Page 20 of Driving My Obsession

And fuck if she doesn’t feel like heaven within my mental hell.

I lean forward and wrap my hand around her throat as I pound into her. Pressing harder, I cut off her breath. She still doesn’t wake. I could kill her right now, but there’d be absolutely no fun in that. She wouldn’t even know what happened or what I’d done to her body while she slept. I loosen my grip and allow her to draw a few breaths before I toy with her some more.

“Such a dirty whore,” I growl as her tits bounce against my chest. “Your pussy will be sore tomorrow. Ripped open by me. Your stalker. The man hell-bent on destroying you.” My words are met with silence, but it still feels good to spill each anger-soaked syllable.

By doing nothing at all, she’s going to make me come. Just by being a receptacle for my pleasure, she’ll draw every ounce from me like the whore she swears she isn’t. I grip her hips and my fingertips dig into her flesh. I fuck her harder, knowing this would hurt her if she were awake right now. When I pull out to my tip, blood streaks my cock.

I love that she’ll think about me tomorrow when she wakes up, sore and used. Well, she’ll think of her stalker, but we’re one and the same. As she struggles through her shift at work, she’ll ache with each movement and remember that someone was inside her. All without knowing who that someone is.

What a mind fuck.

Goddamn.

That’s tragic.

The thought tightens my balls with a sudden shock of pleasure that I feel in the base of my spine, but the risk of coming inside her without knowing what kind of protection she’s on worries me. I wouldn’t want her to have a child from a night she wouldn’t want to remember. Breeding a whore means hell for the spawn that is created. Whores like her—whores like mymother—aren’t good moms.

Even though the risk is high, I can’t help myself. An unwavering desire to fill her dirty cunt, her tainted pussy, her whore’s hole, overtakes me. I want to use her for what she’s meant for. From graceful dancer to desperate cumslut, she has no choice but to take what I desperately need to give her. I fill her, coming deep inside her with a groan that conquers her silence. Like a doll, she remains motionless.

A pretty little fuck doll.

I pull back slowly, watching the white residue of my pleasure mix with the red of her pain. The feelings swirl and blend into a pink hue until I can’t tell the difference between the two emotions. A thin line drips from her, and I gather it on my fingers and stuff it back inside her. I don’t want her to lose a drop of me. She needs to bask in my come until she wakes up. Before I go, I leave her with a little gift that ensures she’ll know exactly who was inside her.

Her stalker.

The unknown man who haunts both her nightmares and her every waking moment.

I zip up my pants and drag her toward the pillows, then throw the blanket over her. A smile tugs at my lips as I admire my handprint around her neck. The marking blazes a bright red across the pale skin. I’ve accomplished a lot tonight, but it’s not enough. I need something more. I lean over her, gather saliva in my mouth, and drop it between her parted lips. The thought of her waking up with an ache in her cunt and my taste on her tongue is almost enough to get me hard again. But I can’t stay and play.

On my way out of her room, I look back at her once more before flicking off the light. I fully intend to leave more devastation in my wake before finally ending her suffering. Until then, she’s my pretty little tragedy.

See you soon.

ChapterThirteen

Oaklyn

Ahammer pounds behind my forehead and rattles against the base of my skull. I open my gummy eyelids, struggling to recall what I can from last night. I fell asleep on the couch after two measly shots of vodka, but I somehow ended up in my bedroom. My sandpaper tongue scrapes across my lips, and my head swims as I try to fully wake up. I didn’t drink that much. Not enough to cause this. I lift my hand to my face, wiping sweat from my overheated skin. When I shift onto my side, I suck in a sharp breath as pain spears through my abdomen and between my legs. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt—like someone has torn me apart and poured lemon juice inside me. I rip the blanket away and find the lack of pants concerning because I put them on before I went into the kitchen to drink.

I slip my hand between my legs and cup myself. The pain intensifies, but it’s not just the burning sensation. A deep ache rushes toward my fingertips whenever they land on my skin, similar to the way a fresh bruise feels. When I try to sit up, a different sensation plagues me. Something moves between my legs. Inside me. A blinding wave of emotions narrows my vision. Ignoring the bruises I’ve just spotted on my thighs, I turn my attention to the hard object that is definitelynotsupposed to be there.

The torn skin along my opening screams for me to stop as I put my fingers inside myself, but I whimper through the pain and keep going. Something slick and hard meets my fingertips, and I finally get a grip on the foreign body as I fight through the pain and bear down. I bring the object into the light. As I release a scream, the acorn falls from my hand and lands between my legs on the mattress.

I scramble out of bed to get away from it, wincing with every painful twinge of my muscles. The acorn rolls around and drops off the bed as if it’s trying to chase me, but I can only stare as it comes to a stop by my toes. I finally gain the strength to pick it up, then freeze again when the slickness coats my palm. It wiggles in my hand, and I realize I’m shaking.

My stalker was inside my room. Worse, he was insideme.

My brain can’t accept this.

I refuse.

Jake’s assault degraded me, but this? This is terrifying. Someone entered my home while I slept and took something from me that I can never get back. Judging by the way my body feels, it was a violent attack. So why didn’t I wake up? It was only two shots of—

He drugged me.

My hand releases the acorn as if it sank sharp teeth into my palm. Overcome by a powerful wave of nausea, I race to the bathroom and rid myself of whatever remains in my stomach. All of it. My forehead drops to my arm as it drapes over the toilet seat. Sweat drips from my temples. Vulnerable and half naked, I squat over the tile floor.

I pull myself together because there’s nothing else I can do. Reaching out to the police isn’t an option. I’m a sex worker. My report would get shoved to the bottom of the stack and eventually forgotten. As far as most of society is concerned, I got exactly what I asked for. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

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