Page 72 of Caged
His insincere chuckle puffs against my skin. “I’m your career, baby.”
Kieren straightens and jerks my chair backward. He spins the seat around until my face is level with his groin. He tilts my chin upward and smirks down at me with hazy, dilated pupils.
“How high are you?” I scowl.
“Don’t you worry about me, Monroe,” he slurs. “The only drug I’m on is you.”
He staggers over to the bed and plops down. I watch him yank off one boot and then another before succumbing to his stupor. His tight black T-shirt ripples across his pectoral muscles as he rests a forearm across his eyes. Convinced he’s seconds from passing out, I swivel around and scoot myself toward the wooden desk to finish my work.
“Get over here and sit on my face,” he barks. I give him a skeptical side eye even though his eyes are closed and I know he can’t see me.
“It’s not a fucking request,” he snaps. “You have five seconds to take your pants off and sit your pussy on my fucking mouth.”
Annoyed, I abandon my homework. He’s clearly drunk and high, but I don’t feel like dealing with his bullshit, so I choose the path of least resistance.
The pillow behind his head dips as I place a knee on either side of his face. His hands climb up my outer thighs, landing on my hips, but his eyes remain listlessly shut, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to enjoy this when he’s barely conscious.
His hands grip my skin, tugging me toward him until my center is flush with his lips. A hushed, broken moan escapes my throat as his hot, wet tongue spears my entrance. I lean forward and place my hand against the wall for support, a movement that apparently displeases Kieren because he growls an objection and pulls me closer.
Nails dig into my flesh as his tongue glides up my slit. I squirm at the sensation, unable to relax, unable to stop my mind from cycling through the myriad of information I learned today.
“Sit still,” he rumbles. His words might be muffled by a mouthful of pussy, but his reprimand is clear. I force myself to breathe and let my weight settle on his face. Satisfied with my acquiescence, he envelops my clit with his mouth, working the sensitive nerves with even pressure from his broad tongue. The inner walls of my pussy throb with the steady force of his suction as my orgasm builds.
My breasts rise and fall with hitched pants as my release begins to coil. I’m infuriatingly close but not close enough. If only I could quiet my fucking thoughts. I pull one of his hands to my breast and with my hand on top of his, knead the soft flesh until my nipple hardens. I curl his fingers into a human version of a clamp. The ache inside me, the need to feel more than just his mouth, throbs.
“Please Kieren, I need more,” I beg.
My lips unleash a guttural cry of gratitude when his wherewithal returns, and his two fingers squeeze the hard budof my nipple until it hurts. With my help, he holds them in place as I grind my clit against his mouth while administering my own pain play. Kieren’s hands are practically inanimate props at this point, which I try not to think about as I work myself closer and closer to the edge.
“Kieren,” I moan. His name spills from my tongue once, twice, and as I cry out to him for a third time, my quiver reaches a crescendo, and finally, my pussy pulses with release.
Time reenters my mind-space as I slow my breath, and a dirty, uncomfortable feeling steals my post-orgasm endorphins. In careful, steady movements, I lift myself from his face, crawling down the length of his torso. His cheeks are coated with my arousal, slick and glistening in the dull light of the bedroom. His lips are slightly parted, eyes closed, unconscious like he’s in a dream state. As if I needed more confirmation, I shimmy further away until my knees are between his legs. Unzipping his pants, the sight of his heartbreakingly limp dick makes my throat clench.
Tears flood my eyes, and my brain can’t decide which part of this situation hurts the most. Is it that my presumed boyfriend is so drunk and high that he passed out while pleasuring me, or is it that I continued to take from him anyway, shamelessly grinding myself against him, using him like a toy to find my pleasure?
Or, is it that my boyfriend is so disgusted and bored with me that he has to get ripped out of his mind to stomach intimacy? Because, of course. Of course, this would happen.
Because I’m not worth it, am I? Because girls like me don’t get the prince. Girls like me will never be enough.
We aren’t the ones who are picked to be loved.
This is my reality. It’s the truth I’ve always known, regardless of how many lies I tell myself. I’m the one who never wins. I’m the trashy knockoff of the real thing.
I am the greedy little no one, deserver of nothing.
33
MONROE
Five Months Prior to Present Day,
Friday Before Spring Break,
Junior Year,
Sigma
Open the door, open the door, open the door, open the door…
