Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“My wife. Always so eager to please me.” He lets out a bitter laugh before driving himself forward again, and again, holding the back of my head in one hand and my crossed wrists with the other. Using me, controlling me like he has from the beginning. “Use your tongue. Show me how much you crave my cum.”
Tears roll down my cheeks as pain and humiliation swirl together. I close my eyes, but he squeezes my wrists harder. “No. Look up at me. I want you to watch me while I fill your pretty mouth with my cum.” He wears a twisted sort of smile when I force my gaze upward to meet his.
I wish I could tell him it doesn’t need to be this way. That we could’ve had something real, that we were both in a shitty situation but could’ve made the best of it if it wasn’t for the anger he can’t control. He doesn’t have to force me. He doesn’t have to humiliate me this way.
It only occurs to me while he’s fucking my face that he doesn’t care. He wants to hurt me. He won’t be satisfied until I’m bleeding and begging him to stop. A strangled cry tears itself out of me at the thought, one that’s muffled thanks to the dick working its way in and out of my mouth. The sound makes him groan and causes him to twist my hair around his fist and tug so I whimper again.
“Mm, that’s right. You know just what I like.” He sighs when I do. “So happy to please your husband. So committed to my happiness and satisfaction. Maybe you deserve to wear these bracelets, after all. Maybe I ought to give you a pearl necklace to go with them.”
His stare is hard, cold, and I find myself craving the warmth I saw in them before everything fell into a million pieces. “Wouldn’t you like that? A pearl necklace? My cum running down your chest like the slut you are?” He thrusts harder, so hard his balls slap against my chin, and my nose aches from banging against his base. His breathing quickens, his pace growing more frantic.
That’s not even the worst part, not even close. I’m wet and getting wetter with every slap of his balls. With every filthy word, every snarl, every grunt. He’s treating me like trash, and all it’s doing is hardening my nipples and making me crave him more. It shouldn’t, but it does, and I have no idea how to feel about it.
I want him—need him—to touch me, to make the ache go away. Because I’m aching inside. Aching between my legs, where my clit throbs. It’s almost painful—and rubbing my thighs together doesn’t do anything but turn my helpless gagging into frustrated groaning because that isn’t enough. Only his touch will do, and wanting his touch right now while he’s using me, is sick and twisted.
A tear rolls down my cheek, and for the first time it’s like he’s seeing it. He chuckles darkly. “Poor little wife,” he growls with a vicious pull of my hair that sends a delicious tingle through my scalp and down my spine. He has no idea what this is doing to me.
He calls me a slut, and maybe I am because I can’t pretend I wouldn’t come if he so much as flicked a finger over my swollen bundle of nerves. I don’t understand the desire, but the degradation turns me on, even though I know it shouldn’t, even though I know he doesn’t truly care about me.
How could I be turned on by a man who only wants to use me? It wasn’t always like this.
“You ready for my cum?” he asks in a tight whisper interrupting my thoughts. I’m almost elated but also dissatisfied for it to end so soon. All I can do is look up at him through my teary eyes. His gaze darkens, and his hold on my hair becomes painful; my scalp burns where he holds me, and a growl escapes his lips. “Don’t you dare waste a drop, you lying slut,” he warns.
“Fucking Christ. Here… it… is…” It’s not another second before the taste of him floods my tongue and coats the inside of my mouth. There’s so much I’m forced to swallow or choke.
It’s the relief of him letting go of my wrists that really matters. As soon as he does, I feel as though I could weep with gratitude, but I won’t. Instead, I swallow what’s in my mouth once he’s withdrawn, not saying a word even when he unties me and removes the bracelets. I guess I don’t get to keep them after all. Not that it matters right now when I have red welts to remind me of them.
“You did good. Now clean yourself up,” he orders, disdain dripping from his voice. I look up at him and almost shrink back when he raises his hand. I’m afraid of him for more than one reason, but I’ve never worried he would hit me, so why do I now?