this was the only place she felt
safe. How could he take that away from her? He knew all too well
what it felt like to live in fear, wishing he had just one person,
just one place he’d could have gone to, and felt safe.
If he could give that to Ellie…
Strangely, it almost felt like he was, in a way, giving himself a
little of the same.
But none of that meant it was easy for
him to be alone with her. Not after seeing her naked, touching her,
knowing what she’d gone through and knowing she was afraid and, goddamn him , being both disgusted and turned on by the
entire thing.
His insides were warring. What she
nearly went through represented everything he was afraid of, the
ghosts that would never leave him, yet the physical urge to
overpower her, to take her freedom, her choice, away from her was a
burning beacon deep within him, begging to be released.
He’d had no choice but to go to the
club.
He had to make it go away.
He was like an addict, growing sicker
and sicker, needing his next fix.
As soon as Deuce had relented he’d gone
straight to the club, straight to the bar, dosed the beer of the
first club whore he found—Amanda, a bitch he’d had many, many
times, unbeknownst to her. Once she started slumping against the
bar, he’d picked her up and carried her off to his room. Tossing
her facedown on his bed, he stripped her naked and, with his eyes
burning, Dirty positioned himself behind her, poised himself at her
entrance and—
His gut roiled. He always felt sick; it
was a feeling he’d gotten more than accustomed to over the decades,
but this, this was so much worse. Ellie’s face, her body, her
smile, it was all in the forefront in his brain.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t hurt her,
not her. Not Ellie. She was a good woman and he
couldn’t.
He just couldn’t.
He had to fuck this bitch, he had to
hurt her. He wanted—no, needed —to watch himself disappear
inside of her knowing she could do nothing about it, that she was
helpless, powerless, that he was in complete control, that he was
going to get off at her expense.
Not Ellie.
Oh, fuck. He wanted to get off; he
wanted it bad. He let the walls down, let the memories come,
allowed them to take him over, spin wildly in his head. All the
touching, groping, not being able to stop his erection even when he
was crying, begging her to stop, and she was drunk and
moaning, forcing him to touch her as she held him down and lowered
herself down on his cock.
He grew harder just thinking about it,
harder and sicker. What was wrong with him? He didn’t understand
how something so vile, so motherfucking awful, had become something
that perversely turned him on, made hurting women result in easing
his sickness.
He had to come, he had to come, he had
to fucking come. Worse, he had to think about his foster mother,
about the sick and twisted shit she’d done to him, while he tried
to come and to do it, to go through with this, he had to remind
himself that the bitch passed out facedown on his bed was just
that. A bitch. A useless fucking club whore who didn’t do shit with
herself except pass her dirty pussy around to his brothers. All
except him. But she would, she would fuck him willingly too if she
knew what he actually looked like.
But he didn’t want her to want him. He
didn’t want her to touch him. He just wanted to fuck, wipe out
these fucking thoughts inside of him after a week-long buildup of
jerking off…about things no man in their right mind would ever jerk
off to.
But he wasn’t in his right mind, had
never been. He’d been brutalized at such a young age he didn’t even
know what it felt like not to feel fucked-up. Fucked-up was
all he’d ever known.
Clenching his teeth, feeling the acidic
rise of bile in the back of his throat, Dirty slid inside the
whore. His first tear fell along with his first thrust, and then
his second, and his third, and then he was silently yet openly
crying, his tears landing on the tattooed back of the
safe. How could he take that away from her? He knew all too well
what it felt like to live in fear, wishing he had just one person,
just one place he’d could have gone to, and felt safe.
If he could give that to Ellie…
Strangely, it almost felt like he was, in a way, giving himself a
little of the same.
But none of that meant it was easy for
him to be alone with her. Not after seeing her naked, touching her,
knowing what she’d gone through and knowing she was afraid and, goddamn him , being both disgusted and turned on by the
entire thing.
His insides were warring. What she
nearly went through represented everything he was afraid of, the
ghosts that would never leave him, yet the physical urge to
overpower her, to take her freedom, her choice, away from her was a
burning beacon deep within him, begging to be released.
He’d had no choice but to go to the
club.
He had to make it go away.
He was like an addict, growing sicker
and sicker, needing his next fix.
As soon as Deuce had relented he’d gone
straight to the club, straight to the bar, dosed the beer of the
first club whore he found—Amanda, a bitch he’d had many, many
times, unbeknownst to her. Once she started slumping against the
bar, he’d picked her up and carried her off to his room. Tossing
her facedown on his bed, he stripped her naked and, with his eyes
burning, Dirty positioned himself behind her, poised himself at her
entrance and—
His gut roiled. He always felt sick; it
was a feeling he’d gotten more than accustomed to over the decades,
but this, this was so much worse. Ellie’s face, her body, her
smile, it was all in the forefront in his brain.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t hurt her,
not her. Not Ellie. She was a good woman and he
couldn’t.
He just couldn’t.
He had to fuck this bitch, he had to
hurt her. He wanted—no, needed —to watch himself disappear
inside of her knowing she could do nothing about it, that she was
helpless, powerless, that he was in complete control, that he was
going to get off at her expense.
Not Ellie.
Oh, fuck. He wanted to get off; he
wanted it bad. He let the walls down, let the memories come,
allowed them to take him over, spin wildly in his head. All the
touching, groping, not being able to stop his erection even when he
was crying, begging her to stop, and she was drunk and
moaning, forcing him to touch her as she held him down and lowered
herself down on his cock.
He grew harder just thinking about it,
harder and sicker. What was wrong with him? He didn’t understand
how something so vile, so motherfucking awful, had become something
that perversely turned him on, made hurting women result in easing
his sickness.
He had to come, he had to come, he had
to fucking come. Worse, he had to think about his foster mother,
about the sick and twisted shit she’d done to him, while he tried
to come and to do it, to go through with this, he had to remind
himself that the bitch passed out facedown on his bed was just
that. A bitch. A useless fucking club whore who didn’t do shit with
herself except pass her dirty pussy around to his brothers. All
except him. But she would, she would fuck him willingly too if she
knew what he actually looked like.
But he didn’t want her to want him. He
didn’t want her to touch him. He just wanted to fuck, wipe out
these fucking thoughts inside of him after a week-long buildup of
jerking off…about things no man in their right mind would ever jerk
off to.
But he wasn’t in his right mind, had
never been. He’d been brutalized at such a young age he didn’t even
know what it felt like not to feel fucked-up. Fucked-up was
all he’d ever known.
Clenching his teeth, feeling the acidic
rise of bile in the back of his throat, Dirty slid inside the
whore. His first tear fell along with his first thrust, and then
his second, and his third, and then he was silently yet openly
crying, his tears landing on the tattooed back of the
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