Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
They slip down my cheeks, a silent betrayal reminding me of how inexperienced I am. He only adds to the confusion when he grunts.
“Good girl.” He means it, I realize. The praise trailing off with a happy sigh while he enters me again, and again until he’s fucking my face in a sure, steady rhythm I’m helpless to do anything against.
He’s always teaching me something about myself.
How delicious danger can be.
How far I’m willing to go for something—someone—I want more than I’ve ever wanted anything. More than life itself.
Now, I’m learning how hot it is to feel used. Dirty, but in a good way. Like I’m nothing but a hole for his pleasure. It doesn’t matter that I’m gagging, choking, practically fighting for my life, my lungs burning as I sip in as much air as possible every time he pulls back.
I want this. I want him to use me like I’m nothing.
So long as he praises me like he is. With his hand cupping the back of my head as gently as he’d hold a fragile piece of crystal, something treasured and cherished. It’s all so mixed up, and I doubt I could make sense of it if I tried.
I don’t want to. I don’t need to.
“Take me deeper,” he grunts between thrusts, banging against my nose every time he buries himself deep. “Suck it like my good girl. My Scarlet. My angel.”
Yes, yes, this is what I’ve craved. What I’ve dreamed of. Being entirely in his hands, giving him what he needs. Making him happy—that’s all I want at the end of the day. His happiness, which would mean mine.
A salty taste hits my tongue, one I savor. It must mean I’m doing something right, and it entices me to heighten the pressure from my lips while, with my tongue, I stroke the underside of his dick.
“Yeah… oh, yes… you’re so fucking good…” He rocks his hips, the bedsprings creaking faster and faster. I’m caught between the panic flaring to life again as he gives me less and less time to breathe and the pulsing of my clit—my entire pussy—in time with him slamming deep. Almost brutally.
More. I can take more. I moan my approval, my encouragement, my need, and he growls before taking my head in both hands.
“My sweet, dirty angel,” he pants with approval dripping from his voice. “Tied up like this. You like it, don’t you? You like me using you. Owning your mouth.” I moan in agreement. Nothing could be truer.
“You’re hungry for more, aren’t you? My cock? My cum? You want me to fill that pretty mouth with my cum, angel?”
I moan louder, eager, as greedy as he says. I want to make him come. I need to. Almost as much as I need his hands, mouth, and tongue on me. Knowing I can do this to him is a rush unlike any I’ve ever known. My lungs burn, and tears slip from my eyes as he gags me with his entire length. It’s almost more than I can take.
He hasn’t come yet, and I already can’t wait to make him do it again and again in every way possible. I want to be his everything, in all ways, even if I’m afraid he’s going to smother me or break my nose or both in his frenzy, a frenzy I know all too well. He’s brought me to this point before.
And he held on for my sake, so I can do the same for him.
A feeling of pride overtakes me, almost as intense as the arousal threatening to tear my sanity to pieces.
Go on, take what you need. Come for me like I’ve come for you.
Like he can hear me, he dissolves in a flurry of furious thrusts, losing his grip a little more with every ragged breath. He tugs my hair hard, painfully, and I wince caught between pleasure and pain.
“Yeah… yes, like that… it’s coming… get ready, angel… fuck!”
He slams himself deep one last time before going still. All at once, he fills my mouth with his salty fluid, more and more with every deep grunt until I can’t hold it all, and it begins leaking out from the corners of my mouth, dribbling down my chin. I’m lost, caught in limbo, hanging between deep pride, relief that it’s over, and a deep, desperate craving for more. It can’t be over yet. Not when I’m so hot and wet and aching, I could weep. I hope he doesn’t make me beg.
I hope he does.
I don’t know what’s what anymore. I don’t know who I am or what any of this means. Taking pleasure in being used? Now that he’s slowly withdrawing from my mouth, and I’m swallowing most of what he left behind, it doesn’t seem so normal and even necessary to have my face fucked by someone who basically kidnapped me. Until he smiles down at me—hazy, happy, spent.