particular press of muscle
that, combined with the acceptance of inevitable submission, would
allow her to open for Jeremiah Quick.
The humiliating ache of subjugation lived in
that barely there place between the object and her flesh. The fact
that Jeremiah already filled her cunt was part of it.
His tone lost that soothing quality and took
on command, and he said, "Come on, Sunshine Girl, take it."
A strangled cry wrested out of her throat
and she pushed back, opened.
It was… too large and too hard, and not
round, but had indentations for fingers to grip, the odd shape of
it impossible. Uncomfortable.
It was inside her, now, and so was he, and
Pretty forgot how to breathe.
Her breath was coming in choking gags,
gasping sounds, and some sort of keening noise that was forbidden
but rising in the room anyway. Coming out of her, this sound,
against her will.
She didn't hear his voice at first. One of
his hands rested on her upper back, holding her down, the other
manipulated the awful thing inside of her. The stretch and the
burn, and... trying to be quiet, but it was all hurt hurt HURT, and
it took a few minutes before she could make out his words.
His was talking to her. "Ah, there. You feel
me. It's… ahh, it's perfect, like I belong."
Pretty was gritting her teeth, the taste of
blood in her mouth, crying. He pulled her by the hair. "Stop
crying. Your tears are mine. Save them for me."
But she couldn’t stop.
There came a wrenching loss, emptiness, the
loss of his cock from her cunt, and he was standing in front of the
table, leaning to eat her tears again, tongue tracing her cheeks,
poking at her eyes.
This she hated. It felt like he was stealing
from her.
Her anus contracted, fighting the thing he'd
left inside of her, wanting it out, wanting it gone.
"You’ve earned at least another ten. But
that can wait, for now."
Eating her tears made him softer.
"Perhaps next time I'll tie you down and
listen to you scream," he mused out loud, more to himself than to
her.
If his purpose was to frighten her, it
worked. She had no doubt now that he was capable of doing such a
thing, and, based on everything she could see in this room, he
would enjoy it.
He leaned a hip against the table and
stroked her back with one hand. "In my plan, I tucked you into the
cage every night, from now until the end.”
She glanced back at him, then looked where
he was looking, following the turn of his head with her gaze around
this… dungeon, or play room, whatever he called it, to the hated
cage. She shook her head, at first slowly, and then with a violence
that bordered on frenzy.
She didn't want to sleep there ever
again.
The bed was on the other side of the room,
just a shit-brown plastic mattress on a frame. She was so tired
that it almost looked comfortable.
Jeremiah’s eyes flicked to the ceiling.
Pretty still followed his gaze, now upward,
to where hooks were set into the rafters, some of them holding
chains, some rope. And a frayed scrap of black fabric, there,
too.
This seemed to be where his eyes settled,
and his eyebrows drew down, his lips tightened, and that muscle in
his jaw twitched.
But just before that hardened look was a
lost look, sad and desperate, there and gone in an instant. Had she
been allowed to speak, she would have said something sweet. If she
had chocolate, she would have fed him some.
His eyes returned to Pretty, and softened as
if he knew what she was thinking.
He touched the top of her head, then let his
hand drop to cup her cheek, with an unexpected measure of
gentleness.
Then he walked around the table, fingers
traveling on the wood surface, as if tracing a chalk outline around
her.
When he was out of sight, she felt his
fingers between her ass cheeks, bumping against the switch handle,
grasping it. He gave it a little tug that sent shocks up her spine
and down her legs. "Come on, Sunshine, let it go."
It took almost as much concentrated effort
to release the thing as it had to accept