King Maker (King Maker 3)

This was a far cry from our tryst yesterday. There was no tenderness to his punishing strokes. There was a jolt of pain with every thrust as he tapped the end of me. I couldn’t process the pleasure from the pain. It was intense, especially when he left my bra to rub against the bottom of my sensitive nipple from his continued assaults on my senses.

“If you wanted to be fucked, all you had to do was ask. You didn’t have to rub up against some bawbag who wouldn’t know a clit from a G-spot.”

To illustrate, his next stroke made my bundle of nerves bang against the lip of the counter. “That, lass, is your clit.” In the mirror, I watched him roll his hips as I squeaked from the extreme feeling. “And that, Miss Glicks, is your G-spot.” The man was a sex god. I was ready to bow down and kneel at his feet.

“If you need a fuck buddy, I can handle the job.”

Before I could feel the sting of shame from his words, he managed to hit both pleasure spots internally and externally at the same time while he jackhammered in and out of me. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to walk out on my own when he was finished.

He leaned down, continuing to pump while he whispered in my ear, “I’m the only one that knows just how you like it.” He kissed and sucked at the tender flesh of my neck before he rose up again. I didn’t think I could take any more sensations with his hand still fisting in my hair, forcing me to watch myself get fucked from behind.

“You’re ready, aren’t you?” he said in a guttural voice. He was getting close. Just like he knew me, I knew him as well.

In the mirror, I caught sight of a lost clown who got stuck in a downpour. It sucked that it was my own reflection. My makeup was smeared. A path of mascara that defied its waterproof name tracked with the tears I didn’t know had fallen. My lipstick was a one way line from my lips almost to my right ear. I certainly didn’t look sexy, yet the orgasm that was ready to blow said I felt otherwise.

“I can feel your cunt tightening around me. Come for me.”

I wanted that explosion below despite the state I was in. I swallowed a scream that I held in my throat, wanting to hold on to some dignity. Proving me wrong, he bucked against my G-spot and the screech I tried to hold in, released. With my head still jerked back, I saw the smug expression on his face. I closed my eyes and rode out the pleasure.

When he finally pulled out, having achieved his own release, I stumbled forward after he let go of my hair. Weak from pleasure and still somewhat inebriated, I managed to turn without falling. I had a strong need to slap him. My arms flailed around in an attempt to make contact. “Bastard,” I cursed.

“Some call me that.” Faster and more in control, he avoided my lame attempts to hit him. Instead, he laughed at me. “You should clean that up,” he said while tucking himself back into his pants.

Pointedly, his eyes first took in the state of my face. Then I followed his gaze to the wetness I felt beginning to drip from my center. My eyes burned and not with tears. Rage. His chuckles were the last thing I heard as he let himself out of the bathroom. That was further evidence this was different than the night before. Then, he’d taken the time to tenderly straighten my clothes. Today, not so much.

I finally understood the meaning of a word. I had been thoroughly and uttered fucked.

Turning in the mirror, I stood in horror. I’d seen my destroyed makeup. I expected my dress to be bunched around my waist. I’d spied his cum dripping down my leg before realizing he hadn’t used a condom. But what pissed me off was that the fucker had marked me. Like a freaking teenager, I had a hickey on my neck.

Furious, I squirted liquid soap onto my hands and mixed it with warm water. I washed my face in what was probably a no-no by every dermatologist ever. I scrubbed hard as I not only tried to wash away the makeup but also my broken feelings.

Maybe I deserved this? I’d hurt him by choosing Turner. He obviously hadn’t understood that I’d made a mistake with my confession yesterday that I lied about that. Did I really expect him to forgive and forget? Did I really expect him to?

He was a proud guy, and according to his mother had been through a lot. Hadn’t everyone, including himself, told me he loved me? And what did I do? I spat on his love and let him believe I’d given mine to another man. And instead of having one of them, I had neither.