Page 30 of True Bastard
He was a predator, and I, his cornered prey.
“Fight me, Kitten.” His voice was a silken rasp against my ear, a chilling invitation that scraped against my soul. “Make it more fun for me.” His words, laced with sinister pleasure, were a brand seared into my being, each syllable a testament to his predatory delight.
I immediately relaxed, and he removed his hand, allowing me to breathe again.
The sound of his belt snapping fiercely in the air ripped through my daze, a brutal punctuation mark to the dread that had been building. His pants fell, pooling around his ankles, and then I felt the undeniable, crushing weight of his hard, naked thighs shoving their way between my own. A primal instinct screamed at me to resist, to fight, and I clenched every muscle in my body, a desperate, futile attempt to deny him access. My breath hitched, and I instinctively bounced on my toes, a frantic urge to scramble, to somehow scale the mattress and escape this unfolding horror.
He laughed, a guttural sound that echoed the rising panic within me, and the realization hit me like a tidal wave. My squirming, my every desperate, pathetic effort to get away, was only fueling his pleasure. I could feel the relentless thudding of his cock against my rear, the obscene pressure of his testicles mashed against my cheeks. Shame and terror warred within me.
To resist was to provoke, to invite more pain, more humiliation.
To yield... that thought alone was a betrayal of everything I believed myself to be.
I stilled. My decision was made not by courage, but out of a crushing sense of inevitability. The fight drained out of me, replaced by a cold, heavy resignation. He leaned into me, and this time, with a shudder that was more of a silent scream than a physical act, I made way for him. Grudgingly, impossibly, Iparted my legs wider, the tips of my toes barely gripping the cold floor, a pathetic anchor against the tide of my own despair.
“Good girl, Kitten,” he crooned, the sound vibrating against my back as he leaned in to speak in my ear once again. His words, meant to be a caress, felt like acid on my soul. “Such a good little pussy.” Each syllable was a brand, searing into my consciousness, underwriting the choice I had just made.
I had failed.
I had let him win.
And in that moment, with the weight of him pressing down, I knew I would regret this capitulation for a very, very long time.
I stiffened as he yanked at my elbows, extending my arms, pinning my wrists easily with one hand against the mattress. A wave of shame washed over me; I shouldn’t be enjoying this helplessness, this submission, but despite myself, a frisson of anticipation ran through me. I realized how pliant I’d become, a sickening truth that gnawed at my resolve. I should fight;I must fight, just on principle, just to prove to myself that I wasn’t entirely broken. I kicked my legs wildly and twisted my torso, jostling him back and forth on top of me, each movement a desperate battle against my own surprising acquiescence. Unexpectedly, he stepped from between my legs to stand beside my thigh. A flicker of relief, swiftly followed by dread, coursed through me.
What was he planning now?
My confusion was my undoing.
I ceased struggling for a moment, a terrible lapse in my defense, as he rained down hard blows on my ass, spanking me with his open hand, leaving stinging welts all over my bottom. I cried out, a sharp gasp of pain and surprise, and resumed my fighting, the raw sensation igniting sheer panic. But beneath the pain, a traitorous warmth bloomed. I was aware I’d been betrayed by my own body, which was now wet and slick andconvulsing, an involuntary response that horrified me as he continued to beat my ass soundly.
My cry at one point turned into a moan, and a jerk of my hips, an undulation that felt alien and yet disturbingly familiar. He continued the spanking, and I was sure he had missed it—this undeniable tremor that ran through me. Relief warred with disgust. Was this truly what I wanted? To be so utterly out of control? I continued to struggle against him, my ass on fire and warmed by his hand, a paradox that screamed at my sanity.
Then he stopped, pushing his knee between my thighs again, applying pressure against my sex as he leaned over me and chuckled in my ear. The sound was chilling, a confirmation of my worst fears.
He knew.
He knew I was faltering.
“I’ll make you a deal, Kitten,” he whispered, his breath hot against my skin. “If you can tell me you don’t fucking love what I’m doing to your body, I will stop. But I must warn you. If you lie to me, your punishment will be worse.”
His words hung in the air, a venomous challenge.
To admit it would be to acknowledge a part of myself I desperately wanted to deny, a dark craving I couldn’t afford to indulge. But to lie... the thought of “worse” punishment, coupled with the memory of the pleasure that had momentarily betrayed me, sent a shiver of pure terror down my spine. The choice was agonizing, a precarious tightrope walk over an abyss of my own making.
“I do not!” I screamed, my words tearing from my throat, a raw, jagged sound. “I fucking hate you! Let me go!” My body thrashed, a wild, desperate thing, fueled by a primal terror and a burning, righteous fury. This wasn’t just a fight; it was a fight for myself, for the person I believed I was, the person who would never be subjected to this. Every muscle screamed inprotest, every fiber of my being recoiled. Just as I felt a sliver of hope, a chance to break free, to escape this violation, his weight slammed down, crushing me. The sickening pressure between my thighs vanished, replaced by a blinding, invasive sensation.
Two fingers, thick and unyielding, plunged deep, a violation so profound it stole my breath. A shudder wracked me, a two-part gasp, as much from the sheer, brutal force of his invasion as from the unforgiving reality of the mattress beneath me. He sighed, a low rumble that vibrated through my bones. “Oh, Kitten. Your body doesn’t lie like you do.”
“No!” A cry ripped from somewhere buried deep, a protest against the betrayal of my own flesh. I bucked, kicked, twisted, a futile, desperate dance against an enemy I couldn’t dislodge. Impaled on his hand, something inside me, the very core of my resistance, began to fracture. This was a lie, a horrific distortion of everything I stood for, and yet... and yet a traitorous flicker ignited, a spark of something that felt perilously close to surrender. The thought was so abhorrent, so revolting, it made me sob. “Please,” I choked out, hot tears blurring my vision, a testament to my broken will. “Stop.”
I was choosing to plead, to beg, a degradation I’d sworn I would never permit.
He didn’t stop, but his pace shifted, the rhythm changing, lengthening the agonizing intervals. The hard, relentless slam of his knuckles, the curled thumb, the other fingers against my outer lips, coated in my own reviled wetness, became a slow, torturous cadence. Each movement was a fresh wave of humiliation, a stark reminder of my powerlessness, and a chilling testament to the parts of me that were starting to break under the strain of this impossible contradiction—my hatred warring with a sickening, involuntary response. I was failing, failing to remain who I believed I was, failing to resist thisonslaught, and the crushing weight of that failure was a burden I knew I would carry forever.
He pulled his fingers out, and I gasped, sucking in a desperate breath. He didn’t stop, but his movements slowed, each thrust of his knuckles against my outer lips slick with my own revulsion. A wave of nausea rolled through me, a primal urge to recoil, to vomit, to escape this violation. Yet, a sickening curiosity, a part of me I loathed and couldn’t control, wondered what would happen next. It was a betrayal of my own will, a terrifying glimpse into a capacity for passive acceptance I desperately fought against.
Then, he yanked his hand away, and I whimpered instinctively.
