This place is not a place of honor

You steal a discreet glance backwards, finding your husband’s eyes upon your figure. As it is expected by now. 

Your father and older brother flank Valarr, brewing a conversation that certainly involves politics, judging from your father's eloquent gestures. But the second in line to the throne, despite his focused semblance and the occasional participation, does not share of their interest. So much is clear with the way his eyes keep finding you every few moments as if to check for your presence. 

“I cannot believe how enamoured the Prince is for you.” your sister jabs with a soft chuckle.

“He’s only stationed at the other side of the chamber and yet he looks at you as if you’ve been parted for months.”

Although she means no harm, your sister’s commentary strike a sensitive nerve inside you.

You do not tell her that if it wasn’t for Prince Baelor’s intervention, your oh-so-enamoured husband would have never allowed you to travel as far from the Red Keep for something as insignificant as your mother’s nameday as he claimed so.

Nor do you tell her of Valarr’s cold, tense mood during the entirety of the travel and how easily he scolded you over the smallest things such as speaking to maids without necessity or God forbid, glance at the knights. 

You wish you could tell her of every single thing regarding Valarr that keeps you awake at night, dreading for the arrival of a new dawn but your septa had always drilled into you that a marriage’s commotion matters only between husband and wife.

And as such, you take a small breath and bring forth a polite smile. 

“Prince Valarr is a considerate husband.” you say. That has your sister rolling her eyes with a pinch to your arm. 

“Considerate. Oh my.” she shakes her head, amused. “Do not be modest with your words, sister. Any person can see how much he adores you.” 

You retain your smile with much effort. 

–

The maids are quiet, doing quick work of lightening up the fire and the candles around the chamber. Their heads are low, knowing better than to show any reaction to a conversation that does not concern them directly.

You, on the other hand, cannot stop yourself from feeling utterly mortified. 

“This place is an old skeleton. Old walls and dust-filled chambers and yet this is what my dear wife was so eager to visit.”

Valarr sighs, contempt in his eyes as he looks around your chamber, the same one where you have spent the majority of your life until becoming a Princess.

Quite modest in comparison to the chamber’s you and Valarr share at the Red Keep, but it’s far from the poor description Valarr claims. You do not argue though, knowing better than to indulge into Valarr’s hatred for your House’s castle, should you defend it any further. 

“I shall hope these frail walls do not crumble upon us while we sleep.”

One of the maids glances at you. Your cheeks feel alight with shame. 

“The weather was quite nice today, was it not, husband?” you rush to change subjects, knowing if given the opportunity Valarr would speak ill of your father’s castle the entire evening. “Such lovely sun over the sky today.”

“Nice indeed.” Valarr agrees. “I do pray the nice weather does its good over the harvest, Gods know how much your father needs it. Even the peasants at King’s Landing eat better than here.”  

A small noise escapes from both you and one of the maids, but the woman is smart enough to muffle her noise with another cough. Your shock is evident to be easily concealed. 

“What-”

Valarr tilts his head, breaking the bread on the small chamber table, only to drop it on the floor.

“Stale bread.”

“It’s not stale.” you argue with a small voice. 

“Perhaps, but the bread during supper was. Not even the meat was formidable, more like hard salt beef.” he says. “If such is the food they serve to the realm’s prince, then I do not want to imagine what your father fed you for all these years.”

Wetness gathers in your eyes at his cruel remark and Valarr immediately takes notice, cooing as he reaches closer. His hand cups your cheek, warm and solid. 

“I only meant that you’d be fed more properly had we stayed in the Red Keep.” he shushes.  “That you’d be taken care of properly had we stayed home.”

“This is home. And I am being taken care of properly.”

You desire nothing but to bite your tongue, the words having slipped out far too easily. Valarr’s eyes narrow. 

“This was your home.” he corrects you. “Not anymore though.”

You don’t possess enough willpower in yourself to correct him back. 

So, you nod and bend your head, staring at floor as Valarr continues to pick apart on the walls and food and people that hold a special place in your heart.

–

The next day sets Valarr’s nerves on fire. 

Your husband becomes more tense and stiff with each hour spent in your father’s estate. The castle is overflowing with guests, family members and high-lords from honorable houses.

Duty forces you to greet and engage with them, but such a task is easier said than done as Valarr’s tense stare follows you. He keeps appearing by your side, hand possessively latching to your shoulder as he politely steers the conversation away from you.

Lords ask for your hand to a dance and yet none is accomplished in their request as Valarr subtly excuses you, under the pretense of your mother calling upon you or that are required for a task that does not exist. 

He grows irked, so much you can see it in the cracks of his serene facade. His eyes start narrowing down and his smiles become strained. Each and every person that utters a word towards you has him stiffening by your side, fingers tightening to a bunch.

By supper, you’ve excused yourself to your chamber, claiming a light ache in the head, unable to keep yourself around so many people with Valarr’s poor mood looming over you. 

Valarr is quick in following you, closing the door to your chamber with unnecessary strength. After pressing a kiss to your forehead, he steps near the fireplace, staring at the small flames with his jaw tightly pressed.

“Lord Ashford kept looking at you.” he reveals, cold anger in his voice. “Lord Bolton kept praising your beauty. And Lord Baratheon attempted to dance with you.”

“...I-”

“Had I not married you, they’d be swarming and pestering your father for your hand. Fighting like pigs to see you warm their beds.”

You twist your fingers nervously. By now you’ve come to realize that when Valarr’s jealousy has his imagination running wild, the words that escape from his lips aren’t the nicest. 

“I’m sure that’s not-”

“Doesn’t matter.” Valarr interrupts, turning to you. “We’ll be leaving this pathetic circus soon enough. My father has sent word that I might be needed back soon. Hence this visit could be shortened by few days.”

Your eyes widen at that, moist gathering in them. 

“Wha-No, Valarr, you assured me we’d stay until the end of my mother’s nameday festivities.” 

“My father would not request for me, had it not been of a matter of great importance.” he cuts you off, staring at you with a downturn of his lips. “Your mother will surely understand that we must answer to our duty.”

The words rush out of your mouth, an helpless attempt. 

“Could I not stay for a few days longer?”

Valarr looks at you, a frown in his handsome face, upset and incredulous that you’d bring up such a possibility. 

“I will not leave you unattended.” 

Valarr’s tone is firm and sharp, allowing little space to argue. A foolish attempt from your part, really.

The only reason you were able to attend was because Valarr was able to accompany you, your lord husband forbidding you from travelling on your own, even if there would be an impressive escort of knights, members of the Kingsguard and maids surrounding you at all times. 

“But-”

“That’s enough, wife.” Valarr gives you a stern look. 

He kisses your tear-stained cheek, soft lips catching on the tears that gently roll down. 

You do.

The futon is cool against your spine. You spread your hair out like a dark halo because you don’t know what else to do with your hands. He kneels at your feet—slow, deliberate—then hooks both hands under your knees and opens you.

No preamble.

No kiss.

Just the blunt reality of his palms sliding up the insides of your thighs, thumbs dragging along the tenderest skin until you’re spread wide and trembling under the weight of his stare.

He exhales once—sharp, almost surprised.

Your pussy is… soft. Plush. The outer lips are fat and full, flushed a deep embarrassed rose even in the low light. A faint sheen already clings to the seam; you hate how obvious it is that your body is answering him even when your mind is screaming to stay numb.

Naoya’s fingers flex against your thighs. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze is locked on your cunt like he’s never seen anything so obscene and perfect at the same time. One long finger traces the outer curve of your mound—slow, reverent almost—feeling the give of the flesh, the way it yields and springs back. He presses just enough to watch it dimple under the pad of his finger, then lets go and watches it bounce softly back into place.

A low sound slips out of his throat. Not quite a groan. More like… discovery.

He hooks two fingers at the top of your slit and parts you.

The wet sound is loud in the silence.

Your folds open for him like petals soaked in honey—glistening, swollen, your clit already peeking out fat and flushed at the hood. He stares. Long enough that heat crawls up your chest and burns behind your eyes. You want to close your legs. You want to beg him to stop looking. You want—

“Eyes on me.”

His voice is rougher than before. Lower. Almost velvet over broken glass.

You snap your gaze up to his.

Those pale lashes frame eyes gone dark at the edges, pupils blown. He holds your stare while his thumbs slide down, spreading you wider—holding your pussy open so he can see every twitching inch. Your entrance flutters under the exposure; a bead of slick slips out and drips down toward the futon.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. The praise is so soft it feels like violence.

Then he lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is slow. Flat. He licks from your perineum all the way up—broad stripe that drags over your hole, through your folds, and ends curled around your clit. You choke on air.

He doesn’t rush.

He savors.

His lips close around your clit—soft suck, gentle pull—and your hips jerk before you can stop them. One big hand clamps down on your thigh, pinning you open while the other slides under your ass, lifting you just enough that he can bury his face deeper.

He eats like a man starved.

Tongue swirling lazy circles around your clit, then flicking the underside in quick little lashes that make your toes curl. He kisses it—open-mouthed, obscene—then sucks again, harder this time, until your thighs shake and a broken whimper spills out of you.

He groans into your cunt at the sound.

The vibration rockets through you.

He pulls back just enough to look—lips shiny, chin wet, eyes fever-bright—and then he dives back in. This time he spears his tongue inside you—fucking you with it in slow, filthy strokes while his nose grinds against your clit. Your hands fist the sheets; the rustle is loud, frantic. Your breathing is louder. His is ragged against your soaked skin.

He switches again—sucks your clit like it’s candy, tongue laving the swollen bud in tight relentless circles. Your hips buck; he lets you ride his face for one greedy second before he pins you down harder, growls low in his throat, and doubles down.

You’re dripping down his chin now. You can hear it—wet, sloppy sounds every time his tongue plunges back inside or his lips smack against your folds. Your clit is so fat and sensitive it almost hurts when he tongues it; hurts so good your eyes roll back even though he told you to keep looking.

He notices.

He pulls off with a wet pop, lips red and swollen, and rasps against your pulsing cunt:

“Eyes. On. Me.”

You force them open.

He smirks—just a flash of teeth—then seals his mouth over your clit again and sucks hard.

Your back bows off the futon.

The room fills with the wet symphony of him devouring you—sucking, licking, kissing every inch of your soft, dripping pussy like he’s trying to drink you whole. His fingers dig into the plush of your thighs hard enough to bruise. His tongue lashes faster. Harder.

You’re close.

You’re so fucking close and he knows it.

He flattens his tongue and grinds it against your clit in slow, filthy circles while staring straight into your eyes—daring you to look away, daring you to come apart while he watches every second of it.

You don’t know if you hate him.

You don’t know if you’ll ever stop shaking.

But right now, with his mouth locked on your cunt and his eyes burning holes through your soul, all you can do is break.

He doesn’t let you come.

Not yet.

The second your hips start that helpless little grind against his mouth—chasing, begging without words—he pulls back completely. Lips glistening, tongue dragging slow across the lower one to catch the last smear of you. His eyes flick up, cold again, like the heat that was just devouring your cunt never existed.

You whimper. Can’t help it. The sound is small and broken and it makes the corner of his mouth twitch—not a smile. Something meaner.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, voice low enough it vibrates against your still-throbbing clit. “Already dripping like a bitch in heat and I’ve barely touched you.”

He spits.

Not elegant. Not gentle.

A thick, warm glob lands right on your swollen clit—lands with a soft, wet smack that makes your whole pussy clench around nothing. You gasp, thighs jerking inward on instinct, but his hands are iron on the meat of them, forcing you wide again. Open. Exposed. The spit slides slow down your slit, mixing with your own slick until everything’s a shining, obscene mess.

He watches it travel. Watches the way your folds quiver when the cool air hits the wet trail he just left. Then he leans in close—close enough you feel the heat of his exhale before anything else—and blows.

Soft at first.

A cool, deliberate puff right over your clit.

Your back snaps off the futon. A high, startled whine tears out of your throat before you can choke it back. It’s too much. Too sensitive. The little bud pulses visibly under the sudden chill, fattening even more, begging.

Naoya’s eyes darken.

He does it again—harder this time. A sharp burst of air that makes your clit throb so violently you think you might come from that alone. Your hips buck uselessly; he pins them down with one forearm across your pelvis, heavy, immovable.

“Stay still,” he orders. Voice like a blade wrapped in silk. “You don’t get to come until I say.”

You’re shaking now. Full-body tremors. Your cunt is so wet it’s obscene—slick pooling under your ass, soaking into the futon. Every breath drags more of his spit and your arousal together until you’re just one slippery, needy mess.

He drags two fingers through it all—slow, deliberate—coating them until they shine. Then he spreads you again, thumbs pulling your lips apart so wide your hole flutters open for him, pink and empty and aching.

“Look at this greedy little thing,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Clenching on nothing. So fucking desperate for it even when you hate me.”

You do hate him.

You hate the way he looks at you like you’re beneath him. Hate the cold commands. Hate how your body doesn’t care—how it’s arching toward his mouth anyway, how your clit is so swollen it hurts, how every puff of air he breathes over it sends lightning up your spine.

He knows.

He leans down and lets another long string of spit drool from his lips—watches it stretch, then snap, landing directly on your entrance this time. It slides inside on its own, warm and thick, and your walls flutter around the intrusion like they’re trying to suck it deeper.

Naoya groans—low, involuntary. The first real crack in his control.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your cunt. “This pussy’s gonna ruin me.”

Then he’s on you again.

No teasing this time.

He seals his mouth over your clit and sucks—hard, rhythmic pulls that make your vision white out. His tongue lashes the underside in tight, mean little flicks while he sucks, sucks, sucks until your thighs lock around his head and you’re sobbing his name without meaning to.

He doesn’t stop.

He shoves two fingers inside you—rough, no warning—just curls them up hard against that spot that makes your toes curl and your back bow. Pumps them fast, filthy, matching the brutal rhythm of his mouth on your clit.

You’re loud now. Can’t help it. Whimpers turn to moans turn to broken cries every time he curls those fingers deeper, every time he tongues your clit like he’s trying to bully it into submission.

He pulls off just long enough to growl against your soaked folds:

“Come.”

One word.

Command.

Your body obeys before your mind can catch up.

It hits like a slap—sharp, violent, shattering. Your cunt clamps down on his fingers so hard he hisses. You gush around them—hot, slick pulses that soak his hand, his chin, the futon beneath you. Your hips jerk uncontrollably; he doesn’t let up. Keeps sucking your oversensitive clit through it, keeps fucking you with those long fingers until you’re clawing at the sheets and begging him to stop—then begging him not to.

He finally pulls his mouth away when you’re twitching, whimpering, too sensitive to take any more.

But he doesn’t pull his fingers out.

He keeps them buried deep, slow lazy pumps now, curling just enough to make your walls flutter around him again and again.

His eyes meet yours over the messy, shining wreck of your cunt.

“You hate me,” he says, voice wrecked, lips swollen and red. “But this pussy?” He twists his fingers—slow grind against your g-spot that makes you choke on a sob. “This needy little cunt loves me already.”

He leans down.

Licks one long, slow stripe up your oversensitive slit—tasting the mess you made.

“Gonna train it right,” he promises against your pulsing clit. “Gonna make it come on my cock next. Make it cry for me every fucking night until you forget what hating me even feels like.”

Another soft blow of air over your clit.

You jerk. Whine. Clench so hard around his fingers he groans again.

“See?” he murmurs, smug, cruel, starving. “Already learning.”

He curls his fingers again.

And your body—traitor that it is—starts climbing right back toward the edge he just shoved you over.

He’s going to ruin you.

And the worst part?

You’re already dripping for it.

He doesn’t pull his fingers out.

Not even close.

They stay buried knuckle-deep, thick and unyielding, curled just enough that every tiny shift of his hand drags the pads against that spongy front wall until your hips twitch like they’ve been shocked. Your cunt is still fluttering around the intrusion—aftershocks from the orgasm he ripped out of you—clenching so hard it’s almost painful, like your body’s trying to keep him there even when it can barely handle him.

Naoya feels it.

Of course he does.

He lets out a low, dark chuckle against the inside of your thigh—hot breath ghosting over the slick mess he’s made—and twists his wrist slow, deliberate. The stretch burns. Two long fingers aren’t even that much, but your hole is so fucking tight it feels obscene, like velvet strangling silk. Every ridge of his knuckles scrapes your walls on the way in deeper; every curl makes your entrance flutter and suck at the base like it’s begging for more even as it struggles.

“Fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent. “This little hole’s fighting me already.”

He spreads his fingers—just a fraction—testing. Your cunt resists, walls clamping down so hard his breath hitches. A fresh gush of slick leaks out around his knuckles, dripping slow and obscene down the cleft of your ass to pool beneath you. He watches it happen. Watches the way your puffy lips stretch thin around his digits, the way the rim of your entrance turns white from the strain before blooming flushed and greedy again.

He pulls out halfway—slow drag that makes you whine at the sudden emptiness—then shoves back in. Harder this time. Deeper. The wet squelch is loud enough to make your cheeks burn. Your thighs tremble; he hooks his free arm under one knee and yanks it higher, folding you open wider until your pussy is completely on display, glistening and stretched and so fucking small next to his hand.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with something cruel and hungry. “Can barely take two fingers and you’re already crying for it.”

He’s right. Tears are leaking from the corners of your eyes—overstimulation, humiliation, raw need, all of it mixing until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Your clit is still throbbing, fat and red from his earlier abuse, peeking out from its hood like it’s begging for attention he’s deliberately ignoring.

He gives it to your hole instead.

Slow, filthy pumps now. In and out. In and out. Every withdrawal leaves you gaping for a heartbeat—pink rim fluttering open—before he plunges back in, scissoring just enough to make the stretch burn sweeter. He twists again when he’s deep, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit in lazy circles that make your whole body jerk.

You sob. Loud. Broken.

He doesn’t stop.

Instead he leans down and spits again—right onto where his fingers disappear inside you. The warm glob lands on your stretched rim, slides down his knuckles, and gets fucked right back into you with the next brutal thrust. Your walls flutter violently; he groans at the feel of it, low and wrecked.

“Greedy little cunt,” he rasps. “Sucking me in like you were made for this. Made to take whatever I give it.”

He adds pressure with his thumb now—presses the pad right against your clit and rubs slow, mean circles while he keeps finger-fucking you with that same punishing rhythm. The dual sensation is too much—too full, too sensitive, too everything. Your hips buck uselessly; he pins them with his forearm again, heavy and immovable, forcing you to take it.

Take every slow grind of his fingers curling against your g-spot.

Take the way his thumb bullies your clit until it’s pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

Take the obscene wet sounds filling the room—squelch, slick, your own desperate whimpers.

He pulls his fingers out completely this time—slow, torturous drag that leaves your hole winking open, empty and aching. You clench around nothing; a pitiful little whine escapes before you can stop it.

Naoya smirks.

Then he brings those soaked fingers to your mouth.

“Open.”

You do—shaking, teary-eyed, humiliated—and he pushes them past your lips. The taste of you floods your tongue—salty-sweet, musky, mixed with his spit. He fucks them shallowly into your mouth while his other hand returns to your cunt—two fingers sliding right back in without warning, stretching you open again while his thumb keeps tormenting your clit.

“Suck,” he orders.

You do.

Tongue curling around his knuckles, cheeks hollowing as you clean every drop of yourself off him. He watches with dark, hooded eyes—lips parted, breathing ragged for the first time tonight.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, almost soft. Almost tender.

Then he curls his fingers inside you again—hard—and rubs that spot until your eyes roll back and fresh tears spill.

He’s playing with you.

Toying.

Stretching your tight little hole wider with every thrust, making it gape and flutter and drip for him while he watches like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. Like he hates you but can’t get enough of this part—the part that yields, the part that begs, the part that’s already learning to open for him even when it hurts.

He leans down close—lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Gonna keep you like this all night,” he whispers, voice velvet and venom. “Fingers in this needy pussy. Thumb on your clit. Making you come again and again until this tight little hole forgets how to close. Until it’s shaped just for me.”

He thrusts deeper.

Grinds.

Spreads.

And your body—traitorous, dripping, desperate—starts climbing right back toward that edge he loves dangling you over.

He’s going to ruin you.

Piece by filthy piece.

And your cunt?

It’s already clenching around him like it can’t wait.

A/N. Yes I'm on that Naoya pussy eating agenda.

torusbabe 2026 ©.

It took you seven weeks to talk to him. Of course, you talked at first, mainly in a loud, interrogative tone (“Who the hell are you?!;” “What is wrong with you?!”), or in a desperate, bargaining tone (“Please just let me go, I promise I won’t tell anybody at all.”).

None of this shouting or crying led to a particularly fruitful conversation, at least not in the way he’d hoped (i.e., conversations that fizzled out after he responded with “Don’t you remember me? Please just look at me. I’m a regular at that coffee shop you work at!” and “Please try to understand that I can’t let you go! I’ve sacrificed so much by bringing you here, you can fall in love with me, please try!”).

After this short spat came a long, agonizing period of weeks that seemed to blend into one. He could not tell Monday from Saturday. In the morning, he would wake up, go to his mundane job, come home, silently rock himself back and forth while watching you do… nothing.

You would just sit with your hands in your lap, like a doll — albeit a very solemn-looking doll, but he thought of you as a doll nonetheless — but dolls are meant to be played with, are they not? They are not meant to sit angrily and waste away, refusing to eat.

“Please just take a bite. You look sickly. Please… do it for me?”

Do it for him? You can’t help but look away, lips twisting up in a sick laugh. Who does he think he is? There is little more amusing than someone who overestimates their importance in your life, which he certainly does.

He knows none the better; in fact, he’s delighted when your breathy giggles escape from your mouth, although you immediately slap a hand over your lips to silence yourself.

“You laughed,” he notes, “I’m so happy. Your laugh is so beautiful. I could cry at how beautiful it is.” It’s the first sound that’s come out of your mouth in weeks.

The second sound that comes out is a toe-curling scream when he attempts to take your face in the palm of his hand, the way a grandmother might hold her grandchild’s face to kiss them on the cheek.

“I won’t ever touch you again, not without your consent,” he shyly promises you afterwards as he watches you nibble on the toast he’s cooked to your liking.

Transitive (verb). Please: to be agreeable; to give pleasure or satisfaction. With till, to, with.

“I just want to please you,” he says frustratedly months after that.

“You can please me by leaving me alone.”

You’ve come to terms with the fact that you can't sit here doing nothing for months. This, of course, does not mean you’ve come to terms with his very existence.

“Just say the word and I’ll do it. Should I make you something special for dinner? Is there a movie you’d like to watch? Something we can do together? I feel like we don’t spend any time together.”

“I literally spend all my time with you.”

“But we don’t talk to each other enough. It’s just—It’s taking you a lot longer to fall in love with me than I thought it would. Perhaps if we did more things together…”

He’s annoying when he’s like this, insistent and needy, eager to please, whatever, whatever.

The secret third meaning of the word “please” — one not listed by the Oxford English Dictionary — is its sexual, devious connotation, one that hangs in the air every time he’s sprawled at the carpet besides your legs.

You’re sitting on the ground, back leaned against the sofa, one of your favorite movies playing on the TV at a low volume. In your lap is one of those sudoku booklets that they sell at gas stations. The room would be quiet (only the soft scratching of paper against the cheap, thin paper and the muffled movie soundtrack) if it weren’t for his constant whining and complaining.

He wants so badly to throw the sudoku booklet away and lie down on your lap instead of the floor. To devour you, perhaps, to rid you of the expensive clothes you’re wearing that he bought especially for you.

To please you, and to be pleased by you.

But he promised he wouldn’t touch you again, and he’s too embarrassed to ask you for permission. It would be impossible to handle the sharp sting of rejection. Again, that is.

It had been a few weeks since an incredibly awkward encounter that he wished he could erase from his memory. The only memory of you he’s ever wanted to erase, actually, when he’d drunkedly cried and pleaded for love — touch, passion, whatever you call it — in the middle of the night.

You’d noticed a row of not all-too-cheap liquor bottles (brandy, champagne, wine, vodka) hidden on a bookshelf when you first started exploring the house. He’d explained that they were for celebratory purposes — New Year’s, birthdays, holidays, things like that — but you’d reprimanded him, uncomfortable with the idea of spending your birthday trapped in this house.

Regardless, he’d gotten near black-out drunk that one night after you’d gone to bed.

He watched your sleeping figure. The house was hardly a house; it was a studio in a tall residential building facing a metropolitan city. You slept in the massive king-sized bed. He slept on the fold-out sofa.

But why, he wondered, swirling his glass of brandy in one hand and running his other through his hair, should he? Sleep on the sofa, I mean? Why couldn’t he sleep beside you like a normal couple?

Such were his thoughts as he drank glass after glass until even his breath smelled like brandy. Drowsy and drunk, hazy were his thoughts. With how much he drank he expected he would not remember the events of the night when he woke up hungover next morning, but he did in horrible, excruciating detail.

Just a taste, he reasoned with himself, letting himself hover over your form. Would one kiss really hurt? Perhaps somewhere hidden far, far behind his nervous, bubbly facade — the same way there was a line of alcohol bottles hidden amidst the books — was a sick, sick pervert.

And, well, yes, one kiss on your cute cheek didn’t hurt. You obliviously snored softly away. But who stops at one kiss on the cheek?

He couldn’t even taste you, which was the whole point of kissing you in the first place anyways, so the kisses escalated, from chaste, close-mouthed pecks where he inhaled the scent of your warm, perfumed skin, to sloppier ones, teeth trailing against your soft skin, tongue savoring the salty flesh flavor of the side of your neck, and so on, so forth.

What's that saying? A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism? If you hadn't woken up, stirred awake from the mattress dipping under his weight as he recklessly climbed on top of you, he probably would've eaten you.

“WHAT are you DOING?!”

You pushed him off with some struggle — he tried to keep going at first, hands wandering where they should not wander until it was as if he snapped back into reality.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized profusely. “I’m so, so, so, sorry. I had too much to drink, I wasn’t thinking straight,” blah, blah, blah. He was on his knees now. You clutched the blanket close to your panicked, heaving chest. He cried pathetically. “I love you so much. Is it wrong to desire you, to want you carnally? I just wanted to please you.”

Perhaps the Oxford English Dictionary should add a ninth definition:

(Modal verb). Please: your kidnapper's most-used word; a term of manipulation; a word he uses when he tries to force himself onto you, or when he wants you to do something for him; please, the thing a petulant child tells their parents when requesting a Christmas gift (ie, “Please buy me that doll.”).