C.

He takes the seat next to you, wonders aloud what a pretty woman is doing by herself on a Friday evening. You give him a half-smile, reserved and suspicious.

His conversational skills aren’t exactly honed to a point, but he usually doesn’t need to talk for long before he can get to what he’s really after.

You’re here for a couple of weeks. You’re interested in hiking this trail and that one. You’re pretty sure the raccoon living under your rented cabin’s porch has got it out for you. Blah blah blah. He talks as much as he thinks he needs to before he can ask to accompany you back to your room, voice low, intentions clear as spring water.

At the proposition, your eyebrows scrunch. You turn to your drink, eyes forward, arms crossing over your chest.

“No, thanks,” you say.

But Shane is a man familiar with the hunt. He tries to cover his tracks.

“We don’t have to do anything but sit and talk,” he says with an easy smile. Disarming. Coaxing a doe back into his sights. “S’not often I get to enjoy the company of such a beautiful woman.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday,” you say shortly. “I don’t do hookups. They’re not worth the trouble.”

Ok. So you like to be pursued. Shane loves the pursuit — for as long as he has the patience. The stubborn purse of your lips and the way you turn your nose up at him is doing something to that primitive part of his brain.

He leans into your line of sight again, lets you see that dirty blonde hair, the broad slope of his shoulders. Those redeeming qualities.

“I can make it worth your time, sweetheart,” he promises. “As much as you want to give.”

Your eyes do an up-and-down over his frame. His final judgement. “I’m not entirely sure you know or care where the clit is.”

For once, Shane is speechless. A deer caught in your headlights. An arrow straight through the heart of his poor ego. You stand with the barest hint of a smirk on your face, satisfied with your kill, and walk out the door with a swing in your hips as he stares at you like an idiot.

The first thought he has is well fuck you, too. The next, while he lays awake on his scratchy blankets, is that your assessment of him may not have been so far off the mark. It’s an ugly parasite of a thought. One that has him rethinking all of his past sexual encounters. The recurring pattern: brief and self-serving.

Get her clothes off. Get her underneath him. Touch what feels good. Grind. Grope. Release.

Whether or not she finds that release as well . . . He’s certainly not stopping her, but it’s not exactly on his list of priorities.

The thought makes a home in the burrows of his mind.

No matter how he tries to squash it, extract it, it stays hidden in those dark crevices.

Some stuck up woman is not going to get in his head like this. He’s a good lay. Obviously. He’s got the body count to prove it. And sure, maybe those one night stands tend to stay that way — one night only. But that’s how he likes it. He could have you screaming and soaking your sheets if he wanted to. Obviously.

He imagines it. You bring him back to your room. He gets your clothes off. Gets you underneath him. And then he . . . And then he . . .

Fuck. What would he do?

Touch you. Right. Women love his hands, big and rough and steady.

Put his mouth on you? Admittedly not something he makes a habit out of. But how hard could it be? To bring his mouth down low and stay there, winding you up tighter, tighter, until that coil springs loose.

He likes that thought. Likes it a lot, actually. Your pretty face screwed up, the pout of your lips parting, your soft body arching underneath him. He likes the thought enough that he spills all over his hand to it, sweat soaking through those scratchy blankets.

When he sees you at the bar the next night, his palms are sweaty. He makes a joke about bumping into you there again, something about getting bitten by the same snake twice. Stupid. You blink up at him with those unimpressed eyes.

He offers you something that’s half-way to an apology, which is more than just about anyone else gets from him, even if you don’t know well enough to appreciate it.

The hikes you mentioned yesterday — he can take you. He knows the best ones, the best times to do them. And maybe he looks a tiny bit pleading while he offers. Only a little bit. His heart didn’t grow too much overnight.

You let the offer linger in the air. Gaze assessing. Fingers toying with the straw in your drink. And then the corner of your mouth tugs up, barely.

“Sure,” you say simply.

So there he is, escorting you through the park like some lovestruck puppy. It’s embarrassing until he remembers that thought again — your soft skin, your pretty mouth, your taste on his tongue — and then he’s teaching you how to identify plants and pointing out hidden wildlife like he’s a regular tour guide.

You want to see the sunrise, he’ll show you the best view in the park. You want to grab something to eat, he’s already got his wallet out. You want to go swimming, he knows the perfect spot, and when you peel off your t-shirt to reveal the scrap of fabric you call a bikini, he’s on his knees thanking God for finally smiling down on him.

He sits by the bank while you swim circles in crystal clear water, sunlight sparkling off the drops clinging to your skin. He doesn’t even pretend not to stare at the soft curves of your body. He’s an animal, a mongrel, a dog licking his lips, and he’s never been interested in pretending to be something he’s not.

You swim up to the bank before him and come to rest on your arms. Beads of water drip from your neck to the swell of your breasts, and he keeps his stupid mouth shut because he knows better by now. You’re saying something to him but the words are just noise in his ears, because you lean forward and your breasts are pressed up against your arms, the rounded tops of them swelling over the cups of that bikini.

You say his name and his eyes snap back up to yours. He has half a mind to feel guilty until he sees the knowing smile on your face.

You’re doing it on purpose.

You like this. You like him.

The realization makes it worth it when he has to walk you back to your cabin with a chub. You step inside the dimly lit room and he waits at the doorway because you still haven’t invited him in, and he’s developed a sudden interested in being a very good boy.

“Thanks for showing me that swimming hole,” you say.

“Any time,” he says. Behind your back, your hands are fiddling with the strings of your bikini.

“I know you’re working tomorrow,” you begin, and with a tug of your fingers the bikini strings fall limp. “But I was thinking maybe we could hike up to that ridge. See the stars, like you were talking about.” Your hands rise to work on the knot around your neck.

Shane’s heart drops straight to his ass. “Yeah,” he says, dumb, as that last knot tugs loose. “Yeah, we can do that.”

You hold the bikini top between two pinched fingers, breasts bare, skin glowing with the soft sheen of sweat.

“Great,” you say. “Text me when you’re done with work.”

A release, and the bikini top drops to the floor with a wet splat.

“Ok,” Shane says, voice catching, mouth dry. “Yeah. I’ll text you.”

He couldn’t tear his eyes from you if he tried. You, naked from the waist up in your doorway, cast in the warm light of the sun. Bare skin flushed and beautiful. The moment lasts an age and an instant.

He’s a dog. An absolute dog, and you must have a soft spot for mutts because you give him all of a generous 10 seconds to salivate while you stand there, half naked, in front of an open doorway, with nothing but his body hiding you from the rest of the world.

Your fingers wrap around the door handle, and Shane pries his eyes away from your chest in time to see that satisfied smile again.

“Bye, Shane,” you say, and shut the door.

He stands on your porch like an idiot for a full minute before he finally turns to make the trek back to his camp. The walk is long and miserable. Boots heavy. Pants tight.

When he makes it back to his tent he reaches straight for the beat-up cooler, swipes a hand into the icy water, and wipes it over his heated face.

You’re evil. You’re killing him. And he’s going to march right back to your cabin tomorrow night and take you to see the stars, just like you asked.

The folding chair groans as he sinks into it, a cold can of beer cracking open with a familiar hiss.

You want to be pursued. Shane loves this pursuit. He takes a long drink and thinks of tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, and what new skin you might show him then. Where he might put his hands, if he’s lucky.

Where he might do all those things he’s been thinking of, rehearsing in his mind, and hoping you’ll enjoy them as much as he will.

What you said that night you met: he’s going to prove you wrong.

And since he’s feeling so nice, he won’t even make you admit it. He’ll accept your apology in the form of you moaning his name.

He leans back in his chair, beer cold in his hand, stars twinkling overhead like the water sparkling off your skin.

Shane tends to get the women he wants, and right now, he only wants one.

there’s.. a man. a man in your bed. he’s lying on his stomach, turned just enough that his face is hidden from you, buried into the pillow; broad shoulders, bare back, the sheets barely covering his lower half. you don’t recognise him. you would recognise him, right? you try to think, where you were last night, who you were with, but it’s all frustratingly blurred at the edges.

then your eyes catch it, a scar. it runs down his spine. sure, it was clean and surgical but it seemed more like he was torn apart and forced back together. your stomach drops. who the hell did you bring home?

you’re still staring at that scar, trying to decide if you should move, or just pretend you’re still asleep when his entire body jerks; not a small twitch, not a sleepy shift, his whole frame snaps, shoulders tensing, back arching slightly like he just got electrocuted. you didn’t mean to yelp. 

the effect was immediate, he wakes up like a switch flipped; not groggy, alert. his head snaps to the side, breath hitching, body going rigid for half a second like he’s bracing for something before his eyes land on you. then everything stops, the tension doesn’t disappear, but condenses into focus, as he locks onto you.

you decide, very stupidly, that you should get off the bed to give him some space. “i’m just- gonna-” you plant a hand on the mattress, trying to lift yourself, but the moment you shift your weight, your hips scream.

“aah- shit- shit-” your arms give out and you collapse right back onto the bed with a pathetic wheeze.

behind you, dex moves instantly. “hey-” he reaches out, reflexive, but the second he shifts his own weight he freezes, before his jaw tightens sharply. then a low, strained groan slips out of him. his hand falters mid air; and you see the way he’s fighting through something that clearly hurts. 

then a quiet involuntary sound leaves him, softer this time. a whimper. this clearly wasn’t meant to happen, and when it does, his entire expression changes, like he wants to erase it. his lips press into a thin line, eyes flicking away from you for the first time since he woke up, shoulders tensing as if he was trying to pretend nothing happened.

then finally he pushes himself up despite the stiffness. you can’t blame him for it, he looks like he's pushing forty after all. “..i should go.” he mumbles, voice tight. he’s not looking at you, he can’t look at you, because last night’s chaos is slowly coming back to him. 

you, of course, do not allow this escape. you lean back on your elbows, grinning at him. “nope, you can’t just leave.”

“yes, i can.”  

“we just hooked up, so we have to.. get to know each other.”

that makes dex pause, actually pause. slowly, he looks down at you like he’s trying to understand how you can say that so casually. “the last time you said that, i had my tongue down your throat.”

you blink. then despite everything, you huff out a small laugh. “and i enjoyed it. your point?”

“you don’t remember.”

“no,” you admit. “i don’t. but i’m here, you’re here, and clearly something happened.”

“..you’re making this difficult,” he sighs. “you don’t even know my name,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “besides, you’re way too young to be messing around with me.”

“do i really look that young to you?”

dex moves, closer towards you now as if to intimidate. he’s waiting for hesitation, for fear, for sense, but what he sees instead is you not backing down; if anything, you lean in slightly. that throws him off more than anything else, because in his head, you’re supposed to stop at this point, supposed to realise he’s too sharp, too dangerous, too.. much.

his hand tightens against the mattress and just for a second his control slips. thoughts cross his mind before he buries them again. 

not ‘how do i make them leave.’; but ‘what would they do if i didn’t stop?’, ‘what would they do if i grabbed them by the neck-’

the thought hits him hard enough that he straightens slightly and pulls himself away.

“i shouldn’t have- this shouldn’t have happened.” he says. “i don’t know what you think this is, but you don’t belong in situations like this.” he pauses, then continues, quieter. “..especially not with me. you’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”

“so are you.”

he sighs. “you don’t listen, do you?”

“not really.” you admit, then introduce yourself. ”remember that.” 

finally, he sighs and gives in. “dex.” he replies.

you do the same and tell him your name. “good, now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s get to the good stuff, shall we?” then you lean in, breath tickling his jaw. “for example.. your cock inside me.”

he just blinks at you. “..what?”

“yeah.” 

“you can’t walk, your hips nearly dislocated when you tried to sit up, and-” he looks down at himself to find himself in worse shape than he initially thought. there are marks, way too many to ignore. “..this is worse than i thought.”

“mhm, and?” 

“and, round two will kill you.”

“worth it.”

“no.”

“yes.”

“no.”

“yes.”

dex grabs the back of your neck firmly. “you are literally stuck on this bed because your hips are giving out. you’re not getting my cock for at least twelve hours.” he sighs. “don’t think you’ll be getting anything else, ever.”

and obviously, he meant it in a very obvious, ‘you are way too injured to be doing this’ way; but you go still, then your face shifts.

“..am i just a hookup to you, dex?”

oh. his expression changes instantly when your breath goes shaky.

“no- don’t-” he starts, already shifting forward, hands half-raised like he’s not sure what to do with them. “don’t do that, c’mon-” 

now there are tears, and suddenly he’s violently aware that he has no idea how to handle this situation without making it worse.

“don’t- don’t cry,” he says, quieter now, like lowering his voice might fix the problem. “i didn’t mean it like that, just stop crying, please.” he adds, almost helpless, but realises it came out wrong, too blunt. “sorry- shit, i just- look, i meant you’re hurt, that’s it.”

you sniffle, and he exhales sharply. “i’m bad at this, okay? just tell me what you want me to do?” he’s already halfway there, trying to solve something he doesn’t understand.

you don’t tell him, of course you don’t. you hiccup, and that small sound does him in completely. he looks genuinely lost for a second, glancing around the room like it has clues on how to calm you down. he frowns slightly, staring at you, your lower lip trembling just enough to sell it.

then finally he stops, because you’re looking at him like that, not asking for anything around you; just him. his words trail off and for a second he just stills, staring at you like the realisation isn’t something he had prepared for.

“..oh.” it comes out quieter this time. “you- that’s not..” 

you just blink up at him through teary lashes.

he sighs. “..fine.”

and then you smile, not soft, not shaky, but bright, triumphant, even. dex goes still, it takes a second for the shift to register; and when it does, his expression changes. 

“..you-” he starts, then stops. the tears are gone, the act is gone, and suddenly, finally, he sees it for what it was, a setup, a play. “you were messing with me, fake crying to get your way?”

“c’mon, just one more round?” you cross your arms. “i didn’t even get to feel you properly.”

he stares at you for a full three seconds, then sits up just enough to look you directly in the eyes. “no.”

“no?”

“no,” he repeats, quieter. he backs off a little this time instead of closer. “not happening.” there’s no bite in it, but there’s no give either.

“you can barely move, and i’m not-” he stops, jaw tightening briefly. “i’m not doing that agian while you’re like.. this.”

“but-”

he cuts you off with a look. “you already got one ‘fine’ out of me,” he mutters. “that was a mistake.”

“come on, dex, please? just- just once.. you won’t even have to be rough-”

he freezes, because that tone? the begging? that shaky little breath at the end? yeah, it goes straight through him. he goes quiet in a way that’s almost dangerous, not toward you, but inward, like everything just got pulled too tight.

‘they’re asking me.’

‘they think i’ll be careful.’

and that’s where it starts to slip, because his brain immediately pushes back.

‘would i?’

that’s the one that makes his stomach flip, not because he doesn’t think he has control, but because he knows that he already came close to losing it earlier.

‘what would happen if i-’

he snaps out of it. 

“if i touch you like that right now, you’re going to snap in half.”

“but- gentle?”

“gentle? you?” he scoffs, before looking back down at his own torso, littered with marks from you.

you wiggle, trying to move to his lap like that’ll help your argument. he grips your hips immediately, preventing you from hurting yourself again.

then finally he exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to summon every ounce of patience in the universe.

“okay, okay, just- lay down.” he mutters.

“yes, finally!” your eyes immediately light up, heart racing, hips twitching despite their previous injuries while you practically glow with excitement; and that makes something in him tighten. 

‘they’re happy i said yes.’

‘cute.’

then another thought, slower, more unwanted. 

‘desperate.’ 

he gets annoyed at himself, because that thought is not helpful right now. “you’re not getting anything rough.”

“yeah- yeah, i know!” you babble. “i just.. just wanna feel you.. please, please, please, dex?” then you spread out, arms above your head, grinning stupidly as he kisses ur collarbone. “see, i told you.. gentle.”

dex sighs, again, hands on your waist to keep you from moving too fast.

“..actually, i don’t want gentle.” then you freeze for a split second. “i want.. hard, really hard.”

“excuse me?”

you smirk, mischievous. “i said, hard.” you tilt your head innoecntly. “what? getting too old to hear me properly, dex?”

his eyes narrow dangerously. “too old?” he repeats, zeroing in on you. “you were just begging five minutes ago, and now you’re insulting me?”

“it’s called range.” you say, and it nearly gets a laugh out of him. “c’mon, you agreed.”

“i agreed to stop you from fake crying at me.”

“mhm.”

“don’t ‘mhm’ me.”

‘brat’, he thinks.

your body’s already trembling with anticipation as you look up at him with that shit-eating grin. 

he exhales through his nose, before kneeling in front of you. “last warning, you move and your will hips dislocate.”

“not gonna happen, don’t worry. i can take it, i want it.”

he groans, slowly lining himself up. he hesitates for half a second, taking a deep breath before sliding in.

“fuck.. dex!” you cry out immediately. “you- nngh, yes-”

his hands clamp onto your hips, steadying you, controlling the depth. every thrust is deliberate at first, testing you, making sure you can actually take it while your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer.

“fuck, you’re insatiable.” he mutters between thrusts.

“mhm, good. keep going, harder.”

dex hesitates, then just for a fraction, he pushes harder, way harder than he should. the reaction he gets out of you is immediate; a sharp inhale, your entire body tensing beneath him. that’s the mistake, because he feels it and something in him locks in completely, he gets terrifyingly attentive when he’s locked in, he becomes more aware of you than before. every reaction gets caught immediately, but honestly, the worst part is how perfectly he reacts to all of it.

“dex-”

“i know,” he says immediately. that should not sound as good as it does. he eases back just slightly, enough that you think he’s correcting himself, but then he notices the way you melt at even that tiny adjustment. 

and suddenly every movement after that becomes targetted, exact, like his brain memorised the response and immediately started chasing it with frightening efficiency.

“oh my god-” you breathe out, half-laughing because this is getting unbelievable.

he barely reacts to the words, his focus is too deep now.

“you’re shaking,” he says quietly.

“..you’re doing that on purpose.”

it hits you even harder because he’s not even trying to tease anymore, he’s just locked in, muttering things under his breath while adjusting with impossible precision every single time you react.

“there you are..”

“good,”

“look at you.”

it’s the concentration that gets to you the most, the overwhelming feeling that, right now, nothing in the world matters more to him than what he’s doing to you.

“dex- i-.. fuck, ‘m close..” you whine. and finally you cum, thighs shaking from exhaustion. “f-fuck.” 

it doesn’t take him long either, his forehead dropping forward as he fills you up.

The warm air lazily caresses his bare skin, tracing every muscular contour while making his flesh hypersensitive, amplifying even the slightest movement and his hands remain restrained behind his back, the handcuffs just tight enough to remind him of the fact he can't escape even if he tries.

He feeds on the intense disgust in your eyes, that hatred that seems to emanate from you in waves so dense they could drown you and he absorbs it in the most thirsty and starving way possible, letting it settle under his skin like fuel and that hatred of yours would only become a problem for him if the ritual ever breaks and you suddenly start seeing him as a person, rather than what he wants to be to you.

His lips part slightly without conscious thought as he's releasing a silent breath and his pupils are so dilated, obscuring the color of his beautiful eyes, leaving only that dark, intense gaze as it scans you with a shameless, undisguised hunger. He shifts slightly in the chair while anticipation is coursing through his body, eating him alive from whiting, waiting for you to decide what comes next.

Dex knows you too well for someone you claim to despise.

He understands your inclination towards cruelty, those tendencies to inflict pain and the intense thrill that courses through you at the sight of freshly spilled blood. He has seen how your breathing changes, how your attention focuses, how the sickening darkness seeps through the cracks of any self-control you pretend to have.

You give, he takes, and it works because there's no one else who fits this space like him.

He licks his lips, watching intently as your finger slides across the table, testing how smooth and resistant the surface is.

No one else can handle this balance of repulsion and filthy longing that is ugly and deeply uncomfortable, and perhaps that's the most pathetic part of it all... That out of everyone, he's the only one who understands how to satisfy it, Dex is the only one who can please you in this way, however pitiful that may sound.

“Aren't you going to ask me my safe word?” he purrs playfully, his voice husky, low with amusement.

Dex swallows, unable to control how the blood rushes to his groin too quickly and his useless hands clench, taking a breath before replying.

Your eyes shift from the table to rest on those pools of hazel and you remain stoic, ignoring his joke, “how many?” you ask softly, reaching closer and raising your hand to place it on the back of his head and he's immediately tensing as your fingers tangle and tighten in his hair.

“Until I wish I had a safe word.” he mutters, listening to his heart pounding so loudly in his ears and he's lying, he would never use a safe word since he expects you to never stop.

There's a tingle traveling beneath your skin, and your hand tighten his hair.

“Breathe.”

Just as he's about to inhale, you roughly force his head back and slam his face against the table and the sound is so loud, echoing through the place and Dex gasps from the pain that starts in his nose, spreading like flames across his face and you keep it pressed against the surface dragging it slowly, the first blow leaving you breathless.

And you don't stop.

You do it again, lifting his head, then crushing it against the smooth wood.

One, two, three, four, five blows, each one harder than the last and he's shivering in the chair, thighs tensing beneath his black cargo pants, hands shaking behind his back.

You're panting for breath now; each blow resonates more deeply in your ears lodging itself in your brain.

Dex is in the same state.

The table breaks his nose, there's warm blood gushing from his nostrils as his lips are split, he feels his gums burn and bleed, smiling widely at such delicious feeling and each blow widens the split on his cheekbone caused by the impact and his forehead is aching.

He wonders what his fresh bruises look like, and the mere thought makes his cock throb and leak untouched inside his warm clothes.

You let him breathe after the eighth impact, pulling his face away from the filthy wood, now darker with blood that belongs to him. You let out a little huff as you watch the red and thick strands of drool connecting his split lips to the table before they snap from the shake you give to his head to make sure he hasn't passed out.

He's grinning with his eyes closed, so ecstatic and pretty it makes you sick to admit it, so writhing in pain that burns his swollen wounded face, then you grip his hair tighter and you need to see him die like this, quivering and panting in agony until he just can't take it anymore.

You want his indestructible skull to crack because of you, you want that adamantium to damage his brain somehow, you hope he stops breathing once you've finished off his pretty and perfect nose.

The fact that he can still endure more infuriates you, and he's begging you for more as you stare at the fresh and inviting blood adorning his disfiguring face.

“P—Please, more, more more,” he babbles, drooling as he keeps his mouth agape to pray to you in sheer devotion, and you want to know if his teeth are loose, you want to see if you damaged them enough for him to spit one out.

You bite your lip hard until it's bruised and return to your task with more fervor than before, smashing his face again but with more force, maintaining a solid grip on his now sweaty hair and his shoulders go slack. You don't need to look to know he's pushing his hips up for some sweet friction.

You just continue, harder, a tenth time, frowning at how starving you feel for more, clenching your teeth when he lets out an agonizing groan on the tenth blow. His head even slips from your grasp from the force, and you have to place your hand on his neck and grip it to lift his face again.

Then your hand travels to his hair, tilting his head towards the light and he's so broken, head lolling pathetically being held just by your grip and he has a satisfied smile on his blood-soaked face, bruises adorn him beneath the sticky deep red, his half-open mouth salivates nonstop and his eyes are no longer open, you hope he has a weak pulse now, you hope his brain hits his skull.

With the finger of your free hand, you caress a cut on the bridge of his nose, smearing your finger with his blood, and bring it to his mouth, just to test how conscious he is.

Slowly, his pink tongue peeks out, his mouth barely moving because he can't even feel it anymore. He wipes the blood from your finger using his warm tongue, humming at the metallic taste, and you can't help but smile with satisfaction. Then, as your final display of pleasure, you grip the hair that falls over his forehead and pull down, his face slams back against the surface with a loud thump, listening to something breaking that makes you puff a shaky breath in fascination.

Dex tenses all over and not a single sound escapes him, and you see him squirm slightly after a few seconds.

Such a whore for pain.

So adorable, he came inside his pants, making a mess inside the fabric that sticks to his weeping, thick cock. His torso is covered in sweat, every muscle glistening making you so hungry, wetness adorning his freckled flesh that must taste so salthy and good.

You push him off the chair effortlessly; he falls to the ground with a heavy thud and weakly settles onto his back, huffing in need, groaning in pain that intensifies when he feels air hit his raw face.

You're standing in front of him, staring at how dark the faded fabric is in his crotch.

So wet.

You stare more than you should, fascinated at how he's so big and worthless, too easy for you and you are licking your lips, your shoe slides into his groin without any little gentleness, reveling in how hard he remains even though he's just finished.

Dex whines silently, pushing his tired hips against your shoe, arching his back when you press too roughly, eliciting a guttural moan from his dry throat; poor, sweet boy can barely breathe.

His cock hurts so much it's not even pleasurable anymore, but he's so delirious by it. He's drugged by the excruciating pain, choking when you press a little harder right where his aching tip is, and then you pull your shoe away when you realize that not satisfying him will only make him feel worse.

Which is all that matters.

You take a step back, admiring the work of art before you.

He looks like a masterpiece, blood trickling down his neck, his face perfectly disfigured, his chest rising and falling so gently it seems he's not breathing anymore, perky nipples hard and sensitive adorning his tits, thick thighs spread, his cock waning before you and his muscles are loose, adjusting to the discomfort of maintaining his hands behind his back.

You feel the urge to touch him, to dig your finger into his swollen cheekbone, but you're disgusted by the thought. So you just reach into your pocket, pull out a pair of small keys, and toss them aside.

“You have ten minutes to leave. Clean my table,”

You mutter, not caring if he heard you or not, and you hope he didn't.

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 28 / 04 / 26