He tenses up, clearly angry. “Stop asking for that. You won’t like what happens.”
That again. “You don’t know what I like,” I cry. “You don’t.”
I think that’s a lie. We both know it. The way he just played my body, his tongue against my clit, proves he knows exactly what I like. The way I came, so hard my body almost broke under the strain, proves it too.
He laughs, an almost metallic sound. “You want me to take my clothes off.”
My voice is shaky. “Yes.”
“You want me to strip for you?”
“Yes.” Stronger now.
A knowing expression lights his pale eyes as his hands go to his lapels. He looks dangerous like this, almost insane with it. It makes me scared for what I’ll see underneath. I never thought his clothes were anything more than a wall between us. I never even realized they might be armor, the same way ruffles and glitter have been for me.
He takes off the jacket in rough, careless movements. It drops to the floor in a whisper of expensive fabric. The shirt comes next, one button at a time. His eyes never leave mine. There’s challenge in them. He expects me to balk. But why?
When all the buttons are undone, he opens each cuff. Then he shrugs off the shirt.
It joins the jacket on the floor, but I can’t focus on that. Not with his chest bared to me.
Not with the scars.
They steal my breath away. There are too many scars to count, a patchwork quilt of pain. A lifetime of war and abuse. Some of the girls at the Grand came from rough backgrounds. Some of the customers too. So I recognize the small, circular marks as cigarette burns. They are old and faded and poignant. Crisscrossing them are slashes—knife wounds? Not straight enough for that. Maybe the torn edge of a beer can. Or the jagged blade of a broken bottle.
He hasn’t stopped moving under my perusal. He takes off his belt buckle and pushes down his pants, then his boxer briefs, too proud to flinch when I
see what’s underneath. I flinch though, and let out a sound of pure, undiluted horror.
The scars don’t stop at his waist. They continue down, over lean hips and muscular thighs. Cuts and burns and dark, disfigured patches where I don’t even know what happened. It’s such a contrast to his smooth, cultured appearance in his bespoke suits that my mind can’t really comprehend what I’m seeing. This is more than fistfights. More even than the gun and knife warfare of criminals. This is torture. Long-term torture from many years ago.
When he could have only been a child.
My eyes fill with tears. “Oh God, Ivan.”
“No,” he says roughly. “You wanted to see this. A monster fucking you.”
“Daddy—”
He covers my mouth with his hand, cutting off my plea.
Then his cock is pushing into me, spearing me slowly but inexorably. My muscles flutter and clench against the invasion. It hurts just as much the second time—more, somehow. I feel my eyes go wide and then fill with tears. My body jerks against his weight, fighting him, completely involuntary as I push him away.
I don’t mean to fight though. As much as it hurts. As much as it burns. I wouldn’t say a single word to stop him from doing this. Not after seeing what pain he’s endured. This can never be worse than that.
His hand remains over my mouth as he presses in to the hilt. The black hair at his base feels foreign against my bare pussy, scratchy against oversensitized skin. I’m dizzy with being this full, almost light-headed. I think his hand is blocking some of my air too, and I have to move. I don’t mean to fight him, but my body does it for me, jerking against him, trying to squirm away and buck him off. I fight his hand too, pulling at it, trying to get more air. No matter how much I struggle, it doesn’t work. He’s too strong like this. Too determined. Too cruel.
A monster fucking you.
That’s what he called himself, a monster. And that’s how he seems. Not because of the scars I can see moving over me in a blur. Because of the light in his eyes, the one that says he’ll make this hurt. It’s a promise he makes, a promise he keeps as he pulls back and then plunges in again. There’s no time to adjust to his size; he just starts fucking me. Pounding me. The pain overwhelms me, and I feel tears stream down the sides of my face, shockingly cool against the heat of my body.
I struggle in earnest now, using all my strength to push him off me. Because it’s terrifying to see him this way, because it hurts worse than anything. Because I think he wants me to fight. I can almost hear his voice in my head. That’s what monsters do to pretty little girls.
And pretty little girls are expected to fight.
I yank and pull at his arm, trying to dislodge it. I twist my hips, fighting to close my legs. None of it moves him. I’m trapped by his hand and his cock. Trapped by the relentless pain.
He could end this quickly.