Page 41 of Brutal Surrender

His movements are perfect. The right angle. The right penetration. The right pace. All conspire to make me a bundle of nerves needing to burst free. Gradually he thrusts deeper, his pelvis slapping into my derrière.

“That hard enough for my baby girl?”

Lost in a tangle of bliss, I answer, “Yes, Daddy.”

“Let’s see if my baby girl can take it harder.”

His hips slam into me. It’s jarring, but I still like it.

“Keep telling Daddy what you want.”

“Fuck me, Daddy, fuck me.”

His hips piston like crazy, blasting me into my orgasm. The scream tearing from my throat turns soundless. I feel like I’m going to shake into a thousand pieces. Before I catch a breath, I feel his fingers strumming my clit, keeping me submerged in pleasure and arousal. My body is delirious with rapture and when the next orgasm washes over me, I nearly sob with joy.

Grabbing my hips, he pounds his way to his own release. My teeth chatter from the force of it. Luckily it doesn’t go on for too long before his knot swells too much, stretching me. Liquid heat fills me. He allows his cock to pulse inside of me for a while before withdrawing.

I lay on my side. That’s when the shame sets in. Tears burn the back of my eyelids.

“What is it?” Vincent asks when someone knocks.

Xander answers through the door, “Helen is here to see if she should bring up dinner?”

Vincent turns to me. “You haven’t had dinner yet?”

“Wasn’t hungry,” I mumble.

“Bring the dinner,” Vincent tells Xander before untying my wrists.

I pull the robe around me as if it can shield him from seeing my shame. It probably doesn’t matter. He’s seen it all. He’s probably gloating that I said everything he wanted me to say. But it’s not a complete victory for him. I’m at a disadvantage because I’m an omega, and he’s smart enough to recognize that.

Tired of being in a robe, I grab the underwear and dashiki. In the bathroom, I wipe myself down as best as I can. Ugh. Who knows how long it will take for his cum to dribble out of me?

The underpants fit well. Maybe they feel extra nice because I’ve been deprived of clothes, but lace usually bothers me, yet this pair feels incredibly soft. I pull the dashiki over my head. It’s beautiful with earth tones. I wouldn’t be surprised to find this item in some haute couture shop. My only displeasure is that there are no leggings or pants to go with them. Worn alone, it barely covering my ass.

Back in the main room, I see that Vincent has dressed himself. His gaze lingers on me.

Trying to ignore his presence, I look through the bags. There’s nothing else besides what I had already pulled out. I pick up the skirt. It doesn’t really pair with the dashiki fashion-wise, but I feel half naked in front of Vincent. I shouldn’t care. Like he pointed out before, he’s seen all of me. But with him, I feel I need every little piece of protection I can get.

He pulls out one of the dining chairs. “Sit down.”

“I’m going to change,” I say, holding the skirt and the blouse.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s wrong with what you’re wearing now?”

“I changed my mind.”

Before he can say anything else, I return to the bathroom and take off the dashiki. The blouse falls off my shoulders a little, but I feel less vulnerable in this outfit.

Vincent doesn’t seem like he’s leaving anytime soon, so I wonder if there is any way I can stall for time. Nothing comes to mind, so I reluctantly head to the table, where Vincent is already seated, rubbing his temples with one hand. Does he have a headache? Poor baby, I think sarcastically. I hope it feels like a hundred daggers stabbing you in the head.

I sit down opposite him.

“What else did you do besides masturbate while I was gone?” he asks.

Think of ways to escape, what happened to Brady, and how I can kill you.

“Twiddle my thumbs,” I reply.

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