One moment he looks at me like I’m his whole world, and the next, he maneuvers me like his personal slut. He tugs me back where I was, my mouth opening as the forceful shove of his cock passes through my parted lips. It hits the back of my throat, draining me of oxygen, making my eyes sting with tears. He holds me there, against his pelvis, as my body convulses, his hand becoming a slow caress on my hair that grounds me.
“Relax that throat for me. I know you can take it.”
His tone is dark but endearing. The contradiction sets my body ablaze, making every fiber of my being succumb to his dominance. I set out to thank him on my knees, yet he’s the one in control. Always in control.
Within a few seconds of consciously relaxing my muscles, he hums in agreement, his cock slowly working a little deeper down my throat, chasing his pleasure. He looks at me with fascination, seeing the contour of his length poking out from beneath my skin. I can feel how heavy it is inside me, how smooth and hungry. I’m hungry too—my tongue wraps around what it can, my pussy throbbing as a sense of triumph, of pure delight, courses through me for pleasing him.
“Such a. Good. Fucking. Girl,” he groans, increasing his pace, yanking my hair with those inked, veiny arms as he makes sure to hold my mouth in place. My throat struggles to contain him, but I hold his thighs, doing my very best. It’s intoxicating, and it should be alarming that I’m enjoying it so much. He fucks my throat the same way he loves me—guard down, profound, unapologetic.
Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.
I gag, and he holds me still again before he thrusts some more, the feel of my tears on my cheeks and the sounds I makethe only things I can focus on. I’m used and praised, and no part of me wants to stop.
Eventually, his eyes flutter closed. He coats my tongue with cum, losing his sense of time and direction, unveiling every vulnerable part of himself. He tastes like the ocean, salty and foreign, the flavor lodging on my tongue. For some reason, I don’t swallow it yet. It’s my prize, my victory, and I want him to see it, to shower me in praise for how good I took him.
His chest heaves with shallow breaths, as if he has just given me something—a part of himself that’s irrecuperable. He doesn’t regret it. Not an inch of him does, and if he could, he’d give me more. I can tell just by the way he strokes my chin, by the way his eyes soften then darken when I show him my coated tongue.
He shakes his head softly in disbelief, a smile on his lips.
“Where the hell did you come from, Cecilia?”
I don’t know, but I’ve been waiting for you my entire life.
Bringing his hand to my chin, he gently pushes my mouth closed. “Swallow. You’re getting me hard again, and we need to move.”
When we get backto Alemont City, I first take a long, hot shower, shedding the last bits of the past off me. Once I’m done, I step out into the steamy bathroom, taking in my reflection in the mirror.
I don’t focus on the length of my hair, or the plumpness of my skin, or anything like that. I focus on my eyes. There’s a newfound sharpness to them, as if I’ve opened a door and crossed a threshold I can’t uncross. I still expect some measure of regret to hit any second now, but none does. Instead, I cock my head, liking what I see.
This is who I was meant to be all along: imperfect but brave, unafraid to show up for myself and the people I love. I’m done playing nice when I don’t have to, done waiting for approval from anyone who isn’t either me or my husband. It’s us against the world now.
My mind goes back to the house I grew up in, to the family I thought I had. And suddenly, a thought crosses my mind.
I need to call my father.
Not to get more answers, or even an apology for the way he treated me. Part of me understands he might have fallen for Lucia’s lies, that he didn’t intentionally stop loving me. But the other, bigger part of me detests him for everything he’s done. For all the freedoms he took from me, for the way he subjected me to being small. He married me off to a man he thought was a monster with no regard for my safety or well-being, just so he could relieve himself of the burden of fathering me.
I can’t forgive that.
My hands don’t shake as I dial his number, nor when the call connects, or when his gruff, familiar voice reaches me from the other side of the line. I square my shoulders, as if he were right here in front of me, seeing what I’ve become.
“Hello, Father,” I say.
“Cecilia? I…didn’t think you had a phone over there.”
As if he would’ve called me otherwise.
“Why wouldn’t I? You married me off to a powerful man. I have everything I need.”
A short pause. “What can I do for you then?”
“Nothing. I just called to let you know I killed your mistress—Ms. Donatello is dead.”
“You…what?Madonna santa! You did it again…”
“No, not again. Just this once. Why did you do it? Why did you cheat on Mom? She loved you, you know…”
A shuffling noise tells me he’s switching positions as he fumbles for words. “Once. It only happened once.”
