“You know, your underwear says a lot about you as a person.”
“What do mine say?”
“That you’re aliar.”
He wasn’t wrong. The Tierney the world knew would wear a black, lacy thong.
He pushed my underwear down in one go, letting it bunch around my ankles.
“On your toes.” A rough palm patted my ass cheek. I swallowed back a groan.
I did as I was told, plastering my forehead to the cool counter. My ass and pussy were bare in front of him, up in the air.
“Spread ’em.” He kicked my feet apart, and I did, as much as I could, anyway, with my undies still bunched at my ankles.
“That’s enough,” he released a mocking huff. “But good to know you’re eager.”
The insult landed square in my chest, but before I was able to stand up and tell him to go fuck himself, he pushed his shorts down and guided the warm, velvety crown of his cock between my folds from behind.
I froze at the invasion.
He didn’t push inside. Just swirled the fat head in circles, tracing my folds, massaging them.
To my absolute horror, I was wet.
Wet because of the situation.
Wet because it was forbidden and wrong.
Wet because it washim.
Holy shit. No way. That couldn’t be. It made no sense. I’d never been this turned on by anyone before, and he didn’t even hurt me. I could usually only bring myself to climax when someone slapped or bruised me.
I wondered if he thought about my past when he was teasing me, and if so, I wondered if he cared. I couldn’t allow myself to examine what was happening too closely.
I’d spent the last decade denying what had happened at that Russian camp. So much so that I didn’t remember any of the abuse I’d suffered. The memories were hazy, sitting at the periphery of my mind, just past a secure wall I’d built, tall and strong, to shield me from them.
They felt like little weeds, desperate to claw their way in, to contaminate the lovely garden I now tended. Where roses and lilies grew neatly, alongside manicured shrubs. Of thoughts about shopping sprees and yacht vacations, and of admirers who only dared look but never touch.
I had managed to forget.
In order to live.
In order to survive.
But it came with a price. I had mastered the art of disconnecting my body from my soul when I got into bed with someone. I never made eye contact, never completely loosened up; I always kept the encounter on surface level. Enough to draw pleasure but not enough to penetrate the mental wall of security I barricaded my emotions behind.
The more Achilles teased my pussy from behind, the wetter I became, until I found myself grinding my nipples against the vanity, desperately seeking the friction as my vision blurred with lust.
Jesus, what was wrong with me?
The answer is too much and you damn well know it.
I couldn’t wait to have his cock inside me.
When my pussy began making wet, embarrassing sounds, Achilles decided to guide his cock from my entrance up to my clit, spreading the wetness around. Despite my best efforts, I let loose a small moan, which I immediately killed with a lip bite. I felt his shredded six-pack quaking against the curve of my ass with a wry chuckle.
“You like that, huh?” he purred. “Do you always get wet for men who fuck you for favors?”
