Page 25 of On the Rocks
“So fucking tight.”
Two drops.
“I’m going to love ruining this pussy.”
Three.
“You’re not even going to be able to walk after me fucking you so good.”
Four.
“You’re going to be begging me all night.”
Five.
"Fuck, baby. I'm going to come. I'm going to come."
I squeeze my eyes closed, but nothing shuts out his straining groan in my hair. Never wishing more for a condom as his release floods between my legs.
“Fuck that was good.”
I snatch up the blanket as soon as he rolls off and curl onto my side. Sick with shame and disgust and fear. Unwilling to look at him sprawled on his back sighing in satisfaction. Refusing to let him see me cry.
We lay in silence except for my teeth chattering. My quivering body rustling the sheets. After a few minutes, his breathing evens out, and I race to the bathroom. Twisting the tiny lock. Pushing the little brass stool in front of the thin white door.
Finally breaking down because I know that lock and that stool will never stop him if he wants in.
When he wants in.
I turn on the shower. Needing to muffle the sound of my tears. Desperate to wash away his touch and his smell and his taste. To cleanse myself of his viciousness.
But it doesn’t work. He lingers on me no matter how much I scrub. Scraping my skin with the washcloth and coconut body wash, but I can still feel his rough hands on my body. His musky cologne in my nose. His bitter taste on my tongue.
My hands won’t stop shaking, and I fumble with the miniature shampoo bottle. Flinching from looking up and catching sight of his feet outside the glass door.
He steps inside, a smug smile on his face. His arousal clear. His intentions clearer.
“Suck me off, baby.”
I can’t.
No matter how strong or tough or resilient I want to be, I can’t physically take him into my mouth. Rage burns in his expression from my refusal.
Cruel fingers dig into my tender arm, and he spins me around. Slamming me against the cold wall. His chest hot, pressing on my back. His lips on my ear.
“Have you ever been fucked in the ass Cat?”
He kicks against the side of my foot, separating my legs. Anger surges through me. I’ve never been more afraid but he only wins my body by force. I’ll never let him take my mind. Regardless how broken it may be. “If you were really my husband, you would know wouldn’t you?”
Bright lights fill the blackness as he smashes my head into the tile. My body shuddering from him stroking over my butt and gliding to touch my most intimate place.
“No, you little bitch, I don’t think you have.”
Circling with his fingertip. Pressing but not pushing inside. “Do you know how much it would hurt to have my fat cock rammed inside your tiny little hole? Breaking through your resistance in one deep push that would rip you open? The agony of me pumping into you over and over and coming inside your torn up asshole?”
His hand slides forward, invading me where I’m already sore and swollen from his assault. I squirm, climbing up the wall, gliding onto my tiptoes to gain some relief. But his other hand clamps on my shoulder. Forcing me down to plunge his fingers farther. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, but a whimper still escapes.
“So if you think this hurts baby girl, keep on fucking with me. Keep on denying me, and you’ll really understand what pain is.” He jams in another finger, and I can’t hold back my yelp. “Now get down and show me what a good girl you really can be.”
