Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
As the sharp metal moves across my flesh, the breath I was holding releases. A thin line of blood begins to trickle down my leg as I continue, and the pressure drains out along with it. It’s so good. Too good. My head is spinning a little by the time I finish. It’s a feeling I’ve come to crave more and more often lately. All the time.
But this is the first time I’ve done it with an audience. An audience who now breathes heavily, eyes fixed on the damage I’ve done. He parts his lips, his nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing like he’s excited by it. Like he might be getting off on it a little. Could that be true? I already knew he was twisted, but is he that twisted?
The answer is right in front of me, growing and twitching inside his shorts. “Sit down,” he mutters, still staring at the blood now drying on my leg. I do, because my legs are weak, my whole body is weak with relief.
It must be the relief that makes me speak. “Some birthday.” I would never have admitted that otherwise.
“It’s your birthday?” He actually sounds interested and not in his usual snide, nasty way. “Oh. Happy birthday.”
“Right,” I whisper, snickering as I lay the blade down on the comforter. “I really believe you mean that.”
“I do. I could give you a present, if you wanted.” His words, paired with the lowering of his zipper, make my heart lodge itself in my throat.
How is this happening? Not like I ever had control over the situation, but things are spiraling, and I don’t know what to do. “If that’s the present, no thank you.”
“Just fucking lie back.” Standing, he places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a shove. Not hard, but enough to force me back onto the bed. I don’t know what to think about any of this. The way he’s looking at me, his hungry gaze crawling over me. The way it makes me feel—strangely warm, not unpleasant. For some reason, watching me cut myself turned him on, got him hard, and now he’s reaching into his fly. My breath catches in my throat, my gaze glued to the motion of his hand as he withdraws his dick.
Hard, thick, the mushroom head bulging and swollen and dripping with excitement. He pumps his fist up and down his length once, twice, staring at my scars. “Get rid of the underwear,” he grunts, “unless you want me to do it for you.”
The thing is, I know he means it, which is why I fumble through quickly removing my pink lace underwear. It’s not like he’s never seen me this way before. Just the one time, but that was all it took. I’ve tried so hard to push the experience out of my memory. Yet it insists on haunting me.
“So pretty,” he whispers, spreading my thighs with his knee, opening me up to the fingers of his free hand. Fingers which brush against my shaved lips, his touch making me jump and squirm and quiver. For some reason, I want to hide my reaction. I don’t want him to know what this is doing to me.
But there’s no hiding it, not when a warm tingle stirs and begins to spread. When the already rapid beating of my heart gets faster, harder, as hard as Tucker’s dick. He continues to stroke while staring down at my pussy, teasing my lips, getting us both more excited with every caress. “Relax,” he whispers, applying just enough pressure to almost breach my slit.
And then he does, delving between my lips, and my back arches before I can help it. There is no hiding this—and right now, as the sensations grow, I don’t want to. For the first time, in I don’t know how long, I feel something. Pleasure. It’s no deeper than that, and it doesn’t need to be. It’s something primal but necessary. I understand that now, as all the hunger that’s been locked down inside me rushes to the surface. Demanding satisfaction.
“Look who’s wet,” he grunts, and I tear my eyes away from his pumping fist long enough to meet his hungry gaze. His eyes are partly closed, his breath coming through pursed lips. It’s a needful look, completely focused on one thing only: feeling good. Satisfaction. For the first time in maybe ever, I’m grateful to him for giving me this. The chance to feel. To be connected, only for a moment, if only based upon his whims.
When he finds my clit, I swear I’m speaking in tongues, completely abandoning the idea of self-control in favor of soaking in every thrilling sensation. The tension in my core ratchets up, heat building, need growing. The bundle of nerves he flicks with his thumb aches painfully in response, but I welcome that, too. I even welcome the need, leaving me breathless for more. I’ll die if he doesn’t give me more.