Shivering, I obey his order. My tits come into view and he breathes deeply. “Lift your skirt up to your waist.”
I do that too, squirming, revealing my naked pussy and my tattoo. This time his breath splinters as he takes it in. He circles my tattoo with his knuckles, jerking the flesh of my stomach. With both his hands, he spreads my thighs, his thumb rubbing my soft skin, grazing my pussy lips and the fragile flesh around it. I move restlessly, bucking my hips at his touch, making my heavy tits jiggle.
Thomas is aroused by the sight. He loves seeing my breasts shake, so I do it over and over, bucking, writhing, stoking his lust. It’s turning me on too, even though a part of me weeps at this. I want him to talk to me. I don’t want to be a distraction or a fake Cinderella. I want to be the real deal. It scares me so much that I forget to breathe.
It’s not the first time I’m thinking this, and I don’t know how to stop.
The air comes rushing back when Thomas retrieves a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He takes one out, pops it in his mouth, and lights it up.
His nostrils flare and my mouth dries out when his entire hand grabs my pussy and squeezes. It’s such a vulgar gesture, vulgar and owning and possessive and…erotic.
With his other hand, he takes the cigarette out of his mouth and sends the smoke spiraling up. His hand on my pussy moves, and I almost shriek when he inserts two fingers inside and curls them up.
I reach my arms out to hold on to a part of him but he shakes his head. “Grab the edge of the desk.”
Swallowing, I do, and I watch him take another drag while playing with my core. He bends at the waist and hovers over my breasts, his cheeks hollowed out, the cigarette stuck between his lips.
“Th-Thomas?” I’m scared. The burning end of the stick is too close to my body. It looms over my left breast, my heart. Is he…Is he going to mark me with it?
He lifts his eyes at me, holds the stare. Something shifts in them, something dangerous, and I struggle beneath him, afraid. Then he takes the cigarette out and blows hot smoke over my tits before he latches on to my nipple and sucks. My hips buck, lodging his fingers deeper.
Moaning, I open my legs wider. My dangling feet come up on the desk, my heels digging into the edge.
“You were saying…” he rumbles over my quivering flesh, sending a frenzy of arousal everywhere in my body.
“What?” Tilting my head, I ask the dark-haired head currently bent over my breasts.
Thomas pinches my clit as he looks up, an arrogant brow arched. “You were saying something that you know, about something that’s obvious.”
My head falls back down, defeated, maybe even in anger. I don’t want to be his fuck doll anymore.
Thomas notices the tightness in my body and blows another mouthful of smoke on my other breast, before plumping it up and sucking on the nipple. Despite myself, my pussy shoots out thick strands of arousal.
“You’re so fucking wet, Layla.” Thomas groans into my skin. “You’re always so smooth and wet and hot. I like to think you keep it that way for me. You keep your pussy warm for me, don’t you? You sleep with your hand tucked between your legs, cupping your cunt so it stays warm and toasty for when I fuck it.”
My legs come around his back as I writhe beneath him, loving this, hating myself, hating him for doing this to me. “I’ve seen you in class, Thomas. I’ve seen you…looking at them wh-when they talk about writing. I have seen how you talk about writing and art and how talented you are. I’ve seen the longing on your face. You want what they have and it-it breaks my heart,” I whisper, tears rolling down my cheeks. “I want you to write so you can talk. You have to talk, Thomas. No one can live like this.”
A shudder goes through him at my words and his forehead drops to my breastbone. I sink my fingers in his gorgeous, lush hair and clutch him to me, in longing, in tenderness. Maybe I did make a difference just now.
But then he stands up, flicks his finished cigarette away. Crazily, I think that it’s going to leave a mark on the carpet. He takes his cock out of his jeans. It’s hard and angry and red—just like him. I know he’s going to use it to punish me.
Yes, punish me for being selfish enough to want more, to want to talk.
I deserve it. I’m beginning to think I’m the worst harlot ever.
I tip up my chin and open my legs, ready for him. Thomas clenches his jaw and in one stroke, jams his cock inside me. I nearly come off the desk, my nails skating along the hard wood. Gasping, I go back down and grab the edge to brace myself, because in the next second, I’m in danger of flying off and crashing to the ground.
His slams are punishing. Brutal. Borderline violent. My teeth chatter with every stroke. My breasts heave and rebound. His grip on my thighs is going to leave marks, I know it, but most of all, it’s the obvious pain of his hip bone hitting the desk that jars me. He is punishing himself as much as he’s punishing me.
But, no matter what, no matter how brutal or violent he becomes, he never fails to make every fucking cell in my body sing. He never fails to send my pulse hurtling. I want to melt into his violence. I want to dissolve myself in the moment so he can absorb me in his body and find some peace.
His eyes are narrowed to slits, his jaw clamped as he presses his palm on my lower abdomen, increasing the pressure on my organs. My head lolls, insanity washing over me. I want to tell him to stop but I won’t. I’ll take it.
The slapslapslap of our flesh is interlaced with the slurping, wet sounds of my pussy. The sloppiness of my core makes me blush all over. As if that’s not enough, he looms over me, bringing my thighs to his shoulders, deepening his thrusts.
He frames my face with his hands so I have nowhere to look but him. “Do you hear those sounds, Layla?” he whispers thickly. “That’s me talking to your pussy.” Then he changes angles, holds himself inside me, rotating his hips, bucking up and down, hitting me in just the right spot. In turn, I hear the sloppy gurgling of my core, a slightly different tone than the previous sounds, wetter and angrier.
“And that’s your pussy telling me she likes it, saying she loves to feel me inside her.” He stops grinding at that and starts ramming with a savage force that doesn’t let either of us breathe. Sweat drips from his forehead, plopping onto mine. “That’s all the talking we need to do. That’s all the fucking talking we ever need to do.”
He fits his face in the crook of my neck and bites my skin, launching my climax through my body. My hips arch up and become rigid in the air, the muscles of my thighs locking around his shoulders. My loss of control brings out his own and before I can blink, he whips out his cock and comes on my stomach, groaning.
In a fog, I realize he forgot the condom. He never forgets it. He’s always so careful. He never discards his cigarette on the carpet. He never litters. Never. Never. Never.