Page 29 of Beautiful Venom

The world spins as he flips me over again. I sob when my burning ass meets the ground.

I feel a shadow above me and my eyes widen when he straddles my head, knees on either side of my temple, looking down at me through the gruesome mask.

The fabric of his jeans is scratchy against my heated, stinging cheeks. Kane holds his hard cock with a stiff hand, the veins bulging on the back. “Open that fucking mouth.”

I blink, still disoriented, all my strength gone. I’m so drained, sore, and full of sexual frustration, I’m surprised I haven’t already passed out.

When I don’t comply, he grabs a fistful of my hair, pulling my head up violently and slapping my mouth with the underside of his dick. And then he comes all over my face, his cum forming a sticky film on my eyes, nose, cheeks, mouth.

Everywhere.

His gaze remains on me as he messes up my face and I can only see a blurry version of him. “What a dirty,dirtylittle whore.”

I taste him on my tongue as our eyes meet.

His are so detached, I wonder if there’s any warmth inside him. If he hadn’t painted my face with cum, I’d suspect he was a robot who didn’t enjoy what just happened.

“You could’ve been a better slut,” he says in a tone as detached as his eyes as he stands up and tucks himself in. “If you can walk, go through the door to your left.”

As he strides through said door, I stare overhead at the blinking red light in horror.

I completely forgot there was a camera.

Some sick perverts were watching me getting humiliated this entire time.

7

DAHLIA

Kane has disappeared.

And with that, the camera stops blinking red.

Soon after he left, he returned and threw a coat at my head—black leather with brass buttons like the ones the guards were wearing outside.

Then he vanished into the dark without looking twice in my direction, as if I’d disgusted him.

After he fucked me.

After he used me for his pleasure.

That thought is more humiliating than the fact that I had the roughest sex of my life on camera. And I came so hard, I squirted.

I need therapy. If only I could afford it.

My movements are stiff and automatic as I swipe my torn shirt over my face, the touch of it scraping against my skin like sandpaper. I find the cleanest shred and drag it between my legs.

The bruises he left on my pelvis and ass throb, radiating heat. Sharp, stinging pain lances through me with every small shift. The feeling of him inside me is raw, alive, like my body has been ripped open and filled with tiny, invisible shards of him.

My strained muscles protest as I pull my jeans up, slide into my shoes, then put on the huge coat and fasten the belt around my waist.

It smells like Kane. Woodsy and mysterious.

Enchanting at first, but a devil up close.

Serves me right for trying to humanize him in the beginning despite knowing exactly the type of organization he belongs to.

I thought he was the greenest flag in this godforsaken organization, but apparently, I was color-blind.

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