“Please make yourself at home.” I wave my hand around. “But first, let’s get some lotion on your tattoo. We should’ve done that hours ago.”
Sighing, she plops down on my couch, kicking off her shoes and pulling off her sock. I grab the lotion from the bag. I kneel before her, taking her foot in my hand.
She just watches as I apply lotion to it. I blow on her skin after, to help the lotion dry into her freshly inked skin. Her ankle looks good with my art on it. Her body relaxes, even if her eyes keep glaring at me.
“I’d ask you to do mine, but I’m pretty sure you’d dig your nails into it.” I laugh.
“I won’t,” she whispers.
“What did you end up having me get anyways?”
“Not telling,” she snaps. She takes the lotion from me, and I tug off my hoodie and shirt, wincing as the wet fabric yanks from the sore skin around the stab wound. “You’ll have to ask the next girl you fuck.”
I laugh, sitting on the ground in front of her. Her hand slaps over my tattoo. The sting of her slap and the cool of the lotion create a pleasant feeling, making me groan. I lean into her touch as she presses her fingers into my fresh tattoo.
She leans forward, pressing a kiss to the back of my neck. I sit still. There isn’t much I wouldn’t let her do to me right now. Her teeth scrape against my flesh one moment and then she is biting into the shoulder I stabbed myself in. Digging her teeth into my sore flesh and sucking.
I groan again. The pain she inflicts is becoming intoxicating. I would endure all of it just to keep her safe and by my side.
Her hand slides down my side, pressing into my ribs. A whimper escapes my mouth, as she keeps sucking on my shoulder.
The bleeding has stopped, but I haven’t had a chance to clean off the dried blood yet. If it bothers her, she doesn’t show it.
When her mouth breaks away from my skin, her hand drops to the front of my jeans. I shift, granting her better access. My cock is stiff, has been from the moment she bit me.
“Do you want me to touch it?” she whispers in my ear, before letting her mouth wrap around the lobe.
“No,” I counter, and she pulls back, but I grab her hand, keeping it in my lap. “I need you to touch it. Please.” How I’ve become so willing to beg for it, I’ll never understand, but I’m desperate for her.
“If I touch it, if I make you cum, will you let me leave?” she asks.
“No. Not happening,” I say, jerking forward. I push myself to my feet. “I much rather have you stay here, where you are safe, than I would cum, but good try.” I stroll to the kitchen. She is evil. A vixen from my worst nightmare. My cock aches for her, but I’m not playing whatever game she is playing. “Now I’m starving. How about a frozen pizza?”
“Then that’s the deal.”
“What?” I counter, looking back at her as she sits back on my couch with a smug smile on her face.
“As long as I’m trapped here with you, you can’t cum.” I stare at her, processing her words. The idea is pure agony, but she has my back against the wall. “Like at all. Not from my touch or your own. Or even involuntarily. You cum. I leave. Deal?”
“You’ll stay here as long as I don’t cum?”
“Yes. I won’t try to run. I will stay put like a good girl, as long as you don’t cum.”
“Fine,” I groan. “I accept your terms.”
Have I ever cared for anyone as much as I seem to care for Prue? I highly doubt it. The extremes I’m putting myself through to keep her safe and sane are pathological.
I wouldn’t even do this shit for Wes, and I feel like I owe him my life, so what does that mean I owe Prue? My soul? And why? Why do I care about her so much? What has she done other than cause me a shit ton of problems, deep throat my cock and cum so hard around it that I still feel her pussy like a phantom limb.
Now she is torturing me by dangling good behavior in front of my face. I can’t cum and she will stay put. Should be easy enough given the amount of pain my body is in right now, but as she strips down to just her underwear, curling up on my couch with a plate full of frozen pizza in her lap, I think I’m going to have to chop my balls off to keep from exploding.
She eats slowly, groaning with every bite like it’s the best damn thing she has ever had, despite the fact it was just frozen thirty minutes ago. But right now, she would probably eat grass while moaning just to make me suffer.
I’m not normally into being tortured. Light manhandling has happened in the bedroom, but nothing compared to what she does to me. My shoulder still throbs from where she bit me, and I stabbed myself in front of her father like a fucking psychopath.
“I’ve never had frozen pizza before. It’s disgustingly yummy,” she says, putting the plate on my coffee table and her feet in my lap. “Ever gotten a foot job?”
“No.”
