“Stop! Stop! I’m coming!” she gasped, becoming sorely sensitive. He stopped and gave her one final lick. She clamped her knees around his head. He kept his mouth pressed on her wet, swollen flesh. She could feel his hot breath panting. He slowly dislodged himself and loomed over her, his hands either side her body. She was panting looking up at him.
“Did you really come?” he asked in a shivery voice. He would just keep torturing her if she said no. She swallowed tensely and nodded. He kept staring at her as if trying to bore into her brain. She tried to hold his gaze but he made her so uncomfortable, she blinked and looked away for a second.
“You’re fucking lying,” he said in a dead voice.
“I did,” she said, frightened of the way he was looking at her.
There was silence.
“I did,” she whispered, looking at him. He clutched her throat so suddenly, she bit her tongue. He dug his fingers in, barely refraining from choking her. “Please!” she said, gasping. “Please! Don’t hurt me.”
“You like it, Nicole, you like being fucked. You like the way I fuck you? Answer me!”
She was crying, but answered, “Yes! I like it! I like the way you fuck me!”
He slapped her, then again, and again, and again, and she brought her arms over her face.
“You lying slut! I know you hate me! Don’t you ever lie to me, you prissy little cunt!” He smothered her mouth with his hand until her crying ceased. He looked heavily at her, while she pushed slightly up and down in keen distress.
“My father always told me if he ever saw me hit a woman he would beat the fuck out of me. He said you have to respect the fact that a woman is weaker, more fragile. Only thing is, I’ve seen you bitches deserve it sometimes.
“I caught my dad beating on my mom one night. I bust his balls so bad, he was coughing blood. I found out afterwards that she had been playin’ up on him behind his back for years. She also got drunk plenty of times and had a go at him. Now what’s he suppose to do? Sit there and take it? You get pushed too far by a woman. You see? It works both ways. You can’t fall back on being helpless. You provoke a man and he’ll make sure you don’t do it again. He’s pushed—he’s pushed to do what he knows he shouldn’t do.
“I can’t tolerate deceit, Nicole. You lie to me, you get slapped. Hey?” He gave her face a couple of taps. “You killed my hard on.”
She kept her face turned away, sniffing and catching her breath.
“You hate this, don’t you?” he said. “Don’t you lie to me.” He grabbed her breasts, kneading them hard, every which way over her ribcage. She put her arms over her chest, so he slapped her in the side of her head. He slapped her left, then he and slapped her right. “You hate me, don’t you? You hate me!”
“Yes!” she broke out at last. “I hate you! I fucking hate you! I hate you—you fucking prick!” She caught her breath, and was uncertain. She blinked, not knowing what he was going to do to her.
“Shit. Call an exorcist,” he said. He lay his weight on her and stroked her hair, trying to get her to calm down. “You drive me crazy, you know? You push me, like I said before. Can you see what I’m saying to you? It’s that curse. That warm wet pussy of yours. It drives a man crazy. There’s nothing like hot cunt.
“Can I tell you something? You’re my favorite. Fuck all those other girls, I just want you. I mean it.”
She moaned and turned her face to one side, but he tangled his hands in her hair and pressed his face to hers. Gripping her tightly, he got his stiff prick against the lips of her pussy, then pushing steadily, he drove it into her, fucking her gently at first, then thrusting, ramming, shoving his prick spasmodically in her.
She tried to stay calm, but pain jarred her too often for her to fully relax. His kisses became bites, and he gripped her too hard, forcing her to resist him until she became accustomed to the pressure. Her vision blurred with tears and she shut her eyes, trying to last in silence until he was done.
Chapter 6
Later that night, he sat in front of the television. She couldn’t tell what he was watching, but he was engrossed. Occasionally he glanced over at her. She was safe under her blanket, watching him from under half-closed eyelids. Every time he looked, she felt herself tremble. He probably thought she was asleep. She stayed very quiet, she was still hurting from earlier, but she was busting to pee and was forced to get out from under the protection of the blanket. She was very self-conscious in her nakedness and held herself bunched tightly. “I have to use the bathroom,” she said in a small voice.
He completely ignored her, as if she hadn’t spoken at all or if she wasn’t even there. “Use the bowl,” he said in a moment.
He looked at her once while she used it, but was otherwise uninterested. She closed her eyes, and kept them shut. It was as though if she couldn’t see him then he couldn’t see her. She quickly finished and slipped under the blanket again. The chain she was perpetually fastened to hurt and aggravated her wrist. She desperately wanted to free herself.
She had just started to settle into some feeling of security when he stirred and switched off the television. He walked over and got on the mattress tearing the blanket aside, exposing her body. He unzipped his jeans without a word. Then he mounted between her quivering naked legs, kneeling and lowering himself towards her, guiding his cock with his hand. He pushed inside her. He raped her with long steady strokes, then with more rapid and uneven shoves and thrusts. She didn’t struggle, but lay passive in his arms.
He came in her again. She was becoming terrified that he would get her pregnant.
The next few days were hell. He’d just come straight in and mount her, then he would leave her alone for hours. This was her life. His voice was the only sound she knew. He had sex with her two or three times a day, sometimes four. Often he came to her in the middle of the night and made her suck him off. Sometimes it took up to half an hour, but she preferred that to when he was inside her.
She didn’t try and fight him anymore. She just listened to everything he told her to do, hoping someone would find her. She constantly hoped she would be rescued, and tried at all times not to anger him. She was a dead thing which he used and abused, forcing himself into her lifeless body. When it was too painful, she pressed her hands weakly against his shoulders. Sometimes he noticed and would ease off, just a little.
“Can I have a shower?” she asked after he had given her milk and cereal for breakfast. She hadn’t washed since being hosed down outside those few days ago.
“Later,” he said. She put her empty breakfast bowl on the floor, disappointed. He must have noticed her looking at the dirty dishes piling up, because he gathered half of them off the floor, looking pissed, and took them out into the kitchen. She heard him tossed them into the sink.
She didn’t have to wait as long as she thought she would for her shower. He took her upstairs. For some reason she felt a new surge of anxiety going to a new part of the house. He let her brush her teeth, while he threw back the clear plastic curtain, and adjusted the shower. The water ran hard and steaming. The steam billowed up and made the bathroom warm. He took her by the arm and got her to step in. He was naked too. He often like to go around the house like that.
As soon as the hot water hit her, she had a moment of queer gratitude toward him. He could have been worse. He could have cut her, mutilated her, broken bones. But this moment of gratitude was quickly disrupted by the introduction of his naked body against her back. He slipped his left arm around her waist, drew her tightly against him, then while he held her firmly, his right hand passed over her stomach and slowly approached her pussy.