He pauses the onslaught from his mouth, then tugs at the waistband of my leggings in an attempt to pull them back up. I move forward a little. “Why did you stop? I haven’t said my safe word.”
“You want more?”
“No.” I grind my back teeth as he smirks at me. Bastard knows exactly what he’s doing to me. If it wasn’t for the tampon, I’d be saturated. He can probably still smell the effect he has on me, with or without the plug.
“If you don’t tell me what you want, Red, I can’t help you.” His lips quirk into a full fucking grin. And he calls me the fox. He’s such a sly bastard.
My walls clench; my vag reminding me she’s still waiting to get her kicks, and it’s not with the tampon. With a rush, I spit out the words. “Just make me come, damnit.”
A dark chuckle leaves his mouth as he pulls my leggings over my ass. He walks around the bed and unties me, but before he lets my wrists go, he presses his lips against my nose. “Only good girls get rewards, Red. And you need to be punished for that attitude of yours.”
Fury mixed with shame floods my body and once I’m free of the ties, I lunge for him like a wild animal. Of course, he catches my arms before I can land a blow on his smug face. “You bastard.”
He turns with a grin plastered on his face. I throw a cushion at him as he leaves the room, then flop back on the bed. To think I was starting to like him, too. He’s been more than generous and kind, but this controlling behaviour is screaming red flag, red flag, red flag like a mantra in my head.
My bloody vagina doesn’t care, though. She only cares about herself. It’s me that has to suffer the consequences and pick up the pieces of my broken heart each time we get screwed over by a man.
Mum had the right idea all along, God rest her soul. I make the sign of the cross on my chest out of habit each time I think of Mum. If only she was around now to talk to, although I certainly wouldn’t be asking for relationship advice.
I would ask her what the heck Malcolm wants with me. I saw him at Mum’s funeral, thought he was one of her ex’s, but he must have been after the necklace all along. But why? I took that in to get it valued and the old guy quoted me two hundred quid because it was unusual, not for the fake gemstones. He slapped his lips while he fingered the piece, much like Fagen from Oliver Twist.
Mum always did like to have cheap costume jewellery. Her large jangly earrings finished her signature ensemble. A smile unfurls my lips. She may not have won any awards for mother of the year, but she was all I had for so long. My best friend even, and I think she would have done anything for me. If only she wasn’t taken away so cruelly.
15
DOM
Sitting at the breakfast bar, I lift the lid to the broken jewellery box to assess the damage. The cracked mirror on the inside of the lid shows my true self. A fucked up version of me, broken and twisted.
Poppy is still stewing in her room, probably chewing over the spanking I gave her. Either that or getting herself off. She hasn’t come out since and refused dinner. She must be mad.
A silent laugh shakes my stomach. She was so fucking close. It took every ounce of strength I had not to sink balls deep into her red heat. Being on her period had my cock harder than ever, desperate to surf the crimson tide and ride the waves of her orgasm around my dick.
I shudder and growl inwardly, just thinking about how good she’ll feel when I eventually claim her as mine. She needs to stop fighting me, though. I can’t help her while she’s fighting me all the time. I need her to trust me, and the only way to do that is with patience. Something I’m running out of. Fast.
I prise the broken glass from the inside of the lid and empty it into the trash, sick of looking at my own reflection. The ballerina is still intact, just broken from the pedestal, but I can fix that. A new mirror and hinge, some superglue, and this will be as good as new.
She’s sentimental about this. It was her mothers. Dan and I know only too well how that feels. We kept everything of Ma’s for so long. The guilt of not being able to save her still weighs heavily on our chests. We were just kids, but my mother’s death shaped the rest of our lives.
When I open the small drawer at the bottom, a pile of photographs spring free. My chest swells at the sight of a little redhead in a tutu. Another of Poppy outside an old caravan with a woman, her mother.
The next picture makes my breath halt. A familiar face with Poppy’s fiery hair and a little girl on his knee. My jaw tightens seeing his hands on her. She’s smiling at him as if he’s her world. A look I could only long for from her.
“What are you doing?” Her tone is more curious than angry after a day in her room, or my room. Our room. I like the sound of that too much.
Turning to face her, I hold up the Polaroid in my hand. “Who’s this?”
She pads closer. “Me. Can’t you tell? Chubby little ginger. Who else would it be?” She snorts, as if making fun of herself is funny.
“I know the beautiful girl is you. Who’s the man?” I know exactly who the man is, but I need to know who he is to her.
“My dad.” She snatches the photo from my hand. “I don’t have many photos of him.” She traces the man with the tip of her finger. A whimsical smile lifts her cheeks.
“I thought you said your dad was dead.”
“He is. He passed away not long after this photograph. That’s when mum packed up our stuff, and we lived in a caravan. I guess she couldn’t afford to keep the house after dad died.”
“How did he die?”
