Page 96 of I’m The Worst

I can’t risk that again.

I stay silent, holding myself open, letting him degrade me just so he’ll keep looking at me. Just so he’ll keep wanting me. Just so I’m not invisible to him.

This is all I’m good for now.

This is all I deserve.

His breathing gets harsher and faster.

Then I feel it—the hot, thick head of his cock presses right against my asshole. He doesn’t push inside. He holds it there, stroking himself furiously, the tip nudging my tight ring with every stroke.

“Fuck…” he grunts.

Hot, heavy ropes of cum shoot directly into my open asshole, pulse after pulse, filling the shallow entrance as I hold myself spread wide for him. He milks every last drop, pressing the head of his cock against my hole to push the cum deeper.

When he’s finally done, he steps back.

The room is silent except for our breathing.

I stay bent over the bed, face pressed into the sheets now wet with my tears, hands still spreading my ass open, his cum slowly leaking from my asshole and running down my thighs.

Face burning with humiliation and leftover need.

He doesn’t say a word as he pulls up his pants and walks out of the room, leaving me there. Alone once again.

Idon’t know how long I stay like that.

I feel so…fucking…empty.

I finally release my hands and push myself upright, my body shaking. What the hell is wrong with me? I could have said the safeword… I⁠—

Forcing myself to stand, every muscle protests as I wipe the drying cum from my skin.

I need to stop this.

Whatever this is.

It’s too much. Too fucked up.

Even now, even after being used and discarded, all I can think about is how badly I want him back.

I turn on the shower, stepping under the spray as hot as I can stand it. This safehouse is different from the others—actual decent products lined up on the shelf. Real shampoo, conditioner, body wash that doesn’t smell cheap. I scrub my skin until it’s red and raw. I even shave, something I haven’t been able to do properly in months. The razor glides over my legs, under my arms, between my thighs.

It doesn’t wash away the shame. Doesn’t stop the throbbing ache between my legs. And it sure as hell doesn’t make me forget the way he looked at me when he came on my ass.

I rest my forehead against the cold tile. I shouldn’t want his attention. I shouldn’t need it.

But I do.

And I hate myself for it.

Wrapping the towel tighter around myself, I step back into the bedroom. He’s stretched out across the bed, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Grey sweatpants riding low on his hips.

I don’t say anything. I don’t ask if we’re staying here or leaving.

On the edge of the bed, he left a clean t-shirt and a pair of simple black underwear. I don’t ask where they came from. I just pull them on.

It swallows me whole, soft fabric brushing my thighs. I climb onto the bed without looking at him and curl up on the far side, my back turned, pulling the shirt down like it’ll cover more than it does.