Page 78 of Deviant

His fingertips brush against the wisps of my hair that’s regrown.

I hold my breath, watching in slow motion, as his mouth moves to capture mine.

His tongue forces its way in past my lips, though in truth I don’t put up much resistance. But the way he slowly explores, it’s too much. Far too fucking much.

I know I shouldn’t do it.

I know there’s going to be consequences, but I can’t stop myself from reacting.

I have to stop this.

I have to do something.

I have to prove to us both that I am still me. I am still Ana.

My hand raises up and I slap him, pouring all my pain, fear, and every other emotion he has forced me to endure into the weight of that action.

He tenses, his eyes snap open and I brace myself for my inevitable punishment that he’s going to delve out.

Only, he seems almost amused rather than angry.

And then his hands wrap around my throat, tightening enough to restrict my airway but not cut it entirely. With his thighs he pushes my legs apart and in one swift movement he thrusts himself inside me.

But the noise I make, it’s not disgust, it’s not revulsion; to my horror, the sound that escapes me is as close to a moan of pleasure as I’ve ever uttered.

I shake my head, as though remonstrating with my own brain, but my body refuses to listen to the message.

No, despite everything, I’m arching my back, my hips eagerly meeting each of his thrusts as he slides his cock in and out.

There’s none of the usual pain. None of that awful, dry penetration. With horror, I realise I’m wet, aroused, literally dripping for this man.

I can’t do this.

I can’t give in like this.

I hate the way I’m reacting. I hate the awful comfort I’m feeling in this moment.

A tear streaks down my cheek but it’s full of despair for myself, despair and hate too because on some level I have submitted, haven’t I? On some level, I know that I want this, no,needthis interaction.

I need this man’s touch, his caresses, hell, I’ll even take his beatings too if that’s what he gives me.

As his hands shift on my throat, I gasp the words ringing in my head. Repeating over and over.

“Harder.” I hiss. “Harder.”

His eyebrows raise. “Harder?” he repeats as if he thinks he misheard.

“Make it hurt. Please, God, make it hurt.”

And I want it to hurt. I want him to remind my body of everything that he is. That he’s a brute and a monster and nothing about this situation should make me seek any form of comfort from him.

He picks up pace almost immediately. Clearly, hewasbeing gentle before, but now, now the gentleness is gone.

Now, it’s me and my monster again.

I let out a cry of relief. A cry of pain too. And it feels so good. So necessary. I need him to hurt me and punish me. I need him to ensure this lesson is learnt and remembered.

But my body still wraps around him, my leg curls into him as if encouraging this brutality. And my hands, my nails dig into his skin, I claw at him, I writhe against him, meeting every thrust with a moan that steadily grows louder and louder until I am screaming, I’m crying, I am falling apart beneath him.

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