“Peter, stop… it hurts… please,” I choke out, my hands clawing at his wrist to try and ease the tension.
He doesn’t say a word. He just jerks his arm, a sharp, violent snap that forces a shriek out of my throat, and continues the march. My pussy is a throbbing, swollen wound, leaking a trail of slick and rainwater across his pristine floors. Every time my thighs rub together, I feelthe stinging bite of the friction burns he gave me on the car.
He drags me into a massive, dimly lit dressing room and throws me. I hit the floor in front of a wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, my body sliding until I’m sprawled out, naked and shivering, in front of my own reflection.
“Look at yourself,” he snarls, his voice a low, vibrating hum of pure malice.
He steps behind me, his boots heavy and loud, and grabs my throat. He squeezes, his thumb pressing hard against my windpipe. I gasp, my hands flying up to his arm as the air is cut off. My vision starts to blur at the edges, my lungs screaming for a breath that won’t come.
“Look at what you are, Wendy,” he whispers in my ear, his breath hot and smelling of the whiskey he had at the club. He forces my head up, making me stare at the girl in the glass.
I look like a car crash. My eyes are bloodshot and wild with terror, my lips are puffed and bruised a dark purple, and my neck is already blooming with the red marks of his fingers. Between my legs, I’m a mess of angry red skin and smeared fluids. There’s a thin trickle of blood running down the inside of my left thigh where the rough denim of his jeans or the metal of the car must have caught me.
“You’re a fucking animal,” he growls, loosening his grip just enough for me to suck in a jagged, whistling breath before he tightens it again. “A filthy, needy little bitch who likes it when I’m mean. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” I wheeze, the word barely a sound.
“Say it louder. Tell the girl in the mirror what you really want.”
“I want… I want you to hurt me,” I sob, the truth tasting like copper in my mouth. “I want you to make me bleed.”
He lets out a dark, jagged laugh and lets go of my throat. Before I can even recover, he’s unzipping his pants again. His cock snaps out, thick and angry, still slick with the mess from the driveway. He doesn’t go for my pussy this time. He grabs my hair and yanks my head back against his stomach, then shoves two fingers into my mouth, hooking them over my bottom teeth and pulling my jaw open wide.
“Watch,” he commands.
He slides his cock against the mirror, leaving a long, wet streak of my own juices across the glass, right over the reflection of my face. Then he turns me around, forcing me onto my hands and knees. He kicks my knees further apart until I’m stretched to the breaking point.
He enters me from behind without a single word of warning. It’s not a slide; it’s a goddamn invasion. I scream, my forehead hitting the mirror with a dull thud, as he bottoms out in one violent, soul-crushing thrust.
“Fuck, you’re still so tight,” he panted, his hands coming around to cup my breasts, his thumbs grinding painfully into my nipples. “You’re shaking, Wendy. You’re shaking because you know I’m going to turn you inside out.”
He starts to move, a fast, brutal, shallow rhythm that’s designed for nothing but friction. Every time he hits me, my breasts bounce against the glass, leaving smears of sweat and rain. He reaches forward and wraps his hand around my throat again, pulling my head back so I have to watch him fucking me in the reflection.
“Lookat how my cock disappears inside of you,” he hisses, his face contorted in a mask of pure, filthy concentration. “Look at how much of a mess I’m making of you. You like being the thing I use when I’m bored.”
“Harder,” I scream, my fingers scratching at the glass, leaving foggy streaks as I lose my mind. “Please, Peter, harder! Kill me with it!”
“I’ll give you exactly what you’re begging for,” he roars.
He lets go of my neck and grabs my waist, his fingers digging into my hips so hard I know I’ll have bruises in the shape of his hands by morning. He starts slamming into me with a rhythmic, wet slap that echoes through the room. I’m a sobbing, shaking wreck, my vision tunnelling as the pleasure and the pain become indistinguishable.
He’s not even a man anymore. He’s a force of nature, a dark, pulsing weight that’s grinding me into the dirt. I can feel the blood from the scratch on my thigh rubbing into his skin, mixing with our sweat, turning the whole act into something tribal and foul.
“You’re going to cum on the glass, Wendy,” he growls, his voice cracking. “I want you to look at yourself while you fall apart. I want you to see exactly how much you belong to me.”
He reaches down, his hand dripping with me, and finds my clit. He doesn’t tease it. He pinches it between his thumb and forefinger and twists.
The scream that leaves my throat is animal. My body shudders, my vision exploding into white sparks as the most violent orgasm of my life rips through me. I’msobbing, my forehead pressed against the cold glass, my pussy clamping down on him like a vice.
He doesn’t stop. He thrusts three more times, each one deeper than the last, and then he lets out a guttural, prolonged groan, his body stiffening as he dumps his heat deep inside me.
He stays there for a long time, his forehead resting against the back of my neck, both of us panting in the quiet room. The only sound is the drip of water from my hair onto the floor.
He pulls out slowly, the wet sound of it making me flinch. He stands up, looking down at me as I collapse onto the floor, a broken, dripping, bleeding mess in front of the mirror.
“Clean yourself up,” he says, his voice cold and distant again, as if he didn’t just spend the last hour destroying me. “I’m not done with you yet.”
I look at the girl in the glass, and I don’t recognise the hollowed-out carcass staring back.
