Page 38 of Psychotic Faith
It should sound degrading, but instead it feels like a promise, an invocation. I nod, mute, too gone for language.
He lifts me again, this time holding me suspended, my legs around his hips, tip of his cock bumping against me. He pauses, forehead pressed to mine, and for a second I think he’s going to say something gentle. He doesn't. He slams into me with one brutal thrust, and the pain is a white-hot line through my core, so sharp it almost feels good. I gasp, tears springing to my eyes,but after a second the pain breaks and pleasure floods in behind it.
My teeth find his throat as he thrusts into me again, biting hard enough to mark, to claim. He groans, his cock twitching inside me.
"Harder," he demands, and I bite until I taste copper, until he'll wear my mark for weeks.
He fucks me hard, fast, desperate, each thrust a punctuation mark, his hips pistoning into me until the couch groans and the wall behind it thuds in rhythm. My body is completely at his mercy, and I realize that's what I wanted all along: to not have to decide, to surrender to someone who won't let go, no matter how dark it gets.
"Fuck," he growls, hands bruising my hips. "You feel made for this. Made for me."
His pelvis grinds against my clit every time he bottoms out, and soon I'm on the cliff's edge again. I don't want to come, not this soon, but he knows exactly what he's doing. He leans in, teeth on my neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark, and the shock of it sends me over. I convulse around him, whole body arching, and he rides me through it, relentless.
As soon as I come down, his hand is on my throat again, squeezing just enough to make the air thin and the world go sparkly at the edges. He pounds into me, faster, losing the last of his control, and I hear him snarl as he comes, flooding me, cock pulsing inside until the pressure is too much and he collapses on top of me.
After, he doesn't move. Just lies there, chest heaving against mine, sweat gluing us together, his hand still gently resting on my throat. For a long moment, the only sound is our breathing, ragged and in sync.
He finally pulls out, slow and deliberate, and sets me gently on the couch. I feel his cum leaking out, running down mythigh, and the humiliation of it is so complete it loops back into a kind of pride. My body is a crime scene, and the evidence is everywhere.
He kneels in front of me, hands on my knees, pushing them apart to inspect the damage. His eyes, so cold and calculating before, soften at the sight of what he's done to me. He leans in and licks me again, cleaning me with slow, reverent strokes, as if trying to erase the violence of what just happened. Or maybe to etch it even deeper.
When he's satisfied, he sits next to me, silent, watching the rise and fall of my breathing. My legs are still trembling. I can't meet his gaze.
"You okay?" he asks, voice stripped of bravado, almost tender.
I nod, but I don't know if it's true. My body is ringing, every nerve ending in open revolt, but the thing that scares me most is the hollow absence of regret.
He lets me sit in silence, waiting for my brain to reboot. When I finally look up, he's staring at me like I'm the answer to a question he never dared ask.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. No words. No accusations. Just the sick, sweet knowledge that I've crossed a line I can never uncross.
He sees it on my face, the confusion and acceptance, and he smiles—not the demonic grin, but something almost human.
We stay joined for a moment, both breathing hard, sweat cooling on our skin. Then he pulls out slowly, turning me to face him. His pale eyes study my face, looking for regret. He finds confusion instead.
"That was…" I start, but there are no words for what just happened. For what I've let happen.
He kisses me, softer this time but still possessive. "That was the beginning."
We move to my bedroom eventually, but we don't sleep. He takes me again, slower this time but no less intense, mapping every inch of my body with his hands and mouth. I discover I can make him lose control completely when I take him in my mouth, learn the exact pressure that makes him groan my name like a prayer. I focus on the physical, on the power, not on what it means that I'm doing this with him.
When he's inside me the third time, with my legs over his shoulders and his eyes locked on mine, something breaks loose, some truth I can't keep buried: "I want to watch him die."
He stills for a moment, studying my face. "Neumann?"
"Yes." The admission terrifies me even as I pull him deeper. "I don't just want him dead. I want to watch it happen. But that's wrong. That makes me…"
"Faith…" But he's moving again, harder now, spurred by my confession.
"I've dreamed about it," I continue, horrified at myself even as the words pour out. "Different ways. Different tools. Sometimes I'm the one holding the knife. But those are just dreams. Just trauma. I'm not actually…"
"Christ," he groans, his rhythm becoming erratic. "You perfect, terrible thing."
We come together this time, my confession of murderous intent pushing us both over the edge. After, I curl away from him, horrified at what I've admitted.
Hours later, dawn creeps through my windows, painting everything in pale gold. I stare at the ceiling, feeling different. Feeling rotten.
"What am I now?" I ask the ceiling, genuine fear in my voice.
