time to rip this cunt out from under my skin and bleed her fucking dry.
My wrists burn and bloody gashes from the rope ring them like cuffs.
“Stupid fucker,” I mutter, jamming more clothes into my suitcase. The shitty apartment is a wreck—clothes, wrappers, open drawers, everything scattered from my frantic attempt to pack fast and vanish faster.
I swipe at my face, then wipe my hands on my jeans, scanning the floor again. Still no sign of my father's burner phone. Shit. It’s probably buried under a pile of laundry I dig through a few shirts, halfheartedly—time to get the hell out of New Orleans. I never should’ve come back. Getting this close to home was a mistake.
Just thinking the wordhomeburns. Tears sting, but I blink them back and force another hoodie into the bag. As soon as I’ve got everything, I’m gone. The cash I got from selling that bastard’s truck and guns will be enough to disappear. Again.
My phone pings. Another text from Roxy. I ignore it.
A heavy and familiar ache lingers in my chest. I won’t tell her goodbye. I’ve never said goodbye to anyone, and I’m sure as hell not starting now.
This is why it’s better to be alone.
I sink into the old sofa. My body screams in protest—every inch bruised, stitched, broken, or worse. In the past few weeks, I’ve been shot, stabbed, dragged, assaulted…used.
I press my palms to my eyes, trying to scrape the memory of him out of my skull.
That arrogant, sadistic piece of shit.
I still can’t believe I came for him. The humiliation is a slow, burning crawl under my skin.
Rage and shame are easier to swallow. But the guilt…that’s the part that chokes.
Come for me.
I grab my phone, gripping it so tight my knuckles ache.
That voice, deep and commanding.
It won’t leave. No matter how hard I try to silence it, it slithers back in, curling around my spine. And with it—my body. Remembering. Bucking. Shaking. Climaxing.
For him.
A broken sob tries to claw up my throat, but I bite it back. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want him. But I came anyway. I came so hard I saw stars. I moaned. I liked it.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Turning my phone over, I type slowly, hesitating before hitting enter.
Why do I like forced sex? Why did I enjoy being used? Am I messed up?
The results load too fast.
My eyes scan the screen, hundreds of articles, blogs, and discussions. Words leap out at me: fantasy, trauma response, control, CNC, consensual non-consent.
I tap on one. Then another. But every answer feels hollow. Neat little boxes explaining away something that doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like a kink. It feels like I’ve been gutted.
My fingers tremble as I scroll until I see the words:
“It’s not about wanting to be hurt. It’s about surrendering without guilt. About letting go of control in a world that demands you hold onto it.”
I throw my phone across the room.
No. No. That’s not me.
