Page 131 of Buried in Blood
One… two… three…
Another slap. The other cheek.
He grips my shoulders and shoves me toward the bed. I catch myself against the edge, barely able to stand straight as he closes in behind me. His breath is hot on my neck. His words even hotter.
“Maybe pain is the only language you understand.”
He bites. Hard. My shoulder, then my collarbone.
Not lust. Not passion.
Punishment.
His teeth tear through skin until I cry out.
That’s what he wants.
A reaction.
Hespins me around, forces me to my knees.
And spits.
Right in my face.
The saliva slides down my cheek like venom. My chest heaves—but not from rage.
From shame. From resignation. Because part of me—some broken, fractured shard—still wants to survive.
Even like this.
Especially like this.
“You’ll remember who made you,” he hisses, gripping my chin so tightly I see stars. “You’ll remember what it feels like to be owned.”
He forces my chin up, shoving his cock into my throat. I feel the tip jab my throat, and I gag. It burns.
He pumps in and out of my mouth violently. Taking what he wants. Like he always does. Tears sting my eyes as I fight the urge to vomit.
He finishes quickly, removing his erection and spewing warm liquid all over my face.
“You look like a queen when you’re covered in my cum.”
His words sink into my pores, as if I were covered in dirt and filth.
“On your stomach. Face down on the bed,” he commands.
I oblige. My stomach coils in knots. I know what’s coming. He’s going to make me bleed.
He removes his belt from his pants that lie on the floor, lifting up the metal side glistening in the light. It glistens as a threat. Then he delivers a blow of metal into my ass cheek. It stings. One.
Two.
Three.
I feel the prongs puncture my skin. The sting is bearable…for now.
Four.
