Scowling as if his limp dick is my fault, he lunges forward and rakes my t-shirt over my head.
I thrash but he gets it off and his eyes fall immediately to my naked breasts.
Then he tugs the sweatpants off me, his fingers clawing at me like razor burns. No matter how much I kick and struggle, he’s just too big. Too strong. Too drunk to care if my blows land or not.
Once I’m lying naked before him, he glares at me, his teeth gritted as he grabs hold of his cock and starts tugging hard.
I can see him getting hard slowly, and I don’t want that to happen.
“I don’t need a fucking pill,” he grunts, more to himself than to me, like his dick needs the verbal encouragement. “Open your fucking mouth.”
I look up at him, my expression curdling. “Don’t make me put it in like this,” I say. “I don’t like putting it in when it’s so… limp.”
Anger flashes across his eyes.
“Get hard first,” I suggest not-that-helpfully.
I know he can’t get hard on his own. Not right now.
Asking him to do it will only stall the process, and make it harder for him to keep going now that I’m “expecting” him to.
He doesn’t like pressure.
He tries, though, frantically jerking at his wilted cock for a long minute.
I never stop staring at him right in his stupid fucking eyes.
Another minute passes and I can breathe because I know it’s a lost cause.
He knows it, too. Growling, he hits me again, knocking me back against the sofa.
It barely even registers as pain. Nothing he does hurts quite as much these days as it used to. Tonight, less than ever.
So little, in fact, that I can’t help but laugh.
“You think this is fucking funny?” he demands. “You little whore!”
He raises his hand to slap me again.
But this time, I’m ready for it.
I duck under the slap and shoot forward low to the ground. With his pants still around his ankles, Tristan tries to turn and follow me, but he trips and hits the ground hard.
I scurry into the kitchen.
Knife, knife, where’s a fucking—
I find a butcher’s knife right as I hear him storming towards me, huge footsteps landing heavy with a thump-thump-thump.
I’ve got the knife and then—shit!—it falls from my trembling hands.
Thump-thump-thump. He’s almost here.
Rounding the corner, just as I drop to my knees and pick it up—
He’s two steps away, thump-thu—
I get my hands on the knife, stand, and brandish it between us.