“Oh, this is me,” she says. “You just haven’t met me.”
“I have met you, you are caring and kind, and this is just grief, pain, and anger about what happened. It needs an outlet?—“
She pulls me up by the hair. I scream from the pain and try to get a grip on her wrists and scratch her.
She laughs and wraps her arm around my throat from behind.
“Exactly,” she says.
Her arm tightens, compressing my throat—I can’t breathe?—
I fight. Scratch. Wiggle. But she doesn’t care. She is strong. She is muscular. Trained.
Trained.
I don’t even want to imagine what she must’ve gone through to have this version of her in her.
Suddenly, she lets go, and she pushes me onto the bed.
Before I can do anything, she locks my hands with her grip, wraps rope around my wrists, and ties them so tight that they become white.
“You want to talk about how I feel?” she asks me, leaning above me and arching my head back by the hair. “Try talking now.”
She shoves fabric in my mouth and fixes it with a belt or something that she closes at the back of my head.
It’s the moment I panic.
Without my words, I am powerless.
A feeling that turns me on.
I am at her mercy. Only she has none right now.
I want to be here.
I want her to take control.
To do whatever she needs.
I want to be taken.
What a messed-up thing to say,I think to myself, and then mypants are being pulled down. My mind turns off—in a good way.
Her hand slaps on my ass, painfully, but my core burns.
I scream into the fabric in my mouth from the pain.
She slaps again. I scream.
Heat surges through me.
I want her to fuck me.
Nothing happens for a moment. I glance around, but I don’t see her.
I try to turn around, but before I can, I am pushed back into the sheets, face forward.
“Lie still,” she says, and presses the gun to my head.
