Page 96 of Deviant Illusions

His eyes close as he spits on my cheek. When he opens them again, the pain is back, and I realize that we’re being watched. This is why he said to remember he’s protecting me, and this is my Kane. My Kane who hated hurting people and my Kane who would never hurt me.

So I soften and open my mouth just enough for him to do whatever he needs. He shuffles forward, hiding how his thumb gently strokes the side of my neck behind my hair.

My choke is involuntary as he pushes further into my mouth and flattens his hand on the wall. Wherever the camera is won’t be able to pick me up with his body covering mine so I open my eyes a little more.

He roughly fucks my face. Each thrust makes his eyes redder, more pained, but he doesn’t spit on me—verbally or physically. Neither is there any enjoyment on his face. His movements are mechanical, like he’s trying to detach himself from the act.

I try to make it better for him and relax my throat, but he speeds up. The waistband of his sweats scrapes my chin, then my air is cut off as he pushes his hips against my face, burying his dick down my throat.

“I fucking hate you!”

He pulls out an inch to allow me to breathe.

“You fucking ruined everything!”

I can see him in small bursts around the loud cracks timed with the thrust of his hips. His eyes are bright red, tears lining his lashes, and when he pushes forward again they fall, hitting my cheek.

“You fucking bitch!”

He’s crying, screaming his hate, and punching the wall while I lay beneath him, silently begging him to look at me.

My air is cut off again as he stills, but he’s not close to release. It’s an act that he sells before he pulls out of my mouth, still leaning over me, and tucks his dick away. Spit is on my face, mine and his, but he still doesn’t look at me. He simply lifts the sheet to throw it over my face.

“Disgusting fucking…” His voice trails off as he gets off the bed, his steps dragging until he slams the door behind him.

I don’t know if someone came into the room so I lay there listening to him run the water. The thuds come again, glass smashes, and then silence.

Somehow the silence is more terrifying than noise. If he’s loud I know he’s okay, but he’s not. Yet I still can’t move when it suddenly stops.

42

KANE

Ihurt her.

I hurt her.

I fucking hurt her.

I hurt her in the exact same way I blamed her for. But Delilah wasn’t in SEG with me, she didn’t force herself into me, onto me. I’ve fucking done that to her. She froze.

She froze like I froze.

My fist flies out, hitting the tile, and a crack forms. I do it again, relishing in the pain as my knuckles split.

I keep doing it.

Until a jagged piece of porcelain falls to the floor and I have an escape.

Sinking down to my knees, I snatch it up. The first scratch against my palm adds a bit of calm. The calm increases as I fold my sweats and boxers down to add a new line in a place no one will notice. The line isn’t as clean as the others that have healed with time, but I can’t focus on that when a little dot of blood begins to form above my dick. The only thing I feel is frustration at not being able to get deep enough because of the thick tile. So, I search like an addict who needs that one little hit to keep goinguntil I find the glass Delilah ripped from the wall so that we could have something to drink from. It has a new purpose now, a more important purpose.

I remain on my knees as I hold the glass in my fist and punch the wall. The shards dig into my hand, my fingers. Beautiful pain that shuts it all out.

Your mind can only focus on one pain at a time.

I pick the largest one for what I need.

Do you want me to stop the screams?

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