One finger becomes two. Stretching me. His thumb finds my clit, circling in time with his fingers thrusting.
I’m making sounds I can’t control. Gasps. Whimpers. Moans that would humiliate me if I could think straight. Still trying to protest, the words meaningless against the evidence of my body.
“You need to cling to that lie.” His mouth grazes my neck. “But feel how wet you are. How you’re gripping my fingers. This cuntwantsme, even if you won’t admit it.”
His fingers curl inside me, hitting something that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
I’m close.
Can feel the orgasm building. Inevitable. A wave I can’t outrun.
I clench around his fingers, trying to stay still, trying to fight.
“Come for me, Violet.” His voice is a command and a plea. “Show me the truth.”
His fingers are relentless. Circling, thrusting, curling. His other hand braces my hip, holds me in place when my knees threaten to buckle. His mouth lands on my neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me like nothing I’ve ever felt. Devastating. Undeniable. I come on his hand with a cry I can’t suppress, my body clenching around his fingers, pulsing with pleasure that whites out my vision.
Wetness floods his hand. So much wetness. More than I knew was possible. I’ve never—this has never happened?—
“Fuck.” His voice is wrecked. “That’s it. That’s it,tesoro. Give it to me.”
He doesn’t stop. Works me through the waves until I’m shaking, oversensitive, unable to do anything but grip his shoulders and hold on.
When it finally ends, my body goes limp against the wall.
His fingers still inside me. Intimate. Possessive.
I’m breathing hard. Trembling. Can’t look at him, can’t process what just happened.
He withdraws slowly.
The loss makes me whimper. I hate myself for the sound.
He brings his hand to his mouth. Licks his fingers clean while watching me with those dark, endless eyes. A groan rumbles through his chest.
“Your hate tastes like heaven.”
The shame crashes down. I shove him. Hard. He lets me this time, stepping back as I slide down the wall, knees finally giving out.
The sobs come from somewhere deep and broken. Not from pain. From shame and confusion and rage. At him. At myself. At this sick, twisted thing between us that I can’t control. I’m still throbbing, oversensitive, wetness cooling on my thighs. The physical evidence of what just happened impossible to ignore.
What did you do? What did you let him do?
“I hate you.” My voice is wrecked. Raw.
“I hate you.” Repeated like it’s the one thing I have to hold on to..
“I hate you.” But I came on his hand. Can’t unsay that. Can’t unfeel it.
He doesn’t move away.
Just kneels in front of me. Patient. Waiting.
“I know you think that’s true.” So gentle it hurts worse than cruelty.
