Force (The Disciples 5)

A giant man is killing a woman. I knew it. I inch forward. The way she’s naked and limp in his arms makes me think I’m too late.

Bile crawls up my esophagus, but I stop short of heaving. I need to get close enough to see the monster’s face. If I can at least identify the man, I can tell the police.

“You want to come? You think you’ve earned it?” the voice growls. This time I do gasp as the woman who’s supposed to be dead moans and opens her eyes.

Oh my God.

He’s not killing her.

At least not like I thought.

I can’t breathe, can’t move. My whole body seems feverish and sensitive as I watch this man, this fucking beast who dominates this woman… and she likes it, if her loud chanting of “Yes, I’ll do anything” is any indication. His hands, so rough and covered in tattoos, stroke her, pinch her.

Wait. What’s happening? I need to go, back up and leave. This is a private moment. What if they see me?

I’ll die of embarrassment.

Instead, I inch forward. Clearly, I’m deranged because I need to see his face. Only once. I’ll leave if he’ll just look up.

The woman moans, digging her nails into his tattooed forearms. It’s like he’s a giant dark lord, a vampire whose dark hair covers his face. One hand’s wrapped around her throat while the other one… the other hand is roughly rubbing her. He kicks her legs wider apart.

I blink, only because my eyes are getting teary while I stay focused on him and the way his fingers are roughly going in and out of her. I’ve never imagined anything like this, never felt anything like that. The only time I’ve seen sex is when I would sneak onto my older brother’s computer since I knew he downloaded porn.

But that was stupid and not realistic, nothing like this.

This is… my face heats up when I hear him praise her. My pussy pulses with each filthy thing he says. Mortified, completely ashamed, yet I can’t stop myself.

No one will ever know. My eyes remain focused on him while I pull my dress up enough to touch myself.

I moan. I can’t help it. I’m so wet and swollen. Thank God they can’t hear me. The woman is loud, and I guess she’s coming. She throws her head back as if begging his lips to touch hers. Her large breasts are flushed. And all I can think of is what those rough hands would feel like on me, inside me… This is wrong, so bad, and yet I can’t stop watching this man.

My core clenches, and I bite my lip to keep quiet. It feels so good. It can’t be wrong if it feels this good, right?

He pushes her head down and she instantly drops to her knees, waiting for him to tell her what to do. His large, tan hands unbutton his jeans. I’m almost frantic in my masturbating. I need to come and get out of here. Run. Something must be wrong with me. Why would watching him be so arousing?

It’s this man. He looks like a mythical warrior. Strike that. He looks like… Khal Drogo from Game of Thrones. My breathing picks up as I try to move my head. That stupid woman is blocking my view of his…

“Move,” I mumble. My other hand digs into the dirt because I’m close, so close.

I blink. It’s as if he knows that I want to see him, need to see him. He pushes the woman back so my view is not obstructed.

Oh. My. God. He’s huge. My fingers tingle as I rub my clit hard; a small woosh escapes my lips. He grabs his velvety, hard cock and starts to stroke it up and down.

“That’s a good girl. You sit and watch,” he grunts, and for a split second, I think he’s talking to me. But that’s absurd; he’s not. And it doesn’t matter anyway because I’m gone. All rational thought evaporates as I watch him while I come. Hard, fast, wave after wave of pleasure spirals through me as my pussy contracts and pulses.

I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from whimpering at how good it feels. Jesus, I’m dizzy. Off balance. I’ve never had an orgasm like this ever. Sitting back on my heels, trying to steady my breath and myself, I watch his hand jerk his thick cock.

This man will forever be my fantasy, a beast who made me come with only his voice. A secret that will stay with me. I’ll take this to my grave—the one time I let myself go and did something so forbidden, so bad, no one would believe me even if I did tell.

You can’t be ashamed of something if only you know about it, right? My brain tries to rationalize it despite my guilty conscience. Watching him, I take in his strong arms covered in tattoos. They seem to grow larger when he arches his neck, allowing me to see his thick, pulsing veins. My tongue tingles. What I wouldn’t give to trace that strong vein up to his jaw and then to his lips. Would they be soft? Or rough like the rest of him?