Page 78 of The Misfits
When I inch back so I can backhand Megan’s clit, she exhales the breath she’s holding in. I can see her wish to scream all over her face. It is as desperate as the throbs of her clit, but for some reason, she remains as silent as a church mouse.
“You won’t keep them from me anymore, Megan. I want to hear you scream.” I adjust her position so her cunt is displayed directly in front of me. “And you’ll do it in between breathless murmurs of my name.” I circle her clit with my thumb before slipping two fingers inside her. She clenches around me and once again holds her breath, but within a couple of pumps, the whimpers she can’t hold back turn into moans, then they eventually heighten to gruff words. “Louder.”
“Ahh…” she meows before her eyes roll into her head. She grunts, sweats, then tremors. I have her on the brink, right on the fucking edge of hysteria, then I drag her back from the pit of hell by stabbing my nails into the D on the edge of her stomach.
“Say it.”
I pump my fingers in and out of her in rhythm to the rocks of her hips. It’s a cruel, deranged finger-fuck that sees her tiny body scoot up the mattress further with every hard thrust of my fingers. Shivers of pleasure rip through her. She shudders, moans, and slicks my palms with her arousal, but doesn’t give up the one thing I’m craving even more than the taste of her blood.
“Say it!”
When Megan’s head squashes into the headboard, I push down on the lower half of her stomach, curl my fingers upward, then lock my eyes with her sweaty face. As I milk every drop of cum from her body, she screams in hysteria. She’s dripping from every orifice and almost incoherent, but it isn’t enough.
I want more.
I need more.
I must hear her scream my name.
“Fucking say it!”
Another orgasm rolls through her when I bombard her clit with a heap of attention. I suck the nervy bud into my mouth, graze it with my teeth, then swivel it with my tongue.
Angered about her continued denial, I’m about to bite it off, but before my teeth are halfway exposed, the most lyrically composed ballad fills my ears, “M-m-more, Dexter. M-more. P-please.”
As a groan of a satisfied man rumbles in my chest, I scissor the two fingers inside her in preparation to give the ultimate ‘more’ she’s requesting.
“Open up wide. I want to fit all the way in without needing to take my eyes off your stomach.”
Megan clamps her hands around her thighs and pulls them back. For someone who would have been forced to forgo any sporting activities to ensure her hymen remained intact, her flexibility is outstanding. I can wedge my large frame between her legs without hindrance, then, even quicker than that, I’m notching my cock into her weeping pussy.
“Arch up. Let some of that blood roll between your tits.” After grazing her lower lip with her teeth, Megan bows her back as demanded. The crazy in her eyes ramps up when the blood from her newly crafted X rolls between the gully of her bouncing breasts. “Do you want to taste yourself?”
She nods before scooping up a little droplet of blood on her index finger and careening it toward her mouth.
“Wait.”
Her finger suspends midair. Since her obedience greatly pleases me, I’m extra generous with the amount of cum I coat my finger with.
Once my index finger is drenched with evidence of Megan’s multiple orgasms, I curl my hand over hers then stuff our fingers into her mouth. The vibration of her moan on the tip of my finger almost sets me off. I can taste her on my lips, her climax streaked with her blood is dancing on my taste buds, and I love that she’s as obsessed with her taste as she is me.
It means occasions like this will occur more often, and I’d be a liar if I said I wouldn’t let her kill me for that.
twenty-seven
MEGAN
“And that one? How’d you get that one?” The cramps in my tummy appear nowhere near as bad when Dexter treks his finger down a tiny scar at the side of my nose. We’ve been comparing battle wounds for the past two hours. To begin with, I was angry we didn’t even reach the halfway point an hour into our game, but the longer we play, the more I realize hiding who you are will never end well.
It also taught me that medication wasn’t my crutch. It was a cloak. A sedative. A mask I was forced to hide behind. It didn’t allow me to be me. It wanted me to conform to what society classes as acceptable.
That isn’t me.
We aren’t all cut from the same cloth.
Some of us are special.
Dexter is living proof of this.
