BOART

Using brute force to try and break a man — or a horse — only served in making them angrier. It worked against the grain of the ego, challenging instead of appealing to it. The good Preacher had learned in his time that the best way to domesticate a wild animal was not by merely showing it who's boss. You gotta show him that you're the one who's gonna feed him... water him... That you're the one who's gonna take care of him, always and forever.

Frank Griffin's missionary work created more than just a gang of outlaws and gunslingers - it built a family. A real true blue group of strong, dependable men. Roy Goode had been a pet project of Frank's over the past ten years after the boy stumbled into his path by a mere act of God some idle Summer day; a young, broken thing who tried to steal from him and spat in his face when confronted about it. No boy should have to weather the seasons of life alone like that. No boy should ever be abandoned. So Frank took him under his wing, taught him everything he knew; or at least, everything he wanted Roy to know, because as charitable as Frank was he still struggled with his own demons. The kind that purposefully made people weaker than they ought to be so he could feel more powerful. So he could still be needed. He knew Roy like the back of his hand because it was those very same hands that molded him, careful and calculated, into somebody silent, capable, and obedient. Smart enough to look after himself but soft enough to still be desperate for the love and attention of a Pappy.

Things had been good, perfect even, up until they picked up the Devlin brothers a few months ago. Something about them rubbed Roy the wrong way. The same way a family dog might side-eye the new pair of kittens Mom and Dad brought home. That's how Frank saw it at least. Figured Roy was just jealous. The two boys were younger and in more need of Frank's undivided attention, still shaken up from the tragedy of their kin's massacre. But there was no good reason for Roy to be acting out the way he was. It was a few years too late to be brushed off as simple teenage angst, so it made the whole family look bad, or worse, it made Frank look bad. When Roy got in one of his moods it created a rift between him and the rest of the group. Chipped away at the trust Frank had worked so hard to build. And Roy knew it, too. Whenever it was happening they'd exchange a look in the midst of it. Roy would have his hand half way in the metaphorical cookie jar before flickering his eyes to Frank - not angry, bold, as if to ask, do you see me? Am I making an impact? And when the Preacher would give him that look, that stone-cold slate of paternal disappointment followed by the warning of a low and steady, "Roy..." - that's when the boy's hand would clutch in a fist around the forbidden fruit and eat it.

Tonight was on the tail end of one of those moods. It was a scene that had been played a thousand times over, the group's men tired, worn, and hungry for ale and a little bit of company. Daryl Devlin had a fresh black eye and a whore on his lap, spinning some story about how he got it protecting some woman's honor in a bar fight while his brother, Donnie, chats up another, pointing to the blood stain on his shirt like a badge of honor. Roy sat two tables away, brooding, knuckles still bruised from punching Daryl in the face earlier. It took a whole lot of gospel and sweet talk from Frank to convince him to go out that night, reminding him the Devlin boys were still learning, still struggling in their ways, and fighting with them only made matters worse. 'What if I fought you the day we met, hm? I had every right to. What then?' And just like always, Roy folded in the face of Frank's kindness. Just like he was raised to do.

At the same table sat Dyer and Amos, both slurring their words and at least four drinks in. The carousing of the group was mind-numbing. Loud, crude, and raucous; Roy sat in the eye of it all similarly to how he did in all their endeavors, more of a silent accomplice than a participant. He had a glass of water in front of him, sober and pensive, uninterested in both the men's conversation and the coquettish, provocative train of women that came by on their rounds in an attempt to lure one of them upstairs.

"Are'ya still over there poutin', boy?"

Amos' voice cut through Roy's train of thought like a bullet, pulling his eyes upward. He doesn't respond. The question was rhetorical, and Dyer took the opportunity to answer for him anyway.

"Whadd'ya expect, Amos? When was the last time you saw the kid smile?" His words come out in a drunken drawl, prompting Roy to turn his head away in an attempt to detach himself from the conversation.

"Ay - I know what'll make'm smile. Hey, sweetheart —"

That's when you're pulled into the whole ordeal, leaning against a wooden pillar by the brothel's front doors, one hand holding a burning cigarette and the other wrapped around your corseted waist in a display of abject boredom. You just started your shift and had taken your usual scouting position, annoyed to find it so close in proximity to the loudest, most abhorrent group of men in the joint. You had been successfully ignoring them up until then, scanning the perimeter for a wealthy man you could squeeze for all he's worth - but now you find your head turned to the scoundrels, thin brow raised in acknowledgement as the smoke of your cigarette drew upward.

The man that called for you waved his hand sloppily to invite you over. "C'mere a sec."

Ah, what the hell. A client was a client; a whore was a whore. You put out your cigarette and prowl toward them wearing a polite, sultry smile and a voice to boot. "Yes, gentleman?"

The larger one with the beard looks up at you with a filthy grin, which alone was enough to tell you this group is bad, bad news. He prods a thumb at the younger man seated across from him. "Our boy here's in need of some company."

You and Roy look at each other in unison. His eyes are wide - non-threatening - not in a startled or ogling way, but like he's trying to appear polite, or maybe they're just naturally that size. Boyish. His hand raises between you to deflect Dyer's claim, the same way one might do when a waitress comes asking if they want more coffee. "Ah - no, there's no need for that."

"—Sure there is." Amos rudely interjects, "Fuckin' look at 'em. He ain't felt the touch of a woman all his life, Miss. He's achin' for it. Just too shy to ask."

As the men chuckle amongst themselves, Roy breaks eye contact with you, clearly uncomfortable. Your smile grows from chaste to Cheshire in one smooth pull. "Is that right?" you purr as you move closer, long, feminine hands gliding along the back of Roy's chair. Call it predatory, but you knew a good potential customer when you saw one. Good, humble men like him were the easiest to persuade into the VIP rooms, the gentlest lovers, quick finishers, and big tippers. Helped that he was easy on the eyes, too; and if what his friends were saying was true, it gave you a sick, twisted kind of thrill to imagine being his first. You look down at him to see his eyes are looking anywhere but you, he's tense, itching to leave, itching to get himself out of this conversation. You can't help yourself, you swiftly move to sit yourself in his lap, amused by the way he almost jumps upon impact, raising his hands so they can't accidentally touch you. "You do look awfully sad..." you muse gently as you run fingertips across his stubbled jaw. "You want me to help you feel better?"

You watch as a creeping tinge of red bloomed up his neck to the back of his ears, warming them, betraying his composure. "I, uh—" At a loss, his eyes flicker to Frank like they always do - but his hand isn't anywhere near the cookie jar, it's about to be crushed by a fucking bear trap. This is when Frank would usually intervene, tell the men to ease off a little, leave the boy alone. But he doesn't say anything. The look he's wearing is one Roy had yet to find himself on the receiving end of until now. It's cold and unsympathetic. It's pushing a child into a river and forcing him to sink or swim. It holds a brutal kind of reality Roy desperately wanted to believe didn't exist. It was the look of someone who was tired of being disappointed and pushed to their limit. Tonight, Frank decided, he would show Roy who's boss.

Roy shifts beneath you, swallowing thickly as he tried to find his voice, but his words come out flustered. "I'm fine, Miss, thank you."

Thank you. Ugh. You could just melt.

Amos chuckles. "Aweh, c'mon, Roy! Look at'er! If you ain't havin' her I will."

You throw the disgusting outlaw a quick glare before turning your attention back to the bashful cowboy whose lap you'd made home in. Your bust, ample and upheld by your bejeweled corset, sat inches from his face, jiggling whenever one of you moved. Most men's eyes would be glued to it at this angle, or trying to bury their face into it. But not him.

"Such a gentleman..." you coo, raking your nails down the length of his chest. "Your Momma did well teachin' you manners... but didn't she ever tell you it's impolite to wear your hat when trying to court a lady?" Without missing a beat, your hand raised to pluck the cowboy's hat from his head and plant it atop your own. A playful gesture, though it serves to disarm him further, putting a spotlight on his handsome, blushing face, exposing him to the world, to the leering eyes of his comrades, no longer able to hide beneath the shadow of the rim.

The other men laugh, making Roy shrink into himself only slightly, chewing the inside of his cheek. The blush was nearing the apex of his cheeks now, deepening to a shameful shade of vermillion. You giggle and try to catch his eyes with yours. "What's your name, handsome?"

"Roy," he responds curtly. You don't take it personally, it's obviously out of discomfort and not malice. Besides, he reminds himself of his manners quickly enough when he asks, "Yours?"

You flash him another smile as you lean your upper half closer, lifting your neck to display a thick, glimmering necklace with a flat medallion hanging off it, not unlike a collar. "Says right here."

Roy's eyes instinctively shift to look at it, the lettering nothing more than alien curves and symbols that meant a whole lot of nothing when you didn't know how to read; a fact he wasn't readily willing to admit to a pretty stranger, so, after pretending to make sense of it, he gave a quick nod and looked away.

Knowing exactly what just happened, Dyer leans over the table with a sly grin to read the inscription for him. "Kitty," he announces. "Ain't that sweet. Bet you purr jus'like one."

"Mhmm," you hum, focus keeping on Roy, leaning in to brush the tip of your nose against his temple like a cat. "I'm soft like one too." Your words weren't meant for Dyer, instead succeeding in making Roy quite literally squirm in his seat. The thick, plentiful layers of your skirt add a significant cushion between your bodies, yet not enough to conceal the twitch of something thick, solid, and unmistakably masculine pressing into the underside of your thighs. Your lips part in realization, in excitement, and Roy's wide eyes suddenly look a lot wider as they cast themselves to the floor.

"I think that's enough, Miss—" he tells you as he leans back, one hand gripping the seat of the chair, an invitation for you to get off him. "I don'wanna take up anymore of your time." What almost sounds like panic seeps through his tone, the shameful realization that once you leave he has to find a way to hide the bulge in his pants from the rest of the group.

Sly, generous creature that you are, you take pity on the poor boy and cradle his face in your hands, leaning down to whisper sweetly in his ear. "Come with me upstairs, sweetheart. It's the only way to get 'em off your back. Promise we don't have to do nothin'." That of course, was a lie, but you wanted to believe you had the willpower to respect his boundaries.

He responded with a shaky breath, eyes searching the floor like it was gonna save him. You took that honor upon yourself, placing his hat back on his head in an act of courtesy as you jumped off his lap, careful to angle your silhouette so the men sitting closest to him wouldn't see just how much you managed to excite him, and by such an embarrassingly small amount of teasing at that. "C'mon, Cowboy," you chimed, tugging on his wrist like he was a dog on the other end of a leash. Griffin's boy's all hooted and hollered like a pack of hungry coyotes witnessing a fresh kill. Roy must've really wanted to get out of there because despite his dubious disposition, he decides to follow you, standing and positioning his clothes and arm to strategically shield his crotch. You wrap one arm around his waist and attach yourself to his hip, walking him toward the staircase that led to the private rooms.

"You, uh... don't gotta take me nowhere," he tells you as you reach the top floor. "I meant it when I said I don't wanna take up more of your time. I know you probably —" he stutters as the two of you nearly bump into another pair - the man boisterously drunk and his lady-caller pawing to remove his coat, giggling. "—have a long night ahead of you..." He trails off just as you arrive at a closed door. Your favorite suite. Your office, if you will. His footing stands sure as you reach to open it. "Jus' show me to a back door and I'll get outta your hair."

You open the door anyway and step inside, looking over your shoulder. "Ain't no back door to this place, I'm afraid. Better for you to hide out in here for a while. I told'ya we ain't gotta do anythin' you don't wanna."

Roy's brows crease. "Actually - you said we ain't gotta do nothin'". He corrects from the doorway.

"Did I? Well. Same thing, right?"

"... Right."

There's a long pause between you, you looking at him expectantly and him barely willing to meet your gaze. Then, you set your hand on your hip and cock your head to the side. "You waitin' on an invitation? Get in here." The question seems to startle or confuse him, you weren't sure which. He steps inside regardless, shutting the door behind him. He takes in the surroundings, a small, elegantly decorated room adorned with red, purple, and gold. The only piece of furniture was a bed pressed neatly against the farthest wall.

"Sit," you gesture, and like the agreeable boy he'd been all evening, Roy sits on the edge of the bed, rigid, hands folded in his lap. He seems less flustered now, but not anymore comfortable, especially as you take slow, steady steps closer, stopping only when your skirt was inches away from touching his knees. "Were your friends speakin' truths when they said you've never been with a woman?"

Roy readjusts. "They ain't my friends."

"Well, whatever they are."

"No. They're jus'tryin to get at me, is all."

"Did it work?"

He shook his head.

Your brow quirks. "Hm." Idly, your fingers lower to the long, puffy white fabric of your skirt, brushing against it, drawing circles, then slowly lifting it to expose the stocking-clad flesh of your shin and calves above your heels. "Did I get at'ya?" you ask through your lashes.

You watch as his eyes glaze over, unable to look away from your indecent exposure, jaw going slack, fingers twitching in his lap. He blinks more than he needs, stuttering, "N-no, ma'am."

A self satisfied smirk curls your lips before you let your skirt drop back into place and move to sit beside him. He shuffles an inch away instinctively. Politely. You split the difference by leaning closer, placing a hand on his thigh. "And if someone... wanted to get at'ya... how would they do that?"

Roy stiffened at the touch, both in body and manhood. He didn't know what to do with himself, where to put his hands, where to place his eyes. All he wanted was to was bolt. He suddenly hated Frank for not saving him from this. Not protecting him. That quickly snowballed into hating himself instead. A whole slew of thoughts ran through his head, none of them good, none of them confident. Like it or not he was floundering. "This, uh... I don't - ahem - have any money." Which was both true and not. While Roy had access to means, Frank didn't allow him to carry any money on his person. Another one of those control things. He hoped in this situation it would serve as a deterrent, or better yet, put an immediate stop to everything.

Your hand stays where it is, feeling the dense heat of his clothed thigh under your palm, just inches away from where you wanted to touch him most. Your tongue clicked against the roof of your mouth in disappointment. "That's a shame... Guess that means you won't get to see me naked, then."

He swallows, shifts again. Because now he's imagining it: what your body looks like without the restraining confines of your corset or bulk of your skirts. How your large, heavy breasts would naturally sit against your torso without all that extra support... drawing a line down soft, blemishless skin to the womanly curve of your hips...

"That's, uh... that's fine." He stammers as he presses his lips into a polite smile and tries to ignore how painfully tight the front of his pants feel now, bringing his knees together.

"Yeah... 'suppose it is... Cause I don't gotta take my clothes off to help you feel better." As you speak, your hand skillfully glides over the curve of his leg until your index finger touches the side of his erection, feeling it swell hotly beneath the thick fabric of his clothes. You hear him quietly suck in a breath as his eyes - those wide, innocent orbs - fill with fear and dart to where you were touching him. All signs start to point in the direction of yes, his friends were right, because what man would behave around a whore in such a way if he had been touched like this before?

"I know you said you've been with a woman..." you play along, stroking at the base of him as you spoke. "But what about kissin'?"

That stirs his attention from his stupor, and he looks up at you with a naive, confused look on his face. God, those big, stupid puppy dog eyes had you lusting after his flesh more than his wallet. "What about it?"

You tilt closer, eyes falling to his lips. "Y'know... have'ya ever kissed a girl?"

This time he feels less inclined to lie, maybe because it caught him so off guard. His answer is the quick flickering of his gaze from your eyes to your mouth. You take it as an invitation, as consent, and slowly lessen the distance between the two of you until your faces were inches apart. The heat radiating off him was palpable. He shrinks a little, inching away. You revel in his discomfort before carefully placing your lips against his in a soft, chaste kiss. The kind that young lovers experiment with or Europeans give their family members.

It sets Roy's skin ablaze. Surges all his blood, with the exception of that warming his neck and chest, South. He doesn't move, doesn't even look like he's breathing. Just a shocked, scared little thing that didn't know what to do with itself. So you cup his cheek with your hand and kiss him again, hold it for a little longer this time, briefly pull away, repeat. Much like his involvement with Griffin's gang, he's more of an accessory than a partaker. He's no longer trying to pull away but he had no idea what his role was in this. Not that you cared, you enjoyed leading the depth, sensuality, and pressure of the kiss, all increasing ever so gradually before you coax his mouth open by brazenly running your palm over his bulge, prompting him to part his lips with an unwitting, breathy gasp. You take full advantage and deepen the kiss further, molding the shapes of your mouths in a way that could only be described as lewd - more intentional, almost erotic. You pull away only to see the look on his face, completely undone and vulnerable, pupils blown wide and brows knitted in helpless need. It was a picture you wanted to burn into your memory forever.

Your free hand comes to remove his hat again, tossing it aside. The pad of your thumb pressed into the dimple at the corner of his mouth. "Did you like that?" Your voice is a whisper, dipping low and sultry. When his lips part to speak, your thumb follows the slope of his lower lip, distorting it some, swiping against the thin layer of saliva on the inside. You watch as he melts into it a little, his breath fanning over your hand as hips finally give in and lift ever so slightly, pressing himself into your hand. He gives a silent nod. It makes you giddy with lust. You give the outline of his cock a rewarding squeeze, making him stifle a groan.

"Open your mouth for me," you coax sweetly, loving the way he hesitates like he doesn't understand, like it makes him feel stupid. To demonstrate, you open your own mouth lazily; a small, open cavern, lolling your tongue over your bottom teeth with innocent eyes, instructing hotly over it. "Like this."

The sight of you with your mouth open like that - waiting, tongue soft and pink and welcoming - makes his cock jump. Makes him desperate for whatever it is you're about to give him. Roy mirrors the action hesitantly, lips parting, showing his tongue but not extending it as far as yours. You can't help but smile and give praise. "That's it... Good boy." Then you're inching closer, the hand on his cheek guiding him in until you're close enough to gently dip your tongue into his mouth, brushing it against his own, soft, placid and wet, luring it into submission. You give an exaggerated, pornographic moan; a show of your own excitement and an attempt to entice him further. As you deepen the kiss, you're giving more of your tongue, treating him soft and delicate, careful not to escalate things too quickly. You can taste his breath, hot and panting, surprised to find no trace of alcohol. The stroking of your hand is just as languid as your tongue.

After some time, you recede as lips return to the gentle, virginal motions, swapping between a kiss that's modest or obscenely French. He's clumsy but follows your lead, learning quickly. You start to steadily palm over his cock, increasing the pressure and friction but never in speed, swallowing every moan it drew out of him. He gives the occasional upward rock of his hips as you press your bodies - lips, tongues - closer, until your chest is pressing against his. When you pull away, you leave him panting with his mouth wet and stained from your lipstick.

"My," you coo teasingly, dragging the tip of your finger against a small wet spot on his pants, right where the head is. "Quite the growing boy, aren't you?"

He goes beet-red at that, completely flooded with shame and humiliation. It somehow sobers him, because he shifts away from you and wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "I should, uh —" before he can say leave, you dip your head where his ear and neck meet and give soft, open-mouthed kisses.

"What's wrong, baby?" you murmur against his flesh, palm kneading insistently at his cock. Firm, teasing drags. "Am I not a good kisser?"

"Fuck..." he groans, "No - I-I mean, that's not —"

"Or maybe I'm not pretty enough."

"W-what? I didn't —"

You giggle, giving a soft peck to his earlobe. "Are you sure you've done this before? Look how hard your cock is getting..." You tilt your head to peer down - and his eyes can't help but follow - the both of you taking in the sight of the prominent bulge under your small hand, just aching to be released from its confines. Every motion relentlessly grinds the coarse fabric across the sensitive skin of his shaft, smearing precum, rubbing up and down, up and down... giving it no place to go or no real relief. He readjusts again, spreads his legs a little as he watches you stroke him like he's watching something raw, wrong and filthy. You move your lips to whisper against his cheek, "So fuckin' cute. Do y'like kissin' me that much?"

You increase the pressure a little, and Roy's head drops back with the loudest moan he's given thus far, followed by a weak and broken, "Fuck." He's fully submerged in it now, head swimming with lust despite his embarrassment; the two melding together like a molten coil in his gut, wrenching his cock and emptying his mind.

You raise a brow, still expecting an answer. "Hm?"

Shame pricks at his skin. He doesn't want to admit it. The thought of being reduced to something so pathetic so easily mortified him beyond comprehension. But then you stroke him just right, and he whimpers, actually fucking whines like puppy forced to behave for a treat, and he melts in your hand all over again, confessing, "Y-yeah."

Another wicked smile spreads your lips. "C'mere." You turn his face to capture his lips in another slow, obscene kiss. His tongue is more involved this time, still docile but more eager to participate. You take advantage of this newfound confidence and tenderly wrap your lips around the tip, giving it a soft, loving suckle, prompting a low, baritone moan to rumble from his chest. You drink it down eagerly.

Hips stuttering, Roy suddenly tries to pull away to speak. "W-wait-" You shush him quietly before he can get his point across, swallowing his protests with your mouth, encouraging him with salacious little sounds of your own. His moans, whimpers, and words become stifled and muffled against your tongue, slowly rising in urgency and volume until they abruptly peak. His hips jolt upward in a seize, a strong hand shooting up to wrap around your wrist like a vice. But it was too late. He hit his peak in a shameful, violent crescent that spilled hotly in his briefs, coating his cock pulse after pulse with warm, thick cum. You feel it pool and spurt under your palm despite the fabric veneer, eyes and mouth widening in surprise as he soaks the front of his pants.

You've had men come prematurely before. Hell, it was almost a nightly occurrence. But this? This was something different. Roy embodied his shame in a way that didn't disgust or annoy you. His eyes were wider than ever, lips parted and kiss-swollen, completely speechless as he stared down in horror. "Shit, I — I'm sorry, I didn't mean to - it just, it just happened," he babbled, pushing your hand away from the mess as if it was going to sully you.

You respond with another gentle, maternal shushing. "Shh... It's okay, baby. I think it's sweet." And you do - you've never felt more desired in your life. It made you bite your lip and think of all the other unconventional ways you could make the boy come; and wondered which one would embarrass him the most. "Roy, look at me." You turn his face so his frantic, apologetic eyes are forced to meet yours. "It's okay. Really."

He appears unconvinced, almost like he's in physical pain. You figure maybe he might need a break. A chance to lick his wounds.

"I'll get you somethin' to clean up, okay?"

The concept alone humiliates him, but the alternative isn't any better, and he's breathless and disoriented so yields to your offer, head lowering. "Yeah, 'kay.. Sure."

You press one last kiss to his cheek and brush your thumb against his jaw, murmuring, "You did so good."

It pains you to stand and exit the room, eager to get back and spend the night tormenting your new plaything, finding all the ways that make him tick; maybe by milking him, or forcing him to stay still while you rode his cock like your own personal sextoy. Ah, you were getting ahead of yourself. You were so distracted you didn't notice the other person turning the corner in the powder room. Your bodies collide, and you look up to find yourself face to face with an old, bearded man with beady eyes and an affectless stare. Startled, you jump and take a step back. "Excuse me, sir—"

A wad of cash is placed in your hand before you can finish. You look down at it with a puzzled expression. It was at least a week's worth of your salary, maybe more. The man rests his hand on your shoulder.

"Appreciate your services, darlin'. I'll take it from here."

Dumbfounded, you watched as he walked into the very same room you came out of, expecting to hear some sort of ruckus, maybe a shattering lamp or two - to hear Roy call the man a pervert and beat the living shit out of him. Instead, you're met with an eerie silence. Through the small crack in the door you see Frank picking up Roy's hat from where you'd thrown it and place it back on his head like he was cleaning up somebody else's mess. Roy's lips are small and docile as he peered up at him, a helpless, juvenile sort of look pressed into his features. It was the same look he'd given you only without the clouding of lust. One in need of direction, that felt uncomfortable in its own skin.

You wondered what the story was there. About their relationship. Of all your years in the brothel you'd never seen anything quite like it. For once - in a sick twist of fate - you felt yourself on the other side of the looking glass, staring at a soft, beautiful creature sat in a brothel, all sex-glazed and reeking of sin; and you find yourself overcome with the overwhelming urge to rescue him and take him away from all of this.

But you knew better than to take in any ol' stray that ended up on your doorstep.

That would make you an idiot.

It wasn't his fault. He couldn't help it. You pushed him to a breaking point. Skin pricked and itching with a carnal need to destroy, he succumbed to his instincts and allowed his hands to ravish you, shoving your skirt up and your neckline down until your clothes became nothing more than a wadded band around your waist. He eventually found use for it, clutching it tightly to use as a handle to force your smaller body to meet his punishing thrusts. Your protests muffled hotly against his hand, wetting your mouth with your own spit.

"What's that?" His Austrian accent sneered down at you, "Speak up, baby. I can't hear you."

Blinking away tears, your skin grew hot, cheeks turning a bright shade of red. Your hands fought weakly, small fists slapping against thick layers of tactical gear. It amused him.

"What? Tired already? Where's all that fight from before—" He drove himself deep and stayed there, letting you tremble around him as your thighs fought to push him out. "Fuck. Look how wet you are... Does it turn you on being used like this? Fucking slut."

He removed his hand, and you gasp to fill your lungs with cold, precious oxygen. Before you know it he shoves two gloved fingers down your throat, pressing down your tongue. You gag at the intrusion, at the taste of the leather. He shoves them painfully far, gathering thick gobs of spit.

"Disgusting."

The word made you whimper. You were disgusting. A complete and utter mess completely at his mercy. You writhe as he starts to fuck you again, chasing his own pleasure in the act of violating you.

"Beg for it," he demands, his voice rough and breathy.

You try to obey, the words dampening and near unintelligible around his fingers and the battle for air. "Mmph—"

He wasn't satisfied. His other hand came to wrap around your throat, pressing menacingly. He could feel the vibrations of your gagging rumble against his palm. "I said beg, bitch. Or I'll fucking crush your throat."

With renewed vigor, your hips bucked desperately with a pathetic, mewling sound, the shame of your own arousal smearing across the base of his pelvis in the process.

"—eagh...." (Please)

"Louder."

Your tongue lost the fight against his fingers. Trying to speak felt like you were drowning yourself. Adrenaline fought you through it, more gurgled sounds bubbling from your throat. Gibberish, but translated into: please, you're hurting me.

Even if he understood what you said, it didn't make him stop. He fucks his come inside you until it's seeping down both your legs. Only when he's satisfied does he remove his fingers from your mouth. Your jaw aches. Your throat burns. Your cheeks are wet with fresh and old tears. Bleary eyes peer up at him in search of comfort, of apology. They find him wiping bloody spit on the fabric of your clothes.

His gaze pivots upward to lock with yours, the implication obvious.