Chapter 22 #3
She slides into me with her hand until she hits something so deep within me, so forcefully that I forget the rules.
I scream.
“Oh-oh,” she says. “Broken rule.”
And pulls out slightly, only to push back in.
I scream and try to move away.
Her hand slips out.
“I told you, there is no getting away,” she says and glares vindictively at me. It’s the moment I kick her in the face.
She flies off the bed, but comes back up immediately.
“Oh, you really wanna know it, huh?”
She grabs my legs, and I fight. She might be strong, but not as strong as my legs.
What I didn’t count on, however, was that she must have had training in combat, because within one second, she has me in a lock, and I can’t move anymore.
She leans on me, her elbow pressing into my throat. Her face is so close. Her eyes have almost no color anymore.
“I’m going to fuck you with the strap-on until you get unconscious,” she whispers, pushes herself off me, gets a strap-on from the drawer, and straps in.
I am too perplexed to move. There is no point anyway.
She grasps underneath my legs, pulls me to where she kneels on the bed, and enters me. The dildo is big. And she’s not holding back.
She’s thrusting relentlessly in me.
Again.
And again.
And again.
It’s painful.
But not that bad.
I know it’s not okay.
I know she crossed a boundary.
I know none of this is right.
And yet, I am here.
I just watch her.
Because she is in more pain than I am.
It shows with every thrust.
Her eyes glitter.
She’s sweating.
I lie still and let her.
It is the outlet.
I don’t know how much time passes.
What I know is that I don’t feel anything down there anymore.
Her arms start shaking.
She slows down.
Sweat drips onto my face.
Her eyes flicker.
It’s the one vulnerable moment.
“Stop,” I whisper.
She looks at me.
She stops.
She stopped.
Her eyes widen in horror.
“Lick me,” I say. “Make me come.”
She stares at me as if I were a different person.
And maybe I am.
She slips the strap out of me.
Crawls down.
Her tongue trails over my labia.
I roll my hips and close my eyes.
She circles around my clit.
Just her tongue.
Sensual.
Not forcefully.
I moan slightly.
I grasp her head.
Push her face into me.
Images flash through my mind.
Images of how she grasped me by the hair.
Took me—
My core burns, and a wave of relief spreads through me as my legs press around her head.
I ride the feeling out.
It is the most heated orgasm I have ever heard.
I just came by thinking about being roughly handled. Everything about it is wrong, rationally. Emotionally, I am too consumed to analyze it.
I release my legs.
She comes up and looks at me.
Her eyes are wide, with pain in them.
“You didn’t leave,” she whispers.
“No,” I say. “I won’t leave you.”
“But you have to,” she says, her face grimacing in pain. “I need you to hate me.”
“No, I won’t,” I whisper.
“I’m a mess,” she breathes out, and tears find their way into her eyes, tears that drip down onto my body.
“I know,” I say. “I knew that from the moment I met you. But I am here anyway. Because I love you.”
“You cannot love me,” she says with her contorted face and a shaky voice. “And I cannot love you.”
“Why?” I ask.
She struggles with herself for a moment.
“Because,” she begins, and her eyes shimmer from the tears that try to fight their way to the surface. “Because in loving you, I am betraying her.”
With that, she pushes herself up, removes the strap, takes the bottle of whiskey, and walks to the bathroom, locking herself in it.
It takes me a moment to realize what she just said. It takes me even longer to find my will to free myself from the ties around my wrists.
My hands tingle horribly when the rope slips off, and it takes several minutes before I can move them properly again. I crawl off the bed, my entire body hurts.
I grasp my pants, slip them on—
It’s when I see there is blood on the bed.
I walk to the mirror.
My butt is smeared in blood.
I didn’t even realize that.
And while I should be all sorts of shocked, I am not.
I roll my shoulders. I can’t deal with those thoughts right now.
Suddenly, a shattering noise from the bathroom.
I run to it.
“Amelie,” I say, and knock at the bathroom door. It’s an industrial door, blurry glass in a metal frame. I can guess blurred shapes through it.
“Amelie,” I say again. But there is no reaction.
I knock harder.
“Open the door,” I say harshly.
Fear overcomes me.
I glance around, but the gun lies on the floor next to the drawer.
Small relief spreads through me.
My eyes fall onto the wall next to me with the bullet in it. The shot she fired at me.
She is not herself.
She is operating on grief and guilt.
“Amelie, open the door, or I will come in.”
No reaction.
“For fucks sake, Amy,” I shout. I usually don’t curse, nor do I use a nickname for her, but right now, I do.
I run to get the pan from the floor, run back.
“Last chance,” I say.
At that moment, the lock opens.
Amelie stands in the doorway as it slides open.
“It’s what she always said,” she says, a smile on her face, before she sways and collapses into my arm, blood everywhere from her cut forearm.