Page 43 of Mayfly

He's so much closer now.

I shake my head, just like I told him I did.

He sends me hurling to the floor by another powerful kick, and my head cracks against it. With the sole of his foot pressed firmly against my throat, he looms over me with the gun still pointed between my eyes. "Eat the fucking food, Jude. Your mother spent time making it. Don't you dare disrespect her."

I try to move his foot so I can roll over, but he slips away from me, only to kick me towards the mashed potato.

Hands on the rug, I push myself off my stomach, and lick the mashed potatoes.

He stands directly beside my head. “Is it good?”

I hum, but don’t dare look at him.

“Show me.”

Even with guilt weighing heavy on my shoulders, it's impossible to repress just how much I need this. Each punch and kick brings me closer and closer to completing this damn circle so we can be whole together. So I can protect him properly. So I can be the hero I always promised I could be.

“Goddamn,” he shudders, as I kneel before him with my lips wide. He digs the barrel of the gun back between my eyes, and with just as little self control as I have, he forces his dick—and the mashed potato—into my gaping mouth.

I try to hold as still as I can.

This was never part of the story. Not the real version, anyway.

The pressure between my eyes disappears, and above me I can hear Curren hitting the gun against the side of his head. Then with a slew of frustrated cursing, he tosses it onto the bed, and grabs the back of my head so he can bully his way further into my mouth.

When I gag, he pinches my nose, and I dig my fingers into my thighs.

Allowing me to breathe again, he commands me to, “Swallow it,” and with all the admiration in the world, I stare up at him. Pulling back, I suck the potato off his shaft until my lips feel the ridge of his crown. Lingering, I circle it with my tongue and watch the steely look in his eyes falter for a split second before I swallow.

I open wide and present my bare mouth to him.

With a spiteful smile, he drops his cock between my eyes and slides it up and down my face—his balls hitting my chin.

He feels so heavy.

So huge.

Then he steps back.

Curren's fingers jerk my head forward, and he forces his tongue down my throat. It's intense, dizzying, and rough.

He wedges his bare hand between our mouths to grip at my face. "Are you sure you want me to get it?"

I think I answer him.

I think the words, "I need it so much," leave my mouth. But sometimes, when you want something so badly, reality and your imagination get blurred together.

Curren throws my head to the side, and steps back. "Go on, then. You know what to do."

My head spins and my legs tingle as I stand.

The pang of what should be shame, but feels a lot more like satisfaction, beats inside me as I walk to the desk. Gathering everything on it together, I put them all in the desk's drawer, then move to the end of it. Without looking back, I glance down at how shamefully red my dick is, then bend over until my torso is flat against the desk's cherry-stained top.

“Your belt.”

I'm sick of him denying that there's nothing more to this. I will beat it out of him.

I tear the belt from the loops of my trousers, and how I don't bust the seams, I’ve no idea—but fuck him. If he thinks he needs this, then I’ll give him the whole damn package.

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