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Say your fucking safe word. Scream it for me. I’m still going to ruin this slutty little fuck hole no matter how loud you do.
A jolt of something fucked up and needy spikes through my core.
I’ve never actually explored that dark side of me. I’ve never even admitted to it or come close to broaching the subject with any ex. But last night, with everything dialed up to eleven, I dove head-first into my first true experience of it.
Primal.
Consensual non-consent.
Rape kink.
My lip twists as it slips between my teeth. I bite down on it, feeling a weird mix of achy desire and poisonous shame flood my system.
I’m not supposed to enjoy that shit. No one is. But me, of all people?
No.
I’m Taylor, the good girl. The over-achiever. The top of her class literally always. I do soft candles and missionary position. I do dates where the door is held open for me.
I don’t do crazed, hyper-masculine psycho catching me in the woods, throwing me down, ripping my panties half off and just fucking me, heedless of permission or consent.
Though, obviously, he had it.
In fucking spades.
My thighs clench as I replay every filthy, gasped, whimpered moment. Every vicious, primal thrust. Every way his fucking huge cock rammed into me, stretching me to my limit in the most gloriously fucked-up, deliriously hot ways.
I’m sore.
I’m fucking sore. My pussy feels like I just rode a horse across the entire American southwest, sans saddle.
…or maybe more like I got ridden by the horse.
That’s the reason for the lack of clothes. I mean all I had anyway was the dress and underwear I was taken in. The dress is basically ruined, and the panties definitely are.
At the same time, it’s a delicious ache. An ache that makes me want…
More?
I shake my head, hugging my knees to my chest under the sheets like I did in the bath last night. The bath helped with the sore muscles and aching bruises on my thighs, neck, breasts. So did the little bottle of Epsom salts I found sitting on the edge of the tub that I’m not sure was there before. After that, I crawled into bed, nude, to collapse into sleep.
The psycho probably has cameras in here. But who cares.
Nothing he hasn’t seen already.
I rub my eyes, pushing my uncombed hair back from my face and trying to figure out how to solve the immediate problems of lack of food and lack of clothes. When I glance around the bedroom, though, my brow arches.
Across the room, sitting on the credenza by the door, is a tray of food, with a steaming pot of coffee. My gaze shifts, my brow furrowing as I glance through the arched doorway into the massive changing room.
…Which is now filled with clothes.
Wait, what?
I climb out of bed, once again shoving aside any thoughts of Drazen having cameras in here. After what happened last night, it really doesn’t matter.
I grab a piece of toast and pour a cup of coffee from the pot before heading into the changing room.
The clothes are stunning. Dresses and gowns for every occasion. Skirts, tops, pants, shorts, bathing suits, for fuck’s sake. I pull open a drawer set into the wall that glows with a soft warm light when it opens, revealing a collection of bras. The drawer beneath it has matching panties, thongs, and boy shorts, which are sort of low-key my comfy favorites.
