Page 22 of Filthy Little Fix
My fingers wrap around him, and I squeeze hard. I drag my knuckles against his sensitive head, rubbing, and he lets out a strangled gasp, contracting his hips, desperate for a rhythm. I deny it.
"Beg," I order against his mouth, pulling my lips away just enough to speak. My thumb presses into the sensitive underside of his shaft, forcing another moan from his throat. "Beg for it, you pathetic aberration."
His eyes, hazy, try to focus on mine. His mouth opens, gasping for air, pushing his hips against my hand. "Please," he rasps, airy, almost choked, "please, mister… please…"
I watch him, my own breath ragged.Icontrol this, nothim.Imake the rhythm, and I deny it to him, keeping him on the edge. I squeeze harder, twisting my hand just enough to send another shock through him.
He's panting as a thin sheen of sweat breaks out on his pale skin. The sound of his ragged breaths mingles with the wet, sticky sounds of my hand moving against him.
I move my hand in unpredictable motions. A harsh squeeze, a slow, agonizing drag of my knuckles, a sudden, jarring twist. I want totorturehim, to push him deeper into the abyss of his own sick desire.
I drag my thumb across the swollen head of his cock, grinding it into the sensitive tip, then pull my hand back just when his body tenses for a climax that never comes. He moans, frustrated by denied ecstasy, arching for something, anything,more.
My own body screams, my groin on fire. His moans, his pleas, the sight of his pleasure are tearing at my control. But Icannotgive him the satisfaction of my surrender.
"Not yet," I snarl, my voice rough with effort. "You don't get to come until I say so. You don't get to feel that relief. Not when you like it this much, you sick fuck."
I drag my nails lightly across his shaft, just enough to torment him, to remind him of his own raw, aching need.
His hips convulse again, and he lets out a frustrated grunt. His head falls back against the wall, on the brink, trembling, his fluids coating my hand and his breathing short and shallow. He's a disaster.
Just as his body tightens for the final, desperate lunge, I rip my hand away.
Nyx sags against the wall. His body remains rigid, trembling, his erection still pulsing.
I step back, disgusted by the wet stickiness on my hand, disgusted by the sight of him, and above all, disgusted by the animalistic satisfaction that still pulses in my veins.
He says nothing, just watches me, with that ragged breathing.
I can't stay here another second. The air is too thick with his scent, with his suppressed moans, with the lingering stench of his perversion. I need to breathe. I need to kill something.
I stalk out of the room, leaving the broken mug, the spilled coffee, and Nyx, trembling and still hard, under a dim, dull, homey light.
I slam the door shut behind me. I need to distance myself from this house, this lunatic, this… feeling.
I open the car door and fall into the driver's seat. My hands still tremble with a mix of fury and something I refuse to name. I grip the steering wheel, and the engine roars, but it brings me no comfort.
The duck song, the damned duck song, is a perverse soundtrack to the images burned behind my eyelids: Nyx's bloodied face, his desperate moans, the nauseating arch of his body, and that pulsating bulge under my hand. My own cock is rock hard, aching. I cannot be as fucked up as him. Not like him. I cannot be like him.
I drive to nowhere. I just stomp on the accelerator at an absurd speed, blurring the city lights into colored streaks. I need to outrun it. Outrun him.
My groin throbs, insistent, demanding a release I denied both of us.
I slam on the brakes only after turning off the main road onto a desolate, dark stretch of abandoned land, with no one around.
I don't want to do this.
My hands fly to my belt. I undo the buckle, unzip my pants. My dick is hard, pulsing with painful urgency. I grab it.
I need to purge him from my system, to force him out of my head.
I close my eyes. The images only intensify. His eyes. The reverence. His pleas, his blood, his moans.
This is what he did. He reduced me to this. To a desperate animal, alone in the dark, trying to fuck away the sickening image of his pleasure.
It's useless. Every thrust, every pump of my hips, is for him. For the way he looks at me. For the way he makes me feel out of control.
My orgasm feels more like a violent expulsion than a climax.
