trembling body and then back up again, then extended one finger to touch my collarbone, so gently as though he’d break me by accident. He hooked a dainty gold chain in his finger and lifted it to his face to examine it. A modest gold cross dangled nervously.
“A good girl…” he said, part question, part accusation.
I turned my head to the side, squirming away from his face, from the strong smell of his cologne. His abs were no more than an inch from my body. I was wet already, even though we had played this game so, so many times before. The answer to this half question was no , I wasn’t a good girl, over and over …but we were both compelled to keep asking the question.
He let the cross fall, then with the same finger traced a line along my jaw, grazing against my lips.
“Well you won’t be a good girl for very much longer…” he said and viciously grabbed a clump of my hair, forcing my head to yank sideways. Trapped like this, he set in for a greedy kiss, forcing his tongue deep into my mouth. He tasted so sweet, so wrong; I tried to shove him off me, a little giddy.
His hand went to my throat and slammed me hard against the door. My body went obediently limp, as his face scanned mine. His eyes changed briefly, becoming soft for a second, becoming that same goofy boy who was no more than a few years older than me. He looked into my eyes, giving me split second to use the magic word we had, to tell him that this was too much, that he was hurting me.
I tightened my mouth, stared defiantly at him and said nothing.
All at once he dragged me away from the door and flung me across the kitchen, and I went skidding to catch my balance on the other side of the room. He regarded me with hard eyes.
“Do you know what boys like me do to girls like you?”
I started to cry. Real, hot drops were rolling down my cheeks as I stood there, glee tainted with just a little fear, loving how easy it was to go so far with him. Something came over me in times like this. I had let go, that first night on the futon, and I had been letting go ever since. And now I was standing here, sobbing like a lost lamb, and he never skipped a beat, never wavered. He was going to play with me, and follow, no matter how dark I wanted to go.
What happened next was a blur to me; he tore my shirt off and yanked my jeans down, scratching my skin in the process. Eyes still bleary with tears, he pinned me against the kitchen counter, both hands in fistfuls of my hair. Steadying my hands on the counter, he grabbed my flesh and held me down.
I was so turned on I stopped differentiating between his body and mine, between pain and pleasure, between right and wrong. Under a shower of filthy words, he poured a long, hard stream of dominating energy into my body, and I, delirious and long gone into my own world, absorbed every thrust happily.
After he came, it took the hugest effort to pull his engorged cock from me, so hot and grasping my body was around him, so tightly had we knotted together. From behind, he wrapped his arms round my waist and nibbled my shoulder, as though to wake me and signal the end of our game. I came to, my body still ringing and faint prickles of pain still echoing on my scalp, and on the places on my upper thigh where he had clawed at me, desperate to jam even deeper into my body.
“Dirty little slut,” he said.
My new tattoo eyed him dispassionately. Yes, I was a dirty little slut, and it was all because of him. I hoisted my jeans back on and gave him a long, obscene kiss. He was a delicious kisser, and always had been. I was pleasantly, utterly obliterated, and lay myself down on the futon again, stretching my arms to find his hidden stash under the mattress.
He looked uneasy.
“You’re just going to go straight to …that?” he said, standing naked in the kitchen.
I looked at him. Well, what did he want?
He shook his head and came to sit beside me. His boyish charm was back in full force on his face, no trace
“A good girl…” he said, part question, part accusation.
I turned my head to the side, squirming away from his face, from the strong smell of his cologne. His abs were no more than an inch from my body. I was wet already, even though we had played this game so, so many times before. The answer to this half question was no , I wasn’t a good girl, over and over …but we were both compelled to keep asking the question.
He let the cross fall, then with the same finger traced a line along my jaw, grazing against my lips.
“Well you won’t be a good girl for very much longer…” he said and viciously grabbed a clump of my hair, forcing my head to yank sideways. Trapped like this, he set in for a greedy kiss, forcing his tongue deep into my mouth. He tasted so sweet, so wrong; I tried to shove him off me, a little giddy.
His hand went to my throat and slammed me hard against the door. My body went obediently limp, as his face scanned mine. His eyes changed briefly, becoming soft for a second, becoming that same goofy boy who was no more than a few years older than me. He looked into my eyes, giving me split second to use the magic word we had, to tell him that this was too much, that he was hurting me.
I tightened my mouth, stared defiantly at him and said nothing.
All at once he dragged me away from the door and flung me across the kitchen, and I went skidding to catch my balance on the other side of the room. He regarded me with hard eyes.
“Do you know what boys like me do to girls like you?”
I started to cry. Real, hot drops were rolling down my cheeks as I stood there, glee tainted with just a little fear, loving how easy it was to go so far with him. Something came over me in times like this. I had let go, that first night on the futon, and I had been letting go ever since. And now I was standing here, sobbing like a lost lamb, and he never skipped a beat, never wavered. He was going to play with me, and follow, no matter how dark I wanted to go.
What happened next was a blur to me; he tore my shirt off and yanked my jeans down, scratching my skin in the process. Eyes still bleary with tears, he pinned me against the kitchen counter, both hands in fistfuls of my hair. Steadying my hands on the counter, he grabbed my flesh and held me down.
I was so turned on I stopped differentiating between his body and mine, between pain and pleasure, between right and wrong. Under a shower of filthy words, he poured a long, hard stream of dominating energy into my body, and I, delirious and long gone into my own world, absorbed every thrust happily.
After he came, it took the hugest effort to pull his engorged cock from me, so hot and grasping my body was around him, so tightly had we knotted together. From behind, he wrapped his arms round my waist and nibbled my shoulder, as though to wake me and signal the end of our game. I came to, my body still ringing and faint prickles of pain still echoing on my scalp, and on the places on my upper thigh where he had clawed at me, desperate to jam even deeper into my body.
“Dirty little slut,” he said.
My new tattoo eyed him dispassionately. Yes, I was a dirty little slut, and it was all because of him. I hoisted my jeans back on and gave him a long, obscene kiss. He was a delicious kisser, and always had been. I was pleasantly, utterly obliterated, and lay myself down on the futon again, stretching my arms to find his hidden stash under the mattress.
He looked uneasy.
“You’re just going to go straight to …that?” he said, standing naked in the kitchen.
I looked at him. Well, what did he want?
He shook his head and came to sit beside me. His boyish charm was back in full force on his face, no trace
Similar Books
