17. Virgilio
Chapter Seventeen
VIRGILIO
I have fucked up. Again.
As the last load of my cum spurts inside of her, the guilt seeps, now coming to shroud me like a cape. Only this cape is fastening around my neck, and I feel like I’m short of air the longer I stay inhaling the thick scent of sex weaving around us.
I’m no hero. If anything, I’m a messenger of doom.
I did tell myself I was doing this to save her. That I bought her to save her. To give her the dreams she was never able to have. But there is no part of fucking her that makes sense aside from the fact that she feels so fucking right.
I’m beginning to question my intentions with every passing minute. Like a part of me wanted to own her this way. I know that cannot be fucking true, but my actions seem to prove me otherwise.
Ah. I fucked it up again. I fucking fucked… Shit. I hate feeling this out of control. I loathe my weakness around her.
No part of fucking her fits into my plan of saving her. But I keep fucking up and letting myself get trudged into the desire to be inside of her like some spellbound idiot.
Whenever the thought hits, I feel helpless. I feel like I could die if I don’t have her. I feel like I would lose my fucking mind. Then, I let that thought consume me, effectively making me lose my mind.
I claw my fingers and scrape down on the door frame, needing to claw at something, to punch something until I can’t feel my knuckles. The punching bag at the far end of my room would do.
I grit as I slip my cock out of her, the dig of my teeth sending a wave of pain to the back of my head.
I’m feeling it again. The feeling I get when I get thrust into an uncomfortable situation. It’s mostly a few pricks, but right now, it’s everywhere. It’s pinging and tingling—the itch on my scars. I’m feeling the stretch on my skin more than usual. Feeling the sharp sting like I’m still ablaze.
I grunt, refusing to let my mind wander to the fact that her pussy will be dripping with my cum.
She wanted me.
I try to console my raging thought, but I’m not buying that bullshit. She is a slave. Not to me, but it is what she knows herself to be. She has been trained, whipped, forced, and drugged to believe her duty is to her master.
There is no way she wouldn’t admit to wanting me. And I took fucking advantage of that. I knew this to be true, but I still took advantage of it. I took advantage of her.
I stumble back, putting some distance between us so I can fucking think, mold my fists from the gnawing regret tearing through me, and paddle to the bed. I drop down, my hands like rocks beside me, my heart stuck in my throat, my stomach a pool of lead.
She is still there, her ass open, and her dress around her waist. She is catching her breath, and I’m out of mine as I stare at her. Studying some faded marks on the back of her thighs and ass.
I’m no better than the monsters who did those to her. I would never lay a finger on her, it weighs the same as taking advantage of her.
I want her to want me, not for her to think that she has to.
That should be the only fucking acceptable way to have her. Not that I can have her right now, knowing the complications that would come with that.
The last thing I need is to block the path to her dream, the path I will carve out for her.
She turns slowly, lips twitching and eyes fluttering. She takes cautious strides toward me, and as if the gnaw dredging through me was not enough, she grinds my heart by kneeling at my feet.
For fuck’s sake!
I want to bark at her to get the fuck off the floor, but I’m caught between wanting to blur the lines and needing to keep them sharp and visible. The constant need to want to let her see me and feel free, but the weight of responsibility squeezing the air out of me.
And the only way to bear that responsibility is to show her I’m her master.
I grind my teeth and sink my nails into my palms until I rip my skin and draw blood.
“Is this what you meant?” Her voice is low, still, but shaky. I can’t say if it’s the aftermath of the orgasm or fear.
I have no idea what she is talking about, and even if I do, I clip my tongue to prevent myself from saying anything to her. I won’t have the right words, and I won’t ruin this further.
“When you said I would have to do anything you asked me to,” her voice turns whispery, and the sting on my scars pricks in a streamline to gather in the corner of my eye. The eye that was almost affected by the fire, “Was this what you meant?”
This wasn’t what I meant. This wasn’t supposed to be anything near what I meant. This was a mistake in a sense. I messed up. And I was right to think she only did this because she felt forced to please her master.
I stand, trying as hard as possible to shuffle things back in place. I need to take back control. I need to ruin the moment we just had and make the thought of fucking me repulsive to her.
“No. This was a mistake, Zoe.” Admittedly, it was a mistake, but not in the way I’m making it out to be. Still, I continue, “I didn’t buy you to fuck you,” No, I fucking did not, but I’m not so sure of that anymore. “I don’t have to pay for sex.”
I don’t have to look at her to feel the drop in her mood. It’s heavy, hanging around like a fog. I know she is hurt.
I stalk over to the punching bag, and I can feel her eyes trailing me, drilling holes into my back. I take a short breath, stop by the punching bag, and clasp my hands around it.
I suck in the itchiness on the side of my body, then prep myself by putting an inch of space between the punching bag and myself. I unleash my frustration on it with the first hard punch.
I have hated my life for the longest time, but today, I hate life more than I ever did any other day. I hate having something I have always wanted and knowing I should not keep it. I hate that I have to question my intentions. I hate that I cannot tell her the truth.
But it is better this way. Putting some distance between us will help.
I might hate it, but it will just add to the million other things about my life that I fucking hate.
I swoosh another punch on the bag.