I’m also not under the illusion that doing exactly what he says wouldn’t make things end in exactly that same way.
He’s going to hurt me. He’s going to rape me. I know it. As sure as I know my father is going to win the presidential election.
It’s damn near written in stone, but I figure doing what he says, obeying every command, being compliant and complacent, will put it off as long as possible.
I want to look away, but I can’t as he begins stroking the length of himself.
“Play with your cunt,” he growls.
My hand trembles as I once again rub it down my belly to the apex of my thighs. I lick at my lips at the realization that it feels different this time.
I hate getting the small tingle of arousal at touching myself in front of him. I feel guilty and ashamed that my body is responding, despite the fact that I can’t seem to look away. My eyes are locked on his working hand.
In my head, I’m disgusted. My mind knows this is wrong, but my body is not on the same wavelength as the thoughts in my head.
I let my gaze wander from his hand, up his muscled torso to the way his shoulder flexes with every stroke.
He doesn’t look like a monster when he’s pleasuring himself, even though his actions are inherently devious.
His eyes meet mine for the briefest moment, and I avert my gaze once again.
My legs begin to tremble as my fingers work faster of their own accord.
It feels good, the pleasure I’m giving myself, and that carries its own set of problems. I don’t want this. I know I don’t want this.
But I also don’t know that I’ll be able to stop if that is the next command he gives me. My mouth hangs open, droplets of water catching on my lower lip, and I can almost pull myself from this situation.
I can picture myself doing this for a man that cares for me rather than performing for a man who only wants to hurt me.
I hate myself for being as turned on as I am. I’m disgusted as that spark, the tingle that always grows low in my belly, ignites. How fucked up is it that I want the impending orgasm as much as I want him to release me. I crave both in equal measure.
“That’s a good girl,” he says, his voice so low I can barely hear the words.
My first instinct is to growl at him. My next instinct is to pull my hand away but I’m a slave to the way it feels, to have something good happening to my body in such a terrible situation.
I once again chance a look into his eyes and realize he’s not patronizing me the way so many others have that have sent an ounce of praise my way. He didn’t say it because it’s a reward for him. He didn’t say it in an effort to get something from me.
He said it because he meant it. He’s pleased with the way I’m touching myself.
He’s pleased with the pleasure I’m feeling and that’s something I’ve never had in my life.
Most people are fake and only out for themselves.
They say thank you because they know that increases the chances of getting more from someone.
A gasp escapes my throat, and that garners a reaction from him as well.
I find that when his hand strokes faster, when his grip gets tighter, I’m mimicking his actions. My fingers swirl faster. I press a little harder. My pleasure elevates.
“I’m going to come,” I say more to myself than to him.
I’m shocked. I’m floored. I’m completely surprised that it’s even happening. The muscles in my legs tighten and it happens, bliss swirls through my body. The pleasure fades as quickly as it arrived. It doesn’t take but a second for shame, for an absolute disgust, to wash over me much like the water dripping down my back.
He steps closer, his hands still working his cock, but instead of touching me like I fear, he grunts and once again comes all over my skin.
“Clean yourself up,” he snaps, before rushing out of the bathroom.
Chapter 11