I do as he says, barely able to breathe as I feel his presence draw near. His warmth. The spicy scent that’s him.
“On your hands and knees.”
How low can I fall? I don’t even think to refuse as I take that embarrassing position and feel him unzip my onesie.
This is why I didn’t want to come back to Astley. I can’t resist him. He’s like a fucking drug. The worst kind, the kind that makes you suffer even when you’re high, then kills you when you quit.
I wonder if I’m going to pass out when I feel his hand cupping my breast. The lightest touch makes my body burn. Two bodies shouldn’t respond to each other the way ours do. It’s too cruel.
Clearly he feels the same way. His reserve seems to melt the moment his fingers touch my nipple. I feel the sudden dip of the mattress as he kneels behind me, his hands hungrily raking overmy body.
I arch into him desperately as his fingers crush my nipple, while the other hand makes its way to my pussy.
“Fuck, cricket,” he groans, and the old nickname makes me wet.
But the sound of it seems to startle him out of whatever state he’d sunken into. His hand abruptly leaves my folds and raises up to slap my ass, hard.
“Ow!”
He pushes my head down, tugging at my hair so it winds its way around his fingers, roughly shoving me against the mattress. He makes me arch higher with his other hand, then rains down smacks on my bottom.
“Hey! What the hell, Quill? Don’t hit me!”
It was always a favorite punishment of his, but I’d forgotten how much it hurts, and it hurts all the more now that I know there’s no love behind it.
The pain and the knowledge of that forces me out of my previous humiliated stupor, and my mouth opens to unleash a torrent of protest.
His hand pauses just long enough in the spanking to slam itself against my mouth.
“I wish I could fucking gag you.”
Then he pushes a pillow on my head. “Don’t fucking look me in the face. Don’t fucking call my name. You’ve lost that right.”
Anger courses through my veins as he holds my head down against the mattress, muffling my words with the pillow, while his other hand batters my ass cheeks.
Anger, not at what he’s doing to me, but at what he’s saying.
His words have always been so cruel.
“Ow! Okay! Then what the hell am I supposed to call you?”
He stops again, but this time, it’s to unzip his fly. I gasp, trying to turn around, trying to get a look at it, but he pins me downand I feel the moist head of his cock nudge against my asshole.
It’s been a very long time since he took me there, and I’m shaking all over, tensing as he presses against me. I don’t speak anymore. I don’t do anything but concentrate.
I remember how painful it was. But I derived pleasure from it because I knew it was pleasing him.
Now, I don’t want to please him. I don’t want to do anything but hurt him as much as he’s hurting me.
No, that’s not true. I want him, even more than I want to hurt him.
And his cock is still at my entrance, not moving. Clearly, he’s waiting for me to humiliate myself again andbeg.
“Okay, yes...please.”
God, I fucking hate myself.
I hate him, too. Why can’t he allow me the belief that I don’t have a choice? Why does he make me admit my twisted need?
