Page 88 of Deviant

He starts rocking his hips, fucking my mouth like he’s trying to break my teeth and I relax my jaw as much as I can, ignoring the drool that’s running down my chin.

Oh, I know I could hurt him, I know that right now, for the first time, he’s not forcing this in any physical way, but the effect is the same.

He’s broken me.

He’s won.

I’m not that person he dragged down into the darkness. I’m not that defiant woman who would rather die than give in. Because I tried that, didn’t I? I tried that and I failed.

I’m his creature now. I’m entirely his pet.

I’ve lost my mind, lost all control over my body too, judging by the way my clit is throbbing like a little slut. The only thing stopping me from touching myself is the fact he hasn’t granted me permission, but my hands are itching to do it.

I want him. I need him.

My entire world has turned on its axis and this man is now my very epicentre.

I feel the tears sliding down my cheeks as that realisation hits.

I’ve submitted entirely.

He grabs the collar around my throat, constricting my airway that tiny bit more. I can see from the way his face is contorted that he’s going to come.

As he tightens his grip, I relax, I go limp, and he pours himself down my throat while I moan out like I’m the one getting pleasure, I’m the one finding my release.

He drags his cock back over my tongue, spreading that delicious saltiness and then he does it over my lips, leaving a smear of it there, like he’s marking me.

I stay still, on my knees, waiting for permission to move, though it’s taking all I have not to lunger at him and just take what I need.

“What a good pet you’ve become,” he remarks, smirking.

The old me would lash out, the old me would snap back. But I don’t, I stay where I am, desperately needing more, desperately holding out for something I can’t even articulate.

He brushes his thumb over my lips then holds it out a good few inches from my face. “Lick it clean.”

I slide my tongue out, I trace up from the knuckle, tasting the last of his semen, savouring it like it’s the finest caviar.

For a moment, he just watches me as if he too can’t believe this is real, and then he grunts.

“Master,” I gasp, pleading again for some unspoken gift.

His lips curl, he tilts his head. “You really are submitting?”

I nod quickly, so quickly my head spins, but I can see he’s still not convinced, that he believes I’m still that foolish idiot I was before. The one that believed that our world was one where men such as he were punished, where justice existed, and power can be overthrown.

And a voice whispers in my head how I can convince him, exactly what I need to do to show him I really am giving in entirely.

I shift back.

He arches a brow, clearly unimpressed that I’m now going off-piste, that I’m no longer following instructions.

I lay on my back, spreading my legs wide, giving him a full view of everything I’ve always previously tried to keep from him.

As my fingers stretch my labia open, he must be able to see how wet I am. He must. Surely, he must.

But he doesn’t move. He just stands, still as a statue, and I realise what else he wants, what he’s expecting now.

My stomach flutters, more shame covers my face and that old voice rears up in my head that if I do this, if I cross this line, I’ll never be able to look myself in the mirror.

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