Page 102 of The Dominator

I hated this. This wasn’t a game; this was something else, something hideous. This was so hideous it was going to take me back to when I first met him and would erase the moments we’d had together that had made me go from feeling like my life was over to feeling like I could fall for him, fall hard.

In Mexico when he held me and washed me clean.

In the hayloft when we danced and he told me he was in love with me and played the song I’d dreamt of dancing with my future husband to.

In the hospital when he was so worried about me and showed me that he would look after me, when he slept all awkwardly in the chair holding my hand all night long.

On the floor in the bedroom the morning we were shot at, when he’d been a human shield to keep bullets from hitting me.

Something inside of me was shriveling up and it, whatever it was, was dying. He let go of my wrists and my mouth and then let out a big exasperated-sounding sigh. Then he leaned over me.

“Stop it,” he said, looking me in the eye. His eyes were so cold. I was sobbing so hard I was starting to hyperventilate.

“Stop,” he repeated, angrily.

I couldn’t stop. I’d probably need to breathe into a paper bag before I could stop.

“Shut up!” His hand came down over my throat and he squeezed. I think I stopped breathing out of shock as much as him cutting my airflow off. Tears froze in their tracks on my face and my mouth and eyes were wide as I gasped and then he loosened his grip.

He stared at me. He stared at me with such an angry, hateful look. He still had my throat, but he’d loosened his grip. I swallowed and felt the lump in my throat touch his palm.

He got up and opened the door. I stayed where I was. I was just lying there with my shorts down around my knees, my ripped blouse, and my tear-stained face.

He was back with a glass of whisky. He stood there, his fly undone. He drank from it and then threw his t-shirt over his head and then dropped his shorts.

I closed my eyes and held my breath. He took my shorts and underwear the rest of the way off me. I just laid there.

“Sit up,” he ordered.

I sat up. He pulled my ripped blouse off and undid my bra and then took that off. He did these things almost clinically.

“Up,” he muttered and I stood up. He pulled the blanket back, and said, “In.”

I lay down and he got in beside me then climbed on top of me.

“Open your legs,” he said.

I shook my head. “Please, Tommy.” Enough. Please enough.

“Now!” he snarled.

My legs obeyed but I was whimpering.

He leaned over me, took his cock and began gliding it up and down and up and down between my folds, against my clit. I just stared at the ceiling.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

My eyes met his.

“You’re mine,” he told me.

I felt my eyebrows furrow. I tried to relax them. I didn’t want to provoke him further.

“Never run from me again.”

More rubbing, especially on my clit. I was trembling.

“I’m the one in control,” he advised.

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