I don’t want the small talk. I don’t want the questions she sometimes asks if she nods off during the middle of a show and gets confused when she wakes back up, needing to know what happened.
I want her to torture me with her words as much as she tortures me with the sight of her naked flesh. I try to ignore the disappointment I feel at discovering she’s not a virgin. I’ve never had sex with a virgin. It’s not something I’ve sought out, but I shove away the disappointment of knowing I won’t be the first one to fuck inside of her.
Sick fuck, I’m a sick fuck, I think. She shakes her head and honestly, I’m so lost in my own thoughts, I can’t remember what questions she’s answering.
“I’ve only been with one guy,” she confesses.
“And what?” I managed to ask. “He didn’t like you on top?”
She frowns. “He never worried about me. He was more the bend me over the desk and get off than worry about me. It was always a rush job from my professor.”
My eyes narrow. She has confessed so much right now. She’s only been with one guy. She lost her virginity to a college professor. He didn’t take care of her, didn’t make her come. I couldn’t imagine putting my hands on this woman and it only being about me. Her pleasure is my pleasure.
I hate the man and I don’t even fucking know him. She looks away then and the embarrassment is gone. I hate that she might be thinking back to that time. I hate the pain I see in her eyes with the memories.
“He hurt you, didn’t he?” I ask. “He broke your heart.”
She shrugs as if it doesn’t matter but I can tell that it does.
“Get to work,” I say, pointing to the cock standing in the air instead of consoling her. Warm and fuzzy isn’t my thing. Tracking that guy down and slitting his fucking throat on the other hand? That’s kind of more my style.
Chapter 20
Raya
How can I want what he’s demanding of me and want to refuse it at the same time?
I lick my lips as I stare down at the silicone penis but then I have to lift my eyes back up to him. I regret telling him not to touch himself because at least if he was, he’d be a little distracted with his own pleasure instead of analyzing every movement of my body.
“Get it ready,” he urges, and I don’t have to guess what he means. I close my eyes as I touch myself, noticing the change in his pattern of breathing. I slit my eyes open to see what he’s doing. His hands are tangled in the sheets. His grip so tight, his knuckles are white. And I know he’s hurting, not touching himself. I know it’s what he wants. It’s what he wanted in the shower and nothing has changed.
Slickness coats my fingers as I tease and toy. I avoid my clit because even as deranged as this is, I can’t deny how much I want it. What would his hands feel like on my skin? I keep going back to that thought over and over, day after day. And I want to fight it. I want to refuse to think about it. I don’t want my head imagining such things. It makes me just as sick and twisted as he is.
But the blame is no longer there, the excuses that would normally run through my head as I mentally pointed the fingers at my parents. I could have been more rebellious. I could have fought against their rules. I could have been unconcerned about the chance of news outlets getting a picture of me going wild, but I didn’t. I think it’s time to stop blaming everyone else for everything I feel like I’ve missed out on in life.
He doesn’t let me refuse. Or maybe he does with the threats in his voice. The warnings he gives me with his eyes because that’s all it takes to get me into motion. I touch myself longer than I need to, wondering if this is the time that I should stand up for myself, but I don’t open my mouth to complain. I think refusing to do it would be worse with the way that my body is demanding I bend to his will.
I want it. There’s no denying it, I realize, as I pull my fingers free and look down at the black toy standing there. It’s as if the thing is reaching up to me. It’s proud and unflagging. I can only imagine how good it’s gonna feel. I spread my legs as I reach for the bedpost and I fight the urge once again to tell him that it’s okay if he touches himself while I do that.
It would be a confession I’m not ready to make despite his ability to read those desires on my face without me uttering a word. His own arousal leaks from the tip of his penis and I take a little pride in that. I take pride in the fact that I’m able to turn him on enough to make him weak.
My tongue sneaks out, licking at my lips again, and that pleases him as well as he watches my mouth. The power I feel in this situation right now is divine, but I know it will be short lived. I know that if I waste any more time, I’m gonna force his hand. He’ll either command me with words or he’ll command me with his hands. I don’t know which one would be better or worse. I don’t know which one I desire the most. And maybe it’s a combination of the two.
Maybe he could tell me to do it and when I refuse, he’ll make me. God, what would his hands feel like on my shoulders as he pushed me down on that toy. A tingle races up my spine. My eyelids go half-mast and that control I was so happy with now feels like a loss of control. My need for him is a weakness.
And I have to wonder if it’s him or the situation. If it were another man, would this be different? If I weren’t a captive in his house? If I were at Jackson’s parents’ place, playing out this same scenario, would I still feel the way I do right now?
My nose scrunches up as I picture it, and the answer is a simple no, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t want Jackson’s hands on me. I could hardly stand the brush of his lips on the back of my hand the night that I was taken. I can still feel the sense of relief that he took a phone call and walked away even after what happened next.
Does that mean that I want to be here, that I’m okay with what’s happening? Would the outcome be the same had I talked to this man in the surf shop instead of walking away? He doesn’t seem like the type of man who would be okay with what my parents would consider an indiscretion. He doesn’t seem like he would fall in line with the demands of sneaking around with a woman like me.
I don’t think it would be enough. I don’t think that what I could give him would ever be enough. I could give him everything and I imagine he’d still ask for more.
My thighs tremble from the strain of just hovering above the toy. A low moan escapes my lips as it brushes my sensitive flesh but then the thought hits me and I stop. It takes a lot of effort not to laugh when a growl slips out of his mouth.
“What’s the fucking problem this time?” he snaps, and it’s clear that he’s barely hanging onto his control.
I can’t help but wonder what it would mean if he actually lost it. I can’t help but wonder if he would release me or if he would hurt me. I can’t help but think about the two very different reactions my head has with both of those scenarios.