Tears of Tess
A long finger entered, thrusting deep as his tongue lapped, conjuring star bright spasms, shooting in my belly. I rode his finger, searching for friction.
I needed him in me. I needed him to claim.
He stood, grabbing my neck, arching me to kiss him. His chin glistened from my wetness, filling me with my taste.
He bit my lip, positioning himself behind me. “I own all of you, esclave.”
I wasn’t prepared for the sharp, sudden, shocking invasion of his massive cock. I cried out as he stretched me wide, giving no time to adjust. My stomach knotted into a complex cosmos, gathering power to release.
I groaned as he thrust hard, taking me from behind, spread over the bed. I trembled in ecstasy I’d never felt before.
Q bit my shoulder, fingers digging deep into my hips, jerking me back, thrust after thrust. Each withdrawal and penetration, built and built until I was sopping wet, moaning, whimpering, more vocal than I’d ever been in my life.
“Putain de merde,” he growled, f**king me so hard, my knees bashed against the soft comforter.
His voice was everything I needed to release the glowing galaxy in my core. I screamed, literally screamed, as I came harder than I’d ever come before.
The mind games Q played, the connection I felt after a lifetime of being adrift, all exploded, turning my body into a bundle of hyper-sensitive nerves.
Q’s sexual domination enlightened me. My good girl barrier was permanently removed, and I revelled in Q’s flesh slapping against mine, finding his own pleasure.
The heavy hotness of his balls slapped against my cl*t as he f**ked harder. My hands grabbed the sheets, bunching them with every skin slap.
Q fisted my hair, arching my back, at the same time, he spanked my ass. “Fuck, I want to make you bleed.” He hit me again, again. Each handprint hot, laced with pleasure-pain and erotic torture.
The agony added another threshold to battered nerve endings. “Oh, God,” I moaned, shuddering with fiercely building pressure, racing up my legs, into my centre.
Not again. Surely. I never had multiple orgasms.
Q cursed, slapping me so hard, tears rained even as I panted. It hurts. It feels too good. Stop. Hit harder. Don’t. More.
I shattered into a gazillion pieces, milking Q’s c**k for a second time.
“Fuck,” he groaned, bucking with feral strength, shaking me to the soul. He slapped my ass so hard, I bit my lip, drawing blood. Stinging pain pulsed while Q exploded inside. I felt every ridge, every spurt, relishing in owning some part of him. He gave himself to me.
His come was mine. Just like I was his.
My ass stung but my body was as limp as a ragdoll.
Q pulled out, breathing hard. I rolled painfully onto my back, watching him stalk to the bathroom. He returned, wrapping a towel around his hips.
I sat up, flinching from his abuse, both external and internal. My body languished in sated bliss.
His demeanour was closed off, angry. He didn’t even look me in the eye.
Had I been that terrible? I wasn’t experienced, but Brax always seemed to enjoy sex with me. Rejection stabbed like daggers; I waited for a sign that Q was satisfied, but he never looked at me.
His seed trickled down my thigh, spreading a damp stain on the sheets. Tears pricked. I must’ve done something terribly wrong. I had to fix it. If I didn’t please Q, he’d throw me back to men like Brute and Driver. He’d withdraw his protection. His comfort.
I didn’t know what to do.
Sliding off the bed, I crawled to Q. He never asked me to be anything other than human, but maybe he secretly wanted me to be lowly.
I clutched his towel, looking into tortured pale green eyes. He didn’t look like a man who had explosive sex. He looked like he wanted to commit suicide, or scrub his c**k with abrasive soap. A man with ten-tonne regret.
My throat lodged with need and failure. “I’m sorry. I can do better. I promise. Please, give me another chance.”
Old Tess sat up in horror. I begged a man who didn’t even want me—a man who kept me like an unwanted pair of socks—to f**k me again.
I begged like he could end my life.
Because he could. I no longer trusted the world. I trusted Q. With everything I had. I couldn’t cope if he despised me for something I did wrong.
Q stepped back, his muscles making it seem as if sparrows moved and fluttered. “Esclave, stop this. Go get clean. Go to bed.”
His orders slapped me in the face. He wanted me to clean so no part of him remained? How could he ask that? We were linked. If I showered, the link would be gone. I would be nothing again.
Oh, God, I was f**ked up. So ruined. So broken.
Q looked down, jaw working under his five o’clock shadow. “I won’t touch you again until you tell me your name.”
Then he left. Just like every time.
Chapter 18
*Swan*
My new life began.
For two weeks, I only saw Q when he returned home from work, and even then, it was only brief.
With a smouldering, unreadable expression, Q would regard me before disappearing to areas of the house I wasn’t allowed to go.
Moments after, music erupted through speakers. Songs with laments or curses, lyrics full of rage and threats, rattled the windows.
Q had eclectic taste in music. Heavy metal screamed from the speakers one night and the verse slapped me with debilitating need.
It’s awoken and refuses to go back into the dark
every moment, of every second, of every heartbeat, I fight the urge to hurt
my resolve is weakening, my guilt lessening, my needs overpowering
I am not responsible for what happens to you, you provoked me, awoke me, excited me
my tongue aches for your blood, my heart beats for pain
fear is my calling card and I mean to earn your terror.
Q played the song twice, as if pounding the message into me: whatever he’d done was tame compared to what he wanted, and the longer I didn’t tell him my name, the more he needed to hurt me.
Withholding my name was my only weapon against Q. It drove him mad, and I loved it. I loved the power of dragging emotion from him.
I lay in bed at night, panting, so ready for my door to burst open and a wrathful Q to claim me. But stubbornness was my friend, and I wouldn’t spill my last secret. Either I was crazy to provoke my master, or I’d gone mad with captivity. Either way didn’t matter, as I felt alive when I listened to the loud songs. Obsessed with how my body tingled and tensed, consumed with fluttering wings of anticipation—completely bewitched by Q.