At this, his fingers don’t show any mercy on my breast.
He plumps it up and squeezes it and molds it however he wants. He even uses it to pull me closer, like this virgin piece of flesh belongs to him.
Even though he clearly doesn’t want it. He clearly has aggression dripping out of his eyes and anger radiating off his fingers.
“So you put my hand on your tit and you tell me you’re not wearing a bra,” he growls, plucking at my nipple now. “You tell me you never wear one. And then you have the audacity to tell me that you love wearing a flimsy, useless string between your legs because it makes you feel free and no one has ever touched you there before. That no one has played with your nipples or squeezed your tits like this. No one has fingered that tight thing between your legs. Is that correct?”
That tight thing between my legs spasms at his rough, vibrating words.
“Yeah. No one.”
“Is this your attempt at seducing me?” he asks me with another squeeze of my breast.
When he asks the question like this, with almost a mocking tone, my cheeks burn with embarrassment. They flush scarlet with my inexperience and how young I might seem to him.
The little sister.
But I have done it now, haven’t I?
I have put his hand on my breast and I’ve told him all about my naïveté so even though every part of me is trembling, I raise my chin. “Yes.”
He circles his eyes over my face, watches the shaking of my lips and notices my nervous swallow.
When he brings his eyes back up to me, he licks his lips. “It’s tight, isn’t it? Your virgin pussy.”
“I-I think so.”
His chest shudders with a tight, humorless chuckle. “Yeah, I bet it is. Girls like you always have a tight fucking pussy. A pussy that men fight over. Kill each other over.”
Goosebumps break over my skin and I rock my hips again. “Girls like me?”
I ask the same question that I’ve asked several times before and he answers me on a raspy, choppy breath. “Yeah, girls like you. Bad girls. Bratty and spoiled. Girls who pout their lips when they don’t get their way. You know there’s a name for it.”
“Name for what?”
“For the kind of pussy you have.”
“What?”
He pulls at my nipple, making it all sore and achy. “Pouty pussy.”
I feel it down there. That pull. That vicious pull of his fingers. The vicious whisper of his words.
I feel it in my pussy.
“What?” I whisper.
“Yeah. That’s what they call it. Pouty and juicy. Bad girl pussy. And yours is going to be the juiciest. She pouts the hardest, doesn’t she? She’s the tightest too. Because you’re worse. You’re worse than bad, aren’t you?”
Yes, I am.
I don’t even care if I’m bad or desperate or whatever. I just want him closer. I want him to fix this ache in my belly, this current in my thighs.
This spasm in my bad girl pussy.
“Arrow, please…”
“But that’s your downfall, Salem,” he whispers, leaning his face closer and bumping our noses together. “Your bratty, pouty pussy. Because the more she pouts, the more she whines, the tinier she becomes. Tinier and smaller and you can’t give her the very thing she wants.”
