Page 35 of Devoured
I stuck out my tongue and lapped up the sweet liquid. The juices were all over my face, my makeup streaking the seat. I rubbed the black ink away with my hand, then continued to lick the machine clean.
“That’s a good girl,” he murmured, and I closed my eyes, suppressing the wave of desire crashing through me. No. I couldn’t like him saying those words. They were belittling.Good girl. I was awoman. I was thirty-two years old, for fuck’s sake.
But there was something about them, a pridefulness that lingered underneath the surface, an emotion I chose to ignore.
As soon as it was done, he motioned to straddle the Sybian, and I obeyed. I was eager to get this over with, to be done with it. To forget my emotions. To come. With a flick of his finger on a remote control hidden in his pocket, the Sybian resumed vibration, and I moaned, the shakes of the machine instantly hitting my clit.
“See,” he hummed, “All it takes is some pleasure and my little whore is begging to come. Everyone loves a good reward. Don’t they, whore?”
My eyes were unfocused, looking anywhere, trying hard to avoid him, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted to see him, to see that knowing grin as I came. As my eyes reached him, he held the phone in front of my face, opened to my bank account. He punched in his own information, then typed in a number.
“You see this?” He showed me the screen, but it was hard to concentrate, to take in the numbers in front of me. I didn’t want to. “This is nearly the amount you showed me a few days ago. It looks like you spent a few dollars on groceries, but I’ll forgive you for that.” I tried to pay attention, tried to will myself to not give in to what he was saying. What was he even talking about? Then he flipped the phone to me, and I saw what he meant. One hundred thousand dollars and change, transferring from my account, to his. “This money? You were going to give it all to me anyway, weren’t you?” he paused, a sick grin on his face. “A lifetime of saving. Of hard work. Of tears and blood and come and stilettos stabbing men’s dicks. All for a place you can call your home.”
“Roland,” I whispered, “I—”
“You were going to give it to me anyway. But do you think this is enough?” He gestured to me on the Sybian, near orgasm, unable to complete because my mind couldn’t go there, not with him messing with me like this. He was going to take my money too? “Maybe I’ll spend it on some blow. Or a couple of barbie doll whores. Buy myself a new car and total it.” He leaned down and whispered in my ear, “What I do with the money doesn’t matter. Because you’re going to come, and you’re going to enjoy watching me take every cent you have.”
“Please,” I begged. “I’ll do anything.”
“Do you want this club or not?” he asked, his finger hovering over the button in the bank app, the wordsubmitin white letters.
I was paying for the club, not only with the bet. But with my money too.
Was this still part of our agreement? Did I still want the club?
I whispered, “I do.”
He clicked the button and I whimpered, but then he moved behind me, cupping my breasts through the fishnet fabric, grasping them so tight that I cried out and I rubbed myself against the machine. Then he used one hand to move my head so that I had to face myself in the mirror.
“Look at yourself,” he bellowed. “Look at you. A whore getting herself off. You pretend to be a dominatrix because it scares you to lose control, because you know that in the end, you’re just a pathetic little bitch, just like the men you dominate, because you knew, didn’t you? You knew that once the right man came along and fucked you like this, you would want nothing more than to bow down to him. Isn’t that right, Iris?”
And it was true. It was easy, so easy to put on a mask and pretend like I was a badass, to lie and hide behind the label of domme because then I would never have to be vulnerable. I would never have to put myself in danger again. I would never have to give myself up to a man like Roland. A man who would show me exactly how I caved when it came to my own filthy desires. A man who would show me that I was just a woman who wanted to give in to everything, as long as I felt his pleasure, as long as I pleasedhim.
“Open your mouth,” he said. I did as I was told, and he gently inserted the heel of my own boot, making me suck it. And I did ravenously, like I couldn’t get enough. Sucking it like it was his dick and I was hungry, so hungry, soweak, and more than anything, I wanted to get off, to gethimoff, and if I was penniless now, if I was as debased as he had made me, then what did it matter if I sucked off the heel of my own boot, this fake cock?
“Such a greedy little whore,” he said. “It feels good, doesn’t it? It feels so fucking good to let go. To let me take control of you. To let yourself be the brainless, obedient fuck doll you long to be.”
In the mirror, makeup streaked my face, black brush strokes and dried up patches of white come, the evidence of my fall from grace. Roland grabbed his dick through his pants, clutching the big head, squeezing it, and I sucked in a breath. He liked seeing me like this. Enjoyed it. It turned him on to see me completely used, broken, destroyed at his will.
And that thought alone made me ache. The pleasure was insurmountable, building inside of me, threatening to break me in half. His hand rubbed his cock through his pants, a wet spot from the tip growing, pleasuring himself as he broke me down, made me into nothing of what I was before. He put his lips to my ear.
“Say it, Iris. Say these words: ‘I’m your stupid whore.”
I closed my eyes. “I’m your—”
“Open your fucking eyes, Iris,” he howled. “Look at yourself in the mirror, and say it for me.”
I opened my eyes, staring back at those black pupils. Roland’s gaze beamed into the mirror, glued to my face as I looked at myself.
“I’m a stupid whore,” I whispered, tears in my eyes.
“Louder.”
“I’m a stupid whore,” I cried out.
“Louder.”
“I’m a stupid whore!”
