“Remember what I said,” he warns. “I’d hate for you to lose those pretty white teeth.”
Without waiting for an answer, he thrusts deep into my mouth. His cock hits my throat and I gag, tears springing to my eyes. “Relax your throat,” he orders. “I’m going to be fucking it for a while.”
He drives into my throat again, holding my hair to keep control of my head as he continues to fuck my mouth hard and deep, plundering my aching throat with each punishing thrust. I’m too scared to choke for fear that he’ll punch out my teeth, so I focus on relaxing my throat even as tears course down my cheeks and his cock slams into my throat again and again, using my mouth with no regard for my comfort.
At last, his grip tightens painfully on my hair, making a muffled whine escape my tortured throat. “Open your knees and spread your cunt for me,” he growls, his voice coming through labored breaths.
I do as he says, all fight gone from me. I just want it to be over.
“Put a finger in,” he says a minute later.
I slide a finger through my wetness and work it into my entrance. King lets out a guttural grunt, and warm liquid hits the back of my throat, shooting down it until I choke, my whole body constricting. King jerks out, yanking my head back and shooting the rest of his load all over my face. I choke out a gasp as sticky, hot cum runs down my face, mixing with my tears. I see blood on his hand, and for a second, I think it’s from my throat. It hurts enough for me to believe it. But then I see the blood has trickled all the way down his arm onto his hand from his shoulder.
“Clean that up,” King says, still holding my hair. He pulls my face to his groin, pushing his wet cock against my cheek. It’s still hard, slick with cum and spit, and I want to bite the whole fucking thing off, but I’m too scared to even try. My face burns with humiliation and hatred as I kneel up and begin to lick him clean. I run my tongue along the vein on the bottom of his shaft, over the soft skin, the oozing tip.
“All of it,” he says, pressing my nose into the soft carpet of short pubic hair at the base of his cock. I run my tongue over it, onto the bit of white cream dribbling onto his full balls. At last, he pulls me back, releases my hair, and pulls up his pants. I sink down from kneeling to sitting on my heels, bracing my hands against the floor and letting my hair fall forward while I try to catch my breath. I’m shaking uncontrollably, but King doesn’t give me time to recover. He hooks his hands under my arms, pulling me to my feet and then scooping me up into his arms like a conquering groom. He lays be down on the bed gently, but terror reams through me. I tense, ready to fight, but he only pulls the blankets over me, leans down, and kisses my forehead tenderly.
“Don’t worry,” he says, stroking my hair behind my ear. “You’ll get better with practice.”
fifteen
Eliza
I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fucking murder him. I bury my face in the pillow and bite down as hard as I can so I won’t scream, but I picture his dick while I do it. I didn’t plot to murder him today, but now I want to.
A shooting wouldn’t be horrible enough for him, though. He deserves torture.
Five minutes later, just as I’ve nearly cried myself empty of the humiliation and rage inside me, the door opens, and King appears again. He’s holding a cup of tea on a saucer like he’s the fucking Prince of England and not a sadistic bastard. He sits on the edge of the bed and sets the saucer down on the nightstand. “For your throat,” he says.
“Oh, now you fucking care,” I snap.
He smiles a little and hands me the cup. I swipe angrily at my face and slump back on the pillows, accepting the cup in defeat. Somehow, this is worse than him crushing my defiance. Offering me comfort afterwards is a slap in the face.
It does feel good on my bruised, sore throat though.
King kicks off his shoes and sets them under the bed neatly before swinging his legs up and settling on the other side of the mattress. He crosses his arms over his chest, and I see that he taped a bandage on his shoulder while he was in the other room. Blood is already soaking through.
“You know that’s not going to stop bleeding until you stitch it up,” I tell him, staring sullenly ahead so I don’t have to look at his obscenely beautiful face. It’s not fair that a monster can hide behind a face like that.
He shrugs. “It might take longer, but eventually it’ll heal.”
“You don’t know how to sew it up, do you?” I ask.
“I’m righthanded,” he says, flexing the hand on the side with his wounded shoulder.
“I know how,” I say smugly. It’s nice to have the upper hand for once, even if I just debased myself for him. For once, I know more than him, can do more than him. And he can’t do shit about it.
“How would you know?” he asks.
I shrug. “I just do.”
“How?”
“Maybe if you stop being a stubborn asshole and ask for help, I’ll take care of it for you,” I say, glancing over at him. As sick as it is, I want him to see that I’m good at something, to admire how skilled I am at removing bullets. I want him to see that I’m not some simpering little obedient wife, that I’m tough, too.
King studies me for a minute, until I’m squirming with discomfort and wishing I hadn’t said anything about his arm at all.
“Why would you do that?” he asks after what feels like an eternity.