Page 3 of The Cruel Heir
I began the trek over to him.
“That’s it. Crawl to me, bitch,” he mumbled drunkenly. “You know your place.”
As I moved across the floor toward him, on my hands and knees, I remembered all the degrading things he made me do the last couple months, as he became more and more unhinged.
Bile rose in my throat.
Our last time alone together was the worst yet, with him making me lick his gooch and asshole, ordering me to root in him like I was a hog. He even demanded I make snorting noises.
The reminder made me hate myself even more.
When I reached Chadwick, he wasted no time tangling his fingers into my hair, close to the scalp, and forcing his erection toward my mouth.
But being the sloppy drunk that he was, he did not align himself correctly, which caused his shaft to scrape against my teeth.
He roared in fury and pain, and his fist connected with my head. I tumbled back, as he shot to his feet to inspect the damage. He then reached down and smacked me again, before snatching my curls and jerking my head up to see him.
“You fucking cunty, pick-me, arriviste! You drew blood!”
I was so shocked by his words that I froze. While the degradation made it pretty clear he looked down on me, the accusation that I was using him for social status left me completely floored. I wasn’t using him for shit. He was the one who wanted to date me, not the other way around. Our families wanted this relationship, while I wanted none of it.
“You fucking owe me now.” He dropped down in front of me.
“No! No!” I cried, as he tore at my dress.
My limbs turned to rubber, as heat rushed out of them. The chandelier’s crystals swung, tick, tick, tick, like a metronome timing my shame. I tasted copper and panic, while the carpet blurred beneath me. If I stayed very still, maybe I could climb back into my skin after he was done.
He smacked me again. “Stop fighting me, Zara. You brought this on yourself.”
There was something in the way he said it that made me still. Maybe I did bring this on myself. While I wasn’t using him for prestige, my father was. Why not add another layer to the suffering I endured, for the sake of blood.
I was only stalling the inevitable.
With my dress unceremoniously bunched at my waist, the fucker tore my panties off, then, wasting no time, forced his cock into my dry hole. I shrieked in distress, and tried to move away.
He slapped a palm over my mouth, and re-secured his position.
I squealed beneath his hand. I couldn’t breathe.
It was only when I stopped wiggling, that he loosened his hold on my nose and mouth. Sobbing, I lay there while he penetrated me.
“You’re so fucking tight.”
He reached beneath my ass to tilt my hips up, allowing him deeper thrusts.
“Yeesss, that’s it. That’s my little fucking piggy,” he whispered. “Take this big, fat cock.”
Vomit bubbled into my throat. I wasn’t a small twig, but my weight did nothing to soften the assault. I felt like I was breaking beneath his thrusts.
“Fuck, this was almost worth the wait.” He began pumping into me hard and fast. “Never been hogging before,” he grunted. “Used to skinny bitches.”
I tuned him out, as he had his way with my body. My mind floated somewhere above us, watching the assault, as he ignored all my protests, and took something I wasn’t willing to give. My ancestors above were probably watching, with tears running down their faces. A river of sorrow trailing behind them.
Chadwick’s body seized, as he silently found his pleasure. He then rolled over and passed out.
When he rolled away, Mom’s Sunday school whisper floated up:Good girls stay quiet.The ripped strap dug into my shoulder, hot and damp, and I catalogued every bruise, like crime-scene evidence. Somewhere inside, a little girl promised she’d scrub herself pure. Somewhere else, I knew she was lying.
I used to think being good was enough. If I smiled, stayed quiet, played the part... they’d leave me intact. But good girls don’t survive places like this. Only obedient ones.
