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He has plans for my ass.
The plug falls with a clank on the floor. Marcus’s fingers resume their ministrations, rubbing my clit and making me shiver.
“Not like this,” I beg, tears of distress streaming down my eyes. “I don’t want to come like this.”
“You’ll do whatever I tell you to.” His lips open on my cheek, tracing a wet trail down to my neck. “They sure have.”
This is intense. Insanely intense. It’s way more than just his fingers on me. More than how he presses his cock on my back.
The things he says and the images they conjure in my head are sick. And I’m sick of being turned on by them.
For orgasming on his fingers because of them.
Shame swarms me, hot and suffocating. I cry harder when Marcus drives three fingers inside me. I moan despite myself. I curse him even though I still think he’s the most perfect man in the world.
“Stop it, Marcus.” The humiliation, anger, and fear of him blend into a poisonous concoction. “Stop it.”
“I buried myself in their pussies. Their mouths. Their asses. Each one of their holes.” Marcus sucks on my neck roughly, marking me. “It was your name on my lips when I came inside them.”
This is worse than disturbing. This is exactly what this psycho predicted. That I’d freak out. That I’d lose it when I see his cruel side out to play. That I’ll loathe him for what he truly is.
For how unsafe it is around him.
I’m hyperventilating. Flailing into an endless pit. Questioning my sanity and if any of it is even left.
“Or…” he growls, his voice husky. Deep and entrancing. Sinful and lacking any sort of remorse. “I haven’t done any of these things.”
I snap my head back, as much as Marcus allows. “What?”
His hand moves from my head lower between us. He’s undoing his belt, unbuttoning and unzipping himself.
“No, stop.”
Not before I have answers.
Ignoring me, has my face in his grasp again, twisting me to him. Crushing his lips to mine, he kisses me like the starved psycho he is. Rough, unapologetic. His tongue finds mine, and he coaxes me to fight him.
I can’t stop.
I can’t stop my second orgasm, either. He rides my climax with me, ramming his fingers harder, deeper, ruthlessly into me.
“Fuck you,” I gasp through the tears. “Fuck you for doing this to me.”
“I’m doing what I promised, plaything.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re adorable when you’re mad,” he groans, pushing me into the only bare wall next to the door. “Did you hear me? I haven’t touched these dolls. Ever. Haven’t jacked off to them. Never wanted to.”
“W-what?”
He’s honest. I hear it this time, louder than before.
“I had them specially made so I could try on the clothes I bought for you.” The jerk of his chin indicates to the dolls. “The house was finished when you turned nineteen. That’s when I started stocking up on clothes for you. Then your body changed, and I stocked on some more.”
“No, no fucking way,” I accuse him. “You didn’t sound like you were lying before.”
“I sounded honest because everything I said”—Marcus pulls my hips to him—“is everything I want to do to you.”
