taunting, feral woman who sparred with me is now beneath me crying, her nose bloodied, the floor wet with her urine. What if she genuinely doesn't remember the damn safe word? My grip fails, and with my other hand still on my cock, she jerks her hands free and throws her weight to the side, rolling both of us. She grabs for the knife as her wrists come apart, and I'm a second behind her, both of our hands on the handle, and the blade burying itself hard in her other arm.
She screams, genuine pain in it, and hearing the difference I'm more convinced than ever that she was playing me with the theatrics over the rest of this. More convinced than ever that whatever this game is to her, I'm losing . She's never gonna say the damn word, and one of us will end up dead before she tells the truth.
I catalog every memory I have of her, every moment that felt truly authentic, parsing her actions through the deep familiarity I've gained of her. And one sticks out in my mind. That first night, her cunt convulsing around me in an earthshaking orgasm, and her eyes wet with tears. A moment I haven't shared with her, since.
I know how to break her.
Her hand curls around the handle. If she truly was an industrial worker, first aid would have been part of her training. “You know better. Leave it in there.” Her fingers flatten against her damaged skin, and her stomach flexes with her sobs. “If you move, I'm yanking it out myself.”
I plant myself between her thighs, and reach below her legs to seize her hands and drag them away from the blade, grasping them as tightly as I can. If I'm wrong about this, I'm sure she'll be fast enough to grab the knife and kill me. Saying a quick prayer, I lower my face to her cunt and lick for all I'm worth, tasting, surprisingly, sweet arousal mixed with the tang of her pee. Whoever the hell she is, she gets off on the thrill of the fight. I cling to that to tell me what I'm doing is right, and that I shouldn't trust her, shouldn't trust the little bucks and spasms from her tears. Nothing matters but getting her close, getting her to admit the truth , encapsulated in that one little word .
Please, please, please, please, please, I repeat in my head, over and over again. Her moans change, hoarse with sobs, but with a sensual edge behind it, one that doesn't sound conscious enough to be performative. I drive my tongue against her clit, in fast circles, as her hands tug in mine, and she screams my name, begging for something in incoherent yelps. I tell myself she's begging for more, not that she's begging me to stop.
Her thighs tremble on either side of my face, toes curling as she tries to kick them into my knees, to shove me away.
I pull back long enough to say “ You know the only thing you can say ,” before returning to my work. A deep regret settles in my gut, that this might the first I get to taste her come, and it's in such unpleasant circumstances. It's probably the last I'm gonna taste of her at all.
But it's not about me. It's about survival, and her lies are standing between us and our freedom.
My jaw begins to ache, and my tongue to slow, but still I lick her desperately; in those moments, her pleasure and my life weigh the same, because I can't have one without the other. Still, she holds strong, denying me the truth.
Angry, wearing thin, I sink my teeth into her clit, not as hard as I want to, but still causing enough pain to attract her attention. I suck her furiously as her clit pulses in my mouth and she arches into me, screaming the one word that could make this whole thing worthwhile.
“ Red, red, motherfucking red .”
Chapter Seventeen
I've won the battle, but I still don't know what it means for the war. Milla cries inconsolably, not moving from where I left her, her eyes wide and unseeing, and after a few minutes, I decide the best thing I can do is try to make her comfortable so we can talk, now that the barriers are broken. I pull my pants on—thankfully the
She screams, genuine pain in it, and hearing the difference I'm more convinced than ever that she was playing me with the theatrics over the rest of this. More convinced than ever that whatever this game is to her, I'm losing . She's never gonna say the damn word, and one of us will end up dead before she tells the truth.
I catalog every memory I have of her, every moment that felt truly authentic, parsing her actions through the deep familiarity I've gained of her. And one sticks out in my mind. That first night, her cunt convulsing around me in an earthshaking orgasm, and her eyes wet with tears. A moment I haven't shared with her, since.
I know how to break her.
Her hand curls around the handle. If she truly was an industrial worker, first aid would have been part of her training. “You know better. Leave it in there.” Her fingers flatten against her damaged skin, and her stomach flexes with her sobs. “If you move, I'm yanking it out myself.”
I plant myself between her thighs, and reach below her legs to seize her hands and drag them away from the blade, grasping them as tightly as I can. If I'm wrong about this, I'm sure she'll be fast enough to grab the knife and kill me. Saying a quick prayer, I lower my face to her cunt and lick for all I'm worth, tasting, surprisingly, sweet arousal mixed with the tang of her pee. Whoever the hell she is, she gets off on the thrill of the fight. I cling to that to tell me what I'm doing is right, and that I shouldn't trust her, shouldn't trust the little bucks and spasms from her tears. Nothing matters but getting her close, getting her to admit the truth , encapsulated in that one little word .
Please, please, please, please, please, I repeat in my head, over and over again. Her moans change, hoarse with sobs, but with a sensual edge behind it, one that doesn't sound conscious enough to be performative. I drive my tongue against her clit, in fast circles, as her hands tug in mine, and she screams my name, begging for something in incoherent yelps. I tell myself she's begging for more, not that she's begging me to stop.
Her thighs tremble on either side of my face, toes curling as she tries to kick them into my knees, to shove me away.
I pull back long enough to say “ You know the only thing you can say ,” before returning to my work. A deep regret settles in my gut, that this might the first I get to taste her come, and it's in such unpleasant circumstances. It's probably the last I'm gonna taste of her at all.
But it's not about me. It's about survival, and her lies are standing between us and our freedom.
My jaw begins to ache, and my tongue to slow, but still I lick her desperately; in those moments, her pleasure and my life weigh the same, because I can't have one without the other. Still, she holds strong, denying me the truth.
Angry, wearing thin, I sink my teeth into her clit, not as hard as I want to, but still causing enough pain to attract her attention. I suck her furiously as her clit pulses in my mouth and she arches into me, screaming the one word that could make this whole thing worthwhile.
“ Red, red, motherfucking red .”
Chapter Seventeen
I've won the battle, but I still don't know what it means for the war. Milla cries inconsolably, not moving from where I left her, her eyes wide and unseeing, and after a few minutes, I decide the best thing I can do is try to make her comfortable so we can talk, now that the barriers are broken. I pull my pants on—thankfully the
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