Page 39 of Breaking Ophelia
I bare my teeth, but I don’t fight. Instead, I open my mouth and let him push the tip in. He doesn’t wait for me to adjust—he just shoves deeper, the head hitting my tongue, the shaft filling my mouth until I gag. He lets go of my hair, but I know better than to pull away.
He moves with slow, grinding thrusts, each one a fraction deeper, like he’s measuring how much I can take. The taste is salt and skin, warm at the back of my throat.
I want to hate it.
But I’m soaked through my fucking underwear. I clench my fists, trying not to give him the satisfaction, but it’s impossible. My body is a traitor, every nerve ending lit up, my pussy aching, arousal pooling between my thighs.
He watches me, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth open just enough to show teeth. “You look so good like this,” he says, voice raw. “You should always be on your knees.”
I pull back, letting his cock slip from my lips, saliva glistening on the head. “You’re a fucking pig.”
He laughs, the sound harsh and bright. “And you’re addicted to it.” He grabs the back of my neck, pressing me forward again. “Open.”
This time, I do it willingly. I take him in as deep as I can, breathing through my nose, letting him use me. He rocks his hips, slow at first, then faster. His fingers dig into my skull, holding me in place as he fucks my face.
I reach up, hands on his thighs, nails digging in. He doesn’t flinch. He just thrusts harder, the base of his cock slapping my lips, the head battering the entrance to my throat.
I gag again, tears springing to my eyes, but I don’t stop.
He moans, a low, shuddering sound. “Fuck, yes. That’s it. That’s my girl.”
My jaw aches, tongue raw from the friction, and the taste of him is a permanent fixture at the back of my throat. There’s no one here—just the steady thud of music from below, and his hand pressed to the wall as he steadies himself, breathing in short, sharp stabs.
My hands shake. Not with fear, but with something worse: a need I can’t wash out, not even with a fistful of soap and a bucket of bleach. My panties are soaked, every nerve ending throbbing. It’s obscene.
“You want more?” he says, voice shredded.
I don’t answer, but my thighs grind together on instinct.
He laughs, the sound a wreck. “That’s what I thought.”
He pauses and stares down at me, one hand on my jaw, the other pulling at the knot in my hair. The bun unravels, and he threads his fingers through the strands, gripping at the base. He slides his cock back out, the tip swollen and glistening. He drags it along my cheek, painting lines I’ll never scrub off.
He tilts my chin, making me look up. “Open.”
I do. He feeds it to me, slow this time, letting me savor the drag of skin over tongue, the blunt weight of him filling my mouth. He’s watching for a reaction, but I keep my eyes on his, ignoring the need building through me.
He doesn’t like that. He grips my chin, and fucks my mouth harder, each thrust a little deeper, a little rougher. My lips swell, my jaw stretches to accommodate, and my nose smashes against the hard ridge of his pelvis. He groans, low and guttural, and the sound is a hook in my gut.
The wet heat between my legs is unbearable. I rock my hips, hoping for relief, but it only makes it worse. I want to reach down, to touch myself, but that means he won and I can’t let him see what he does to me.
He pulls out, lets me gasp for air, then shoves back in, setting a brutal pace. “Fuck,” he says, voice tight, “you were born for this.”
I choke on him, spit leaking down my chin, and he smiles. “Look at you, drooling on my cock.”
I hate him, I hate him, I hate—
My moan vibrates against his shaft, and he feels it.
His eyes go wide, then predatory. “Touch yourself,” he commands.
I hesitate. He yanks my hair, hard. “Now, or I’ll bend you over and fuck your ass dry.”
The threat is real, and my body obeys before my brain can protest. I slide my hand under my skirt, push the soaked fabric aside, and find my clit, hard and swollen and desperate for attention.
“Good girl,” he rasps. “Show me how much you want it.”
I work my fingers in tight, brutal circles, the pleasure immediate and explosive. He slows his pace, letting me savor the fullness, the stretch, the humiliation. My breath hitches, and my thighs tremble.
