8. DANTE #3
A raw rage, unlike anything I've ever known, begins to fester in my gut. This isn't the kind of challenge I understand. He fucked up my entire week, every hour of my days, only to culminate in this: an invitation to pure, unadulterated cruelty, offering himself as a tool for my rage.
What the fuck are you?
My boot shoots out. I kick him in the chest, and Nyx grunts, hitting his back against the wall. His breath is ragged now.
The sound that escapes his throat makes my blood run cold. A low moan, which I only hear because we are in complete silence. His eyes, though glazed with pain, fix on mine, reverent, and his pants…
Fuck. I see a bulge forming, pressing .
My jaw clenches so hard I think my teeth will crack. An unholy mix of disgust and fascination courses through me. He's hard because of this. I shouldn't be so surprised anymore by how inhuman he is—a nightmare , a twisted reflection of my own rage.
I stride forward, grabbing a fistful of his messy black hair, pulling his head up until his body rises. His neck stretches, a vulnerable line, and a small, airy gasp escapes his lips.
"You want to feel?" I snarl, allowing myself a venom I detest. My thumb presses hard against his jaw, forcing his mouth open. "I'll make you feel. I'll make you beg to not feel anymore."
His dilated eyes devour my face with a feverish obscenity. That damned bulge in his pants presses harder against the fabric.
My other hand balls into a fist. I punch him in the stomach, below the ribs, and he doubles over, my grip on his hair the only thing holding him upright.
"You like that, you sick fuck?" I snarl, my voice overflowing with contempt. "You like being used? You like feeling pain?" I yank his head up again, forcing him to meet my gaze. That infuriating glint of pleasure. "This is my control. Not yours. You feel what I want you to feel."
His lips try to form something, but only another low, broken moan escapes. A sound of absolute surrender. The sight of his raw, exposed need, the way his body trembles against my violence, sparked a terrifying impulse within me.
I want to silence that sound. To smother that disgusting pleasure. I want to drown him in my dominance, until he feels nothing but my will.
My hand in his hair tightens further. I stare at his parted, swollen lips, slick with blood and saliva.
Fueled by a mixture of disgust, fury, and an uncontrollable possession, I lower my head.
My mouth crashes onto his.
The kiss is rough, violent. I force my tongue inside, and our teeth clash as I swallow his moans. He grips my shirt so tightly his knuckles turn white.
His touch, his taste, his scent are overwhelming.
They set every nerve on fire, and I have no words to describe this sensation.
It consumes me, igniting a fury that's both lust and violence.
I push him hard against the wall, crushing his body against mine.
He arches into my touch, and his covered erection presses against my thigh, throbbing.
I quickly lower my hand to his pants, harshly shoving my hand inside. "Is this what you fantasize about, you disgusting whore? Is this what you dream about?"
His cock is hard, throbbing, a wet, sticky mess.
My fingers wrap around him, and I squeeze hard. I drag my knuckles against his sensitive head, rubbing, and he lets out a strangled gasp, contracting his hips, desperate for a rhythm. I deny it.
"Beg," I order against his mouth, pulling my lips away just enough to speak. My thumb presses into the sensitive underside of his shaft, forcing another moan from his throat. "Beg for it, you pathetic aberration."
His eyes, hazy, try to focus on mine. His mouth opens, gasping for air, pushing his hips against my hand. "Please," he rasps, airy, almost choked, "please, mister… please…"
I watch him, my own breath ragged. I control this, not him . I make the rhythm, and I deny it to him, keeping him on the edge. I squeeze harder, twisting my hand just enough to send another shock through him.
He's panting as a thin sheen of sweat breaks out on his pale skin. The sound of his ragged breaths mingles with the wet, sticky sounds of my hand moving against him.
I move my hand in unpredictable motions. A harsh squeeze, a slow, agonizing drag of my knuckles, a sudden, jarring twist. I want to torture him, to push him deeper into the abyss of his own sick desire.
I drag my thumb across the swollen head of his cock, grinding it into the sensitive tip, then pull my hand back just when his body tenses for a climax that never comes. He moans, frustrated by denied ecstasy, arching for something, anything, more .
My own body screams, my groin on fire. His moans, his pleas, the sight of his pleasure are tearing at my control. But I cannot give him the satisfaction of my surrender.
"Not yet," I snarl, my voice rough with effort. "You don't get to come until I say so. You don't get to feel that relief. Not when you like it this much, you sick fuck."
I drag my nails lightly across his shaft, just enough to torment him, to remind him of his own raw, aching need.
His hips convulse again, and he lets out a frustrated grunt. His head falls back against the wall, on the brink, trembling, his fluids coating my hand and his breathing short and shallow. He's a disaster.
Just as his body tightens for the final, desperate lunge, I rip my hand away.
Nyx sags against the wall. His body remains rigid, trembling, his erection still pulsing.
I step back, disgusted by the wet stickiness on my hand, disgusted by the sight of him, and above all, disgusted by the animalistic satisfaction that still pulses in my veins.
He says nothing, just watches me, with that ragged breathing.
I can't stay here another second. The air is too thick with his scent, with his suppressed moans, with the lingering stench of his perversion. I need to breathe. I need to kill something.
I stalk out of the room, leaving the broken mug, the spilled coffee, and Nyx, trembling and still hard, under a dim, dull, homey light.
I slam the door shut behind me. I need to distance myself from this house, this lunatic, this… feeling.
I open the car door and fall into the driver's seat. My hands still tremble with a mix of fury and something I refuse to name. I grip the steering wheel, and the engine roars, but it brings me no comfort.
The duck song, the damned duck song, is a perverse soundtrack to the images burned behind my eyelids: Nyx's bloodied face, his desperate moans, the nauseating arch of his body, and that pulsating bulge under my hand.
My own cock is rock hard, aching. I cannot be as fucked up as him. Not like him. I cannot be like him.
I drive to nowhere. I just stomp on the accelerator at an absurd speed, blurring the city lights into colored streaks. I need to outrun it. Outrun him.
My groin throbs, insistent, demanding a release I denied both of us.
I slam on the brakes only after turning off the main road onto a desolate, dark stretch of abandoned land, with no one around.
I don't want to do this.
My hands fly to my belt. I undo the buckle, unzip my pants. My dick is hard, pulsing with painful urgency. I grab it.
I need to purge him from my system, to force him out of my head.
I close my eyes. The images only intensify. His eyes. The reverence. His pleas, his blood, his moans.
This is what he did. He reduced me to this. To a desperate animal, alone in the dark, trying to fuck away the sickening image of his pleasure.
It's useless. Every thrust, every pump of my hips, is for him. For the way he looks at me. For the way he makes me feel out of control.
My orgasm feels more like a violent expulsion than a climax.
I purge him from myself. But the images remain.