I move it in and out of her mouth, forcefully, until it’s wet enough. Slip it in the strap-on and position myself behind her ass.
I grab her hips so the spreader bar isn’t interfering with my plan.
“Good girls get a warm-up,” I say. “Filthy whores don’t.”
And with that, I thrust into her.
She screams.
She whimpers.
She pleads.
But I hammer into her.
Again and again and again.
“Stooooop!!!” she screams. But there is no stopping. I told her. She agreed to it. And she has to deal with it.
Only that her screams touch me somewhere.
I thrust more into her, but it brings me no more joy.
It causes me to feel more hollow.
“Nooooo!” she screams again, and I hesitate.
“Please! Stop!”
I stop.
I don’t want to.
But I have to.
I try to force myself, but my body resists.
My mind needs to win.
Needs to force her.
Break her.
But I can’t.
I pull out.
“Please,” she breathes out. “I’m?—“
But whatever it is, it dies in a heavy silence.
Tears drop onto the bed’s latex cover. They sound like canon blasts in my head.
I don’t know what is going on within me.
I remove the strap; I need to get rid of it.
My thoughts race, and yet, I cannot grasp a single thought. It is the first time I would like to run. Run far away.
