Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Cain’s right. I would never off myself. Suicide doesn’t stop the pain; it simply spreads to those left behind. Trevor killed himself because life’s burdens were too much for him, but he never thought about the void once he was gone. His memory is a tear in our existence, something we’ll never forget. Even the band name is in remembrance of Trevor, something to hold on to, a little piece of what we could’ve been.
Cain’s large cock slaps my face and my lips open for him. I gag instantly as saliva fills my mouth. Cain likes a sloppy blow job, the wetter the better. For him, spit is an added layer that feels good and fosters my humiliation with little effort. Light-headedness and the notion that I’m going to barf or pass out invades my mind. I ponder the many times Cain knocked me out. It’s one of his many perversions as he records my unconscious humiliation.
“That’s it, baby boy. Take what you need, like a good boy.”
Cain’s words are soothing. They comfort me and lull my self loathing.
“He’s always been like this,” Cain says, holding my head down with brute force. “Lars gets in his own head and spirals. He acts out when he’s hurt or confused, causing more harm instead of fixing what’s wrong. Loving Lars isn’t easy. He’ll lash out. He’ll send your world into utter chaos. But he’ll also jump in front of a moving car for you, give you the shirt off his back, and never be disloyal. He’s always been dominant with you during sex, but he’s what we call a switch. He needs to be in charge and be used. When he spins out, it’s the only way I know to settle him. So at moments like this, I push his boundaries, invade his space, and take control.”
Billie frowns. “Does it work?”
Cain gazes down at me and the last thing I hear him say is, “It has in the past.”
Then everything goes black.
18
Billie
“Cain!” I scream, jumping out of the chair. “Fuck! Do something!”
Cain gently lowers Lars’ limp body to the floor. “He’s fine. We’ve done this before. He’s just passed out.”
My fists slam into Cain’s chest. “What the fuck is wrong with the two of you? What is this shit?”
“It’s me giving the man I love what he needs,” Cain spits, anger lacing his words. “You gonna join me or judge me?”
I remain silent because I’m unsure what my response should be. A part of me longs to touch them. It’s something I’ve always wanted. Even when I thought I was hate-fucking them, I wanted more. But as I gaze at Lars on the ground, he looks so peaceful. Maybe Cain is right?
Cain rummages in the pocket of his discarded jeans, pulling out his cell. He walks to a small table by the sofa and balances the phone. “I record it. He knows this happens.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Yes. He gets out of hand, I put him down and do what I want,” Cain explains uncomfortably. He’s being honest about this shit show, but it’s evident he finds this conversation difficult.
“What do I need to do?”
“Get naked.”
“What? Is this some fucked up way to bang me again?”
“Tinkerbell, I don’t have to set shit up to bang you. You know that as well as I do. If it was about banging, all I’d have to do is ask and you’d be on your knees, mouth open, begging for a taste.”
“I can’t have sex with you right now.”
“Oh?” Cain’s eyes narrow. “Why is that?”
“I got my period last night.”
Cain raises his eyebrow, and a slow, seductive smirk forms on his full lips. “That sounds like a bonus if you ask me. Seems like you’ve forgotten my poison of choice, Billie. Strip.”
Cain’s words are a sick form of foreplay. It seems that penetration is on the table with Cain when I’m menstruating, along with everything else. His lust for blood is one of my favorite things about him. But I don’t care what anyone says; sex on your period is a whole different beast.
My sense of moral indignation urges me to protest, to tell Cain that I’ll do no such thing. But the little whorish voice I’ve bottled up for ten years is chanting in excitement like a cheerleader at a Superbowl game.
The slutty cheerleader wins, and the feminist woman is kicked to the curb.
I pull down my pants, realizing that on my tombstone they will write: Willamina Elizabeth Richmond, the girl controlled by her vagina, not her mind.
I gaze at Cain as he walks toward me with a sly, sexy smirk. He glides his fingers up my arm and down my torso to fist the hem of my shirt. He yanks it over my head and discards it on top of a broken whiskey bottle on the floor.