Page 30 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

And that causes me to laugh.

I laugh so hard that I feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes. If he only knew. But even with what little I’ve said, he should be able to piece it together. Or maybe I’m giving him too much credit.

“What’s so funny?”

“You.”

That earns me a kick. And then another.

“How does it feel?” he asks again.

But all I can do islaugh.

I laugh because I never actually had control... that’s the ugly truth. For as long as I can remember, I was shackled to her... even now, I remain shackled to her... to my void... to my compulsion. I just pretend that I’m in control. I guess I am—in a way—of others’ lives. And I guess that’s why I do what I do. Because it’s the only thing I can control. How it ends.

I open my arms, as he looks down at me, chest moving up as he takes me in. “Why are you sick?” he chokes out a sob, touching his chest. “Why am I sick?” He looks like a wounded dog. “Why do I—“ he stops himself as his hand moves to his cock.

Causing my smile to widen.

“Maybe I’m your cure. Maybe I wasn’t infecting you but curing you,” I say, looking up at him as he continues to battle his morals and his needs.

Byron runs a hand over his head before kicking me one last time. “I should do to you what you’ve done to others.” His voice shakes as he lands another kick. “Me. You didn’t cure me. You infected me.”

Then, whatever restraint kept him in place unleashes, and his hands move frenzied to release his cock from his pants. Grabbing a fistful of my hair, he doesn’t even look at me. “Open your filthy mouth so I can fuck it and make it my cum rag,” he growls.

He doesn’t wait for me to follow his command, his dick pushes into my mouth, and I look up at him and feel something.

Proud.

Tears sting my eyes as he pushes into my mouth, my lips stretching over his thick length, and using my hair, he moves my head. Not looking at me, his eyes look up at the sky, but I look at him. And my heart feels like it grows inside, because I was right about him, and nothing is more beautiful than him at this moment. The shame, the desire, the need, pain, and disgust all blend to form the perfect picture that my hands twitch to create, but I bite back the urge and let him fuck my mouth.

His hips move into my face with such force as he hate-fucks my throat, causing me to gag and cough around his dick. I never thought I wouldever be in the position where I let another man choke me with his cock, but what can I say—sometimes you gotta lose some. And if I’m being honest, I’m actually enjoying this... enjoying Byron. My hand moves up his leg as he goes deeper, up his v-cut, and I moan. I fucking moan, and so does he.

Then he looks down, and I feel small dots of rain but it’s not raining. It’s Byron’s tears which makes the moment sweeter. Using my hand, I cup his balls, softly massaging them as I let him get his way with my throat.

“I fucking hate you,” he groans out.

“Sure you do,” I coo around his length before pulling away, licking the precum that had escaped from his slit. “But your dick loves me.”

Once again, he tightens his hold on my hair and slams his dick in my mouth. This time I have no room to breathe. I choke on my spit, on the lack of air. My hand moves to the ground, searching for my ace, as he holds his cock in my throat.

“Fucking—“ he pushes deeper, stillholding my head in place. “Choke.”

Ropes of warm cum invade my mouth, and this is a first for me. My hand encloses around the handle of the steak knife, and just as he’s about to pull out, I bite down—stabbing the knife into his upper leg. Not deep enough to kill or truly hurt him, but to show him that I’ve been in control. Not him.

I look up to see him looking at the knife in his leg. Pulling back, I place a soft kiss on the tip of his dick before twisting the knife in his hip, causing him to scream out in pain.

“How did it feel, Byron? How did it feel to taste control...”

Byron falls to his knees when I pull out the knife and stand, placing the blade on his throat, and slicing just enough to make it burn.

“You look so beautiful when you shatter. Truly.”

Using my free hand, I rip off his shirt. Then, on his chest, I begin to carve… a thorn, right in the middle.

Mine.

The knife doesn’t do justice to my work, the lines jagged due to the dullness. But he takes it like a trooper.

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