Chapter 18 #2
Once again he doesn’t strike me. The psychotic motherfucker laughs, pulling me back to him by the grip of my teeth in his skin.
“So you do have teeth,” he taunts as he licks at the blood on my lips when I release him.
The man is fucking brave, getting his face so close to mine, but the pure filthiness of him tasting his blood on my lips makes me whimper with a need I don’t think I’ve ever felt before.
And maybe he feels exactly the same way because he forces me to my back, my body bent uncomfortably in half as he rams inside of me again.
His thick cockhead strikes at that perfect spot inside of me, and I know it’s just luck, the man doesn’t give a shit about my pleasure.
I lock eyes with him, my expression along with the way my body quickens confessing things I’d never admit out loud.
“You sick fucking whore. Come.”
Jesus save me because I do. The orgasm is so strong I have to lock my eyes closed, lip pinned between my teeth because my first instinct as I come down is to thank him for the gift.
He reads me like an open book, laughing once again as he pulls out and sprays cum all over my skin.
Neither of us speak a fucking word as he crashes to the bed beside me.
It was painful, perfect, leaving me broken as I drift to sleep, but it was nothing compared to the pain I feel when he wakes me in the middle of the night.
***
I swat at the hand running up my thigh.
Sleeping well never happens, and the one fucking time I’m lost in a perfect dreamless sleep, I’m interrupted.
“Fucking quit,” I snap, trying to issue a warning with my tone, but even to my own ears my voice is soft and pleading.
Warmth engulfs my back as that hand continues to wander.
I’m not delusional. I know who I’m in bed with, but his soft touches feel like a branding iron on my skin. It’s another way for him to torture me.
The man is well aware by now what gets me off, and I know any time I push him, he’s only going to push back harder, but I can’t allow this.
Soft and easy, slow and sensual, feels disgusting to me. It was how Liana described what happened between her and our father. She called it love. In some entries she sounds like a smitten teen girl hooking up with a high school crush. She loved him.
Bile swims in my throat as I recall those entries.
I’ve been to so many trainings on trafficking and grooming to see it for anything less than what it actually was, but my sister killed him because she was embarrassed to be a pregnant teen, not because it was his baby.
She killed herself because she was upset about losing him, not because she was in fear of getting into trouble. She was heartbroken at her loss.
“Quit,” I hiss again, thinking I’m going to get my way when he grabs my wrist, but instead of forcing it over my head and pinning me there as he climbs between my legs, he runs his palm down my arm.
“Mmm,” he moans as he settles over my body, his mouth in my neck.
He doesn’t bite or pinch or growl. He doesn’t threaten or try to hurt me in any way as he expertly finds the center of me.
He also doesn’t find me ready for him, his head pulling back, confusion on his face as he looks down at me.
“I can fix that,” he says, but instead of twisting my nipple until I scream out in pain, he simply slides down my body, locking his mouth on my clit.
And God does he fix it.
The change in behavior is so fucking strange, I can’t even formulate a way to make it stop. It’s like the man has somehow managed to make my brain go completely offline.
His mouth on me is perfection, the way he flicks his tongue before long, hot sucks.
I like it fucking rough. I need it to even get close to coming, but I have no control over this.
That part of me is built for stimulation.
I don’t care how uninterested I may be, attention there, soft hard, rough, tender, it doesn’t fucking matter, my body is going to do what it’s meant to do.
I slicken in record time, but he doesn’t pull back. He moans my name as he drinks me down. His hips rock into the mattress as I come as if he just can’t help himself.
“Jesus, Lauren,” he mutters as he wipes his forearm against his mouth on his way back up my body.
I stare down at him, locked in place by the utter weirdness of this.
He covers me once again, one of his hands lifting my leg until my knee is high on his hip. He’s successful when he enters me again, his eyes growing glassy in the light filtering in from the streetlamps outside.
I want him to stop.
I need him to stop.
It’s absolute torture, the tender touches, and the way his face softens when he watches me take him this way.
I don’t say a word as tears stream down my face, because it’s painful. It hurts me for him to simulate any form of what may be considered lovemaking.
So I let it happen, and despite him shushing my sobs, telling me I’m perfect, I can’t get a handle on my emotions.
It isn’t cathartic. It isn’t the break into my past that will finally let me heal.
It’s distressing, horrendous. It’s horrifying and traumatic.
It’s fucking perfect.
When he grunts my name, his mouth on my skin, his cum filling me, I hate that it’s over, but he allows me to turn over and sob without touching me again.