Page 25 of Writhe
I want to shove my face into her wet cunt and smellher aroma. My balls instantly draw up, my cock leaking—weeping for just her taste.
The Doctor’s voice is smug. “See? She likes this.”
Eliza makes a soft moan.
The Doctor laughs. “Poor thing. I bet this is so confusing for you. You don’t want to like it, but your body . . .” He clicks his tongue. “Your body is honest, isn’t it?”
Eliza won’t look at me—I wish I could do the same. But my fingers are still touching her. I find myself running the length of her cunt with my finger through her panties, feeling the wetness soak through them.
The Doctor leans back in his chair, pleased. “There’s a good girl.”
Her face is turned away, cheek pressed against the floor, her body shaking with shame, rage, and need. The Doctor shifts in his chair, watching. Always watching.
“She’s so eager,” he muses, his voice filled with something that makes my stomach twist. “And she doesn’t even realize it yet. How sweet.”
I swallow hard. The fabric sticks to my fingertips, and I can’t ignore the way she trembles under me.
The Doctor sighs. “Theo, you should be proud of her.”
I hesitate. I don’t know what he wants me to say. “You should reward her,” the doctor says smoothly. “She’s learning.”
Eliza flinches. I want to stop. I want to pull away. But I don’t. Because I want to be good. Because I want to make her feel good.
“Poor thing. You’re aching, aren’t you?” The Doctor exhales. “Ease it for her, Theo.”
A cold sweat breaks over my skin. I can’t. I shouldn’t. But I want to.
I can feel her body trembling, her hands curled against the floor like she wants to push herself up. But she doesn’t, because she knows she isn’t allowed to. She stays on her knees, head bowed, shoulders stiff—waiting. My pulse slams against my ribs. I want to step away. I want to run.
“She needs relief, Theo,” he orders. “And you’re going to give it to her.”
Eliza’s whole body locks up. She lets out a sharp, ragged breath, as though forcing herself not to beg. Or maybe forcing herself not to scream. I don’t know which. I don’t know anything anymore.
“You don’t want her to suffer, do you?”
The words land like a hook in my stomach. I feel sick. I also feel hard. I clench my teeth so tightly my jaw aches, my fingers shaking as I lower them to the slick heat between her thighs.
She shouldn’t be wet. She doesn’t want this. I don’t, either.
But my fingers slide easily over her soaked panties, feeling the way the thin fabric clings to her, the heat of her body melting into my skin. I slip her panties to the side, allowing myself to feel her skin to skin, and it’sglorious. I groan as I plunge a single finger all the way inside of her. She’s so wet, and so unbelievably tight.
She bites her lips hard enough to draw blood. I don’t know if it’s to silence or punish herself. Maybe both.
The Doctor exhales, pleased. “There you go,” he murmurs. “She’s so sensitive, isn’t she?”
Eliza whimpers. It sounds like she’s breaking. I can feel her pulse fluttering beneath my touch, the slight tremor in her legs. Her breath catches when I rub slow, careful circles, my fingers pressing and teasing the swollen bundle of nerves that’s already so overwhelmed. She hates this.
I can tell by the way her hands clench into the floor, she’s slipping away from herself. I swallow hard. I should stop, but the doctor is still watching. I move my fingers faster. Eliza gasps, her body jerking. She’s trembling so hard now, her thighs tensing, her breath uneven and strangled.
The way she tries to fight it—I can feel it. And I can feel the moment she loses. She bucks against my hand. Her body betrays her completely, shuddering with a helpless release. The Doctor hums in approval.
Eliza doesn’t move. She stays exactly where she is, panting, shaking, ruined. And I—I can’t stop staring at my hand, fingers still slick with her humiliation.
The Doctor smiles. “See?” he murmurs. “She just needed a firm hand. She just needed you, Theo.”
I finally look at Eliza and she looks at me. There’s something dark in her eyes, something I don’t understand. Something I don’t want to understand. I want to tell her I’m sorry. But the worst part is, I don’t think she’ll believe me.
Power is a fragile thing. Some men wield it like a club—blunt, heavy, and predictable. But true dominance? True control? It’s an art. It’s patient. It’s precise. And right now, Theo is a piece of uncut marble, rough and resistant, unaware of the shape lurking beneath the surface.
