God, I bet her pussy gapes so prettily.
With that mental image it takes no time, and I quickly ejaculate with a rumbling growl that rips through my chest, startling me. Thick white ropes of semen spurt from the tip of my cock, draping over my hand, and thankfully not getting on my pants. Gasping with aftershocks, I tilt my head to rest against the back of my chair and sit there for a minute, shuddering. Trying to get a grip over my emotions.
I'm shaking, so overwhelmed I can't think straight.
Because when Sarah left, she took the fucking alphabet with her, and I still can't form a coherent sentence in my brain to save my life.
Cleaning myself up with a couple more tissues from my desk, I lean back in my chair, breathing deeply. I glance down again and sigh miserably at my half-hard length.
"Fucking hell!Sarah!"I groan.
I'm a man possessed as I inhale deeply, still smelling her scent lingering in the room. It's torture because she smells like dessert. My weakness.
Chapter eleven
Uncomfortable
Lingeringinsidethedoubledoor entrance and waiting for the driver to show, I replay the last twenty minutes, feeling myself getting angrier and angrier. Not much of a curser, I letit out in the privacy of the empty lobby. Balling my cardigan to my mouth, I screech,"Fucking infuriating asshole!Fucking meeennnn!"
Wiping my fingers under my eyes, I breathe hard and try to get it together before the driver comes. Not even five minutes later, I'm gazing quietly out the glass door, and I have my breathing firmly under control by the time the driver pulls into the lot and flashes her lights.
My mini breakdown only helped so much; I fume all the way home, upset beyond words at Dr. Richardson's behavior. However, I'm shocked out of my anger at the psychiatrist when I see Brandon is home in a good mood, with flowers and my favorite tea, wanting to watch a movie and asking about my day…thankfully, not drunk for once.
And I'm so pissed at how this afternoon went that I accept the gifts and company without complaint.
I smile slightly as we recline on the couch together. He has his arm around me and his hand on my belly, rubbing gently. A small frisson of hope blossoms in my core, making me feel wildly off-center because I know better. Ishouldknow better. But I'm weak right now, I can admit that.
“I’ve been calling the baby ‘Bumpy,’” I say quietly.
Not comfortable sharing the name I picked out, I keep it to myself and place my hand over his, wishing things could be different. Contemplating quietly on everything. I'm afraid that I will always hate him for how he’s treated me over the last few weeks. Even if he started acting perfect right this second, and stayed that way, I'm not sure I could erase the fact that he’s beaten me and treated me the way he did.
That night, I fall asleep on the couch, not comfortable sleeping in the bedroom with him. Thankfully, he doesn't get angry and leaves me alone.
The weekend flies by uneventfully. I spent most of it in bed. It only took a day, but Brandon reverted back to his usual drunk self, becoming even more vicious, if possible. Probably because he'd been nice to me. So far this weekend he's criticized my cooking, all because I’d made my favorite dish: oxtails and rice.
Then, desperate to make myself feel better, I forced myself to relax and was busy giving myself a hot-oil treatment to help with the heat damage to my hair when he came home. He took one look at me and started a fight. In criticizing my curly hair, he called me a racial slur - which, coming from him, is new and threw me incredibly off guard.
I’d never heard him say anything remotely racist before.
In shock and crying, I went into our bedroom and grabbed as many clothes as I could fit into a bag, along with all of my toiletries and makeup. I grabbed my keys, snagged my favorite blanket, got into my car and drove straight to my office. I'm done.
If he has the audacity to be racist towards me, how will he treat our child?
Four Days Later
I've been staying at my office since I left, sleeping on the tiny couch in my room. It's been peaceful, being by myself, and gives me the right amount of time to convince myself that I can do this alone. I'm less scared than I was before and a bit more confident in myself.
However, by Thursday evening, I realize I need to go back to the house to grab some more clothes and toiletries. I trudge along, not wanting to see Brandon, and pray he's not there, so I can just waltz in, grab what I need, and leave.
Letting myself into the house after work, I walk quietly through the living room, gasping in fear as the lamp suddenly turns on, illuminating the space. There Brandon sits, lookingincrediblydrunk. My eyes roam his body, seeing his hair and clothes disheveled. My nose crinkles as the overpowering smell of tequila wafts over here at me from several feet away; I swallow hard, fighting my gag reflex.
Empty liquor bottles and trash litter the brand new table in front of him.
I try not to panic as my eyes meet his in the barely lit space. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, my fingers clench, and I shift my body weight to my right foot. The air becomes heavy and thick with tension as we lock eyes, and I feel my heart pound just a little faster. My lips part in fear as I try to take a deep breath, but my windpipe begins to close with terror at feeling something different in his energy; I can’t manage to get in anything but a trickle of air at a time.
Brandon sits forward in his seat with his legs spread and his hands clasped between his knees as his eyes rakes over my bodyin one long, slow movement. I swallow thickly past the lump in my throat, feeling dirty and violated with just that simple action. I can't believe I ever let him touch me, and I can't believe that I ever let him inside of my body.
In this moment, I realize I never want to be touched again.
