Page 120 of Broken by my Bully
My conscience, maybe…what’s left of it.
I’m not on the bed. I’m standing beside it, cock in hand, watching her sleep.
How long have I been standing here?
Haven stirs, and I shove my dick back into my sweatpants.
“Professor?” She looks up at me, pulling the sheets up to cover herself as she sits up against the carved wooden headboard. Her eyelashes flutter as she blinks rapidly, as if to force herself wide awake.
I switch on the lamp, running a hand through my hair. “You were having a nightmare, I think.”
She gives me a slow scan, her eyes sticking on my bare chest. “Oh? What did I say?”
“Just ‘please.’
“Please?” she repeats, her cheeks flushing.
“Yeah. Over and over.”
I run a thumb under the elastic of my sweatpants. “You need anything? Water? More pain pills?”
She shakes her head. “I’m good, thanks.” Hesitant at first, her body relaxes as she settles down on my bed again. “Sorry that I woke you.”
“I’ll survive.” I smile at her as I turn to leave.
I collapse on the sofa, elbows on my knees as I put my hands in my face.
Her scent is all over my hands.
Which is fucking impossible, because none of that shit just happened.
I gave her ibuprofen, not a tranquilizer. I never licked her wounds. I tucked her in and came to sleep on the couch.
The whiskey knocked me out, and I had another sleepwalking episode. They’ve plagued me since childhood, a simple trauma response that went hand-in-hand with night terrors that would have me screaming until my voice gave out.
I woke up before I touched her.
Everything before that happened in my sick, twisted mind.
Just another perverted fantasy that I was thankfully ripped out of before I could come.
The scent lingering on my fingers came from her underwear when I wrapped it around my knuckles. The dampness could be sweat. The taste of copper on my tongue could be my own blood, drawn from the ragged inner lining of my lip.
“Jesus,” I whisper, clapping a hand over my racing heart. Thank God she was too disoriented to notice the fucking tent in my sweatpants.
I fall back on the sofa, drag my fingers over my nose, lips, and chin, and tug my cock out of my pants so I can jerk off to a visceral replay of the things I just fantasized doing to that sweet girl.
The fact that she could walk out of my room, that she could catch me in the act, only makes me come that much harder.
I refuse to be robbed of such a glorious climax.
Sometimes, release helps with the compulsive thoughts.
With the obsession.
Except when it adds fuel to the cruel fire burning inside me.
Spent, I try to force myself to sleep, but they don’t call it post-nut clarity for nothing. I stand, padding silently to the bedroom and willing myself not to look at Haven as I walk into my bathroom.
