Page 42 of Fragile Facade
His hands come up, almost like he’s going to touch me. When he rips a dagger from inside his jacket and presses it to my neck, my cock jerks and his eyes smile. “I have a fucking rope around my neck and I’m still more powerful than you. You want me to beg?” He huffs a laugh. “How about I threaten?” He looks down, a clear signal. “Or do you only want this while I’m paralyzed?”
I smirk at him, the bob of my throat pressing against his blade as I swallow.
“Your brother throat-fucked mine. Time I repay that favour,sweetheart.”
His other hand lands on the back of my head. Forcefully, he fists my hair and pushes my face down until it hits the bulge in his teal boxer-briefs. I inhale the scent of him, revel in how hard he is, close my eyes at the feel of his cock against my lips, and exhale eager anticipation at the knife against the side of my neck.
Fuck yeah. Here he is, and I’m the one who goaded him out of his box.
“Now,” he demands.
Hiding my grin, I pull back just enough to yank his boxers down. His cock slaps my chin as it bounces free, but he doesn’t give me time to concoct a plan. He presses the knife in harder, lifts his hips, and rams his cock against my lips until they open. He fills my mouth before I suck in a breath, the dry stretch of my lips painful, but not as painful as his cock hitting the back of my throat. I gag around him, every muscle in my torso tensing with a dry heave. When he pulls out, saliva stretches from my lips to his tip as I suck in breaths. I try to push up, using my hands for strength, but Soren slices my neck and pushes on my head simultaneously, forcing himself to the back of my throat again.
I fucking hate to love it. While he takes what he thinks he’s owed, a wildness stirs within me. My blood drips down the side of my neck, soaking into my shirt while my drool soaks his cock and mixes with the taste of his precum. I’m not quiet, but neither is he. While I gag and choke, he groans and moans, and it’s the perfect prize. I knew it. I fucking knew he wanted me, and he might call this a threat, but I call it desperate begging. If he thinks he needs to stay in control and press a dagger to my pulse just to get what he wants, so be it. I’ll play the game until he comes back for more because this is only the fucking start. This is training, and he’s such a good little mutt.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice strained.
My knees bend and I take a breath around him, allowing spit to coat my lips. The feel of his full, hard cock in my mouth is more satisfying than all my fantasies portrayed. It’s an owning, and he’s the one claiming me. He’ll deny it, but I will remind him how fucking bad he wanted this every time he tries to dispute it.
I suck him all on my own, letting his hand on my head control the pace, fucking with his mind because he doesn’t know what to do when he isn’t fighting me on something. Tongue sweeping under the head of his cock, I listen to him gurgle out a moan above me, fist tightening in my hair. My body heats up, a mix of pain, pleasure, and an unhinged need to win this game. I’m so into it—into the feeling of being aggressively throat fucked; into the sensation of him so desperate—that I lift my hand, eager to rub myself through my pants.
I cry out in pain a second later.
“No,” Ghost snarls at me, lifting my head by my hair and forcing me to look at him. “You don’t get to touch yourself.”
Shifting my eyes to my left, I look at my fingers, wiggling them to make sure they still work. The dagger that was pressed to my throat now sticks out of the top of my hand, the tip buried in the counter. With my hand pinned to the surface and blood oozing out, I breathe harder, unsure if I’m pissed off, pleased, or a mix of both. All I know is that I’m impatient, unable to stand here and do nothing. I have to fucking move, to fight back, to make him eat his words. Because he’s going to come, and when he does, it will be because of me! Because I got him here, lured him in, trapped him, and goaded him until he took what he wanted. He’ll take all the credit, but we’ll both know it’s my credit to revel in.
I baited him; he bit.
He's not laughing anymore, but he’s even more depraved. He grabs my nape with both hands and forces me to bend back over. I swallow his cock and gag even harder than the first time. I have no control. His hands move my head at the pace he commands, every jerky thrust of his hips making the knife in my hand shift. Pain sings, but I don’t care. I want more. Because he’s close, his groans are anguished and full of dark pleasure. His body melds into a rhythm that suits his needs and his needs only. He doesn’t care about me. He just wants to use me, abuse me, and take pleasure in the rope around his neck, pressing perfectly against his pulse points.
Use me all you want, sweetheart. This is step one to making you crave me.
“Fuck. Fuck,” he seethes between clenched teeth. He pushes my head all the way down, suffocating me on his cock. I don’t even have enough control to properly gag this time. “Swallow. Right now. Make me feel it.”
With his cock halfway down my throat, I force a swallow, constricting my throat around him because I have no other choice.
“Ahhhhh, fuck,” he moans loudly, the musical lilt to his pleasure-drenched voice fitting in so perfectly with the sad lullaby playing through the speakers.
He curses me on his next breath, his cock throbbing in my throat. I’m losing feeling in my body, gaining pressure in my head, unable to breathe. I don’t even know if I swallow his cum or if he forces it down my throat by sheer will and power, but either way, I sense it sliding down my esophagus. I feel his legs tremble, his body shake, his abs tense. I hear him moan in formidable delectation, and I sense his shame under the surface. Stronger than that, I sense his power. Because he thinks he won.
He pulls back, cum still leaking from his cock. I get the first taste of it when it hits my tongue, able to breathe in through my nose and savour the flavour longer. I swallow again, choking him down, a little addicted to the taste, extremely addicted to the force emanating from him.
“Jesus,” he groans, pushing my head away. He rips the knife from my hand, making me flinch and grit my teeth. When he kicks me away, I hold the wound in my hand, lick my lips, and watch him become transfixed by the sight of his cum on my wet mouth.
He opens his mouth to comment on it, thinks better of it, and finally loosens the noose to free himself from my trap. He’s breathing hard, cheeks red for a new reason—a better reason that looks hotter than it did when he was being hung—and shakes his head at me.
“Still think you won?” he asks, climbing off the counter and rubbing at his neck.
Oh, I know I won. So, I grin at him.
He barks out a pathetic laugh. “Seriously? You’rethatfucking deluded that me fucking your throat and spinning your trap on you counts as a win?” He swipes blood from his thigh, the stab wound open again.
Yeah, because he took what he wanted, and I didn’t even have to beg him to. I shrug. “You had a knife this whole time and never cut yourself down.” I straighten my jacket while his eyes widen and his cheeks get redder. “Counts as winning to me.” I pick up the violin he was holding before I hung him, setting it on the counter.
I leave him in the shop and whistle the whole way back to Vile House.
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