The worst part is he’s right. I want anything that comes from him. No matter what form. No matter how degrading. I thought I’d managed to put up walls of protection around me. But he’s here, he’s really here, and it’s all I can do not to dissolve at his feet, a pathetic pile of needy slush.
My brain is on mute as I tentatively open my mouth and my tongue curls around the barrel, tasting it.
It tastes like metal. Cold, coppery metal. The barrel feels a lot wider than it looks. I widen my jaw and take it fully. And then, feeling the wetness puddle in my panties, I suck it in.
He snorts, an odd sound coming from the featureless, soulless face. “I fucking knew it. Whore.”
He shoves me against the wall again, his hand wrapping itself around my neck, his thumb finding my pulse, squeezing just enough that I’m struggling to breathe.
He doesn’t let me lick the barrel anymore. He pushes it in, hard and fast, while squeezing my throat with his hand, making me see white.
I wonder if he’ll kill me like this, blowing me up through my mouth as I suck off his gun. Or maybe he’ll strangle me fully, snapping my neck so I fall to the ground. Then my corpse would be covered in snow, forgotten in this back alley until Officer Jones finds me and makes up some reason for my death.
She was so devastated her parents died that she stuck a gun in her throat while strangling herself. It’s a suicide.
But no. Even as he seems to be fucking my mouth viciously with the gun, I can tell he’s holding back. He could snap my jaw in two with the barrel, but he’s only going in a few inches at a time, as if calculating just how much I can take without getting hurt.
Or not. I realize I’m grasping at straws right now.
He lets go of my throat just when the lack of air starts to make me feel lightheaded. Then he flips me so I’m facing the wall, and he pushes me to it, my hands pressing against the bricks. One of his hands wraps itself around my hair while the other one pulls down my leggings and my underwear so suddenly that I feel the cold air against my bare skin before my mind even has time to process what’s happened.
I close my eyes in humiliation as he nudges my thighs apart and runs the barrel of his gun against my folds.
Then he snorts derisively again. “Fucking soaked.”
I can’t help it. I should be seething. I should be traumatized. I should be whatever it is that women are when they’re being victimized.
But his hand, wrapped tightly around my hair, so hard thestrands feel like they’re close to being pulled out at the roots, sends zaps of current through me. My entire body comes alive under his touch, regardless of how cruel it is. My core twists with heat and I find myself arching backward, toward the murderer of my parents.
He chuckles in a heartless sort of way, before pressing my folds once more with his gun.
I don’t want the gun. I want his hands. I want his cock.
Maybe he knows that. Maybe that’s why he’s so intent on giving me some cruel, wrong version of what I’m silently begging for.
“Please,” I whisper, hoping it sounds like I want it to stop.
Even though what I really want is for it to continue.
“Please what?” he growls in my ear. “Please stop?”
Fuck. He’s really going to make me say the words.
“Please stop?” he insists in his unnatural, disguised voice.
Shuddering in disgust at myself, I slowly shake my head.
“Don’t stop,” I choke out.
The minute my words are out, he pushes the barrel inside me and I whimper at feeling the metal object entering me. It’s not as big as his dick. But it’s hard, cold, and it’s not him.
Still, my inner walls grip it desperately, as if they would happily welcome anything if it came from him. His cruel words,worthless whore, hurt, but it’s my own mind that cuts me.
Yes, I really am worthless. Pathetic. Arching into the monster who destroyed me. Arching into my parents’ murderer’s touch as he fucks me with his gun because he can’t even stand to touch me with his cock.
He drives it in and out, so hard that I’m breathless, that I’m arching harder than ever, but now, it’s just so I can accommodate the length of the object spearing me.
Yet again, in some back recess of my mind, is the realization that he’s restraining himself. He could hurt me a lot worse withthe long, heavy, hard object.
