home | jimmy crystal x fem!reader
🪟 jimmy crystal x you (fem!reader) 🪟 nsfw 18+ 🪟 dead dove: do not eat (rape/non-con elements) 🪟 contents: p in v sex, rough sex, creampie, mating press, sadomasochism, face slapping, spit swallowing, hair pulling, squirting, riding, fucked stupid/fucked compliant, a smattering of orgasm denial 🪟‼️warnings‼️: rape/non-con, physical violence (nonconsensual, in both sexual and non-sexual contexts), victim blaming, sexual coercion, Jimmy Is Mean, Reader Cries A Lot 🪟 13.9k+ words 🪟 read on ao3: link
🪟 summary: Following your act of payment, Jimmy takes you home with him–a pretty, kept thing. Unwilling to accept your circumstances, you lash out in anger and rebellion. Jimmy corrects you.
🪟 a/n: Helloooo, everyone, and welcome to the second part of my AU Jimmy series! This fic is a direct continuation of dette, which you can read here. I am so, so sorry it took nearly three months. It will almost certainly happen again 🧍🏽♀️
HUGE thanks to @senselessviolets for beta reading and always having the most incredible feedback, and another HUGE thanks to @scannainscanrula for beta reading and making this lovely banner for me!! Y'all are too kind to me 😭
Anyway, without further ado. I sincerely hope everyone finds this worth the wait!
You’re awoken by the strangest shift in your body–you think at first that you’ve somehow ended up on the very edge of your bed, and are now primed to tip to the floor. You jerk back instinctually, your bedding soft against you, but shockingly hot and firm. Your eyes open to check for the time and you are at first puzzled by what you see–not the familiar contours of you and David’s bedroom, nor the soft red glow of your alarm clock, but rather the flat, black planes of a dashboard, the bright LEDs of its components searing your bleary eyes.
You’re looking at the inside of a car. The shift that woke you was the vehicle coming to a stop. You blink away from the harsh LED light, your gaze drifting upwards to the windshield–and that’s when you see the house.
Though house truly seems too tame a word–it must be a mansion, large and sprawling as it is. Warm golden light spills from its many windows, and in the darkness surrounding it you can make out hints of paved walkways, tall bushes, even a large fountain–beautiful landscaping befitting such a home.
You hear the muted sound of a door opening–multiple doors opening–and the dark interior of the vehicle is suddenly flooded with overhead light. You squeeze your eyes back shut–less in protest of the light, and more because the events of the night are flooding back.
You, bound and dragged forward like a sacrifice. David, tied to a chair and battered bloody. And that man. Jimmy. What he did to you.
What your sleep-addled mind thought was bedding is just him. The chest you lay against and the arms wrapped around you are solid and unyielding, the combined warmth of his body and the velour of his tracksuit turning him hot as a furnace. You’re acutely aware of the hard heat of his thighs beneath you, the steady rise and fall of his chest against your body, the warmth of his breath against your neck.
You force yourself not to tense—let him think you’re still asleep. It’s not as if you want to be awake.
From beneath your eyelids you see the interior of the car darken as the doors are slammed shut. They brighten once more, and you feel a gust of frigid air as Jimmy’s door is opened for him.
“Thank you, Snakey,” you hear him say, the vibrations of his voice in his chest seeping into your own body. His tone is light and cheerful—happy, as if he couldn’t want for anything more in the world. Your stomach twists in disgust at the sound.
Jimmy climbs out of the car, his grip on you never faltering. The artificial warmth of the vehicle is replaced by a flat chill, the night air nipping at your exposed ankles and bare feet.
Once outside you can hear the soft murmuring of overlapping voices, occasionally punctuated by a burst of laughter—Jimmy’s sidekicks, talking amongst themselves. You hear the doors of the SUV opening and closing, and then the soft hum of it driving off. There are less voices after that.
“Inky,” Jimmy calls, a rumble beneath your ear. It takes you a moment to recall which one he’s referencing—one of the young women, the one with the thin smile, red all over. You hear her come closer.
“Sir?”
“Come with me, lass.”
She must obey, for they begin walking without another word. You’re soothed back into a state of half-wakefulness despite your circumstances. The warmth of Jimmy’s chest is a shield from the night cold, the sway of his walk steady and soothing.
You can tell when you reach the mansion you glimpsed earlier–Jimmy’s footsteps slow, and you hear the telltale sound of a door being opened for him. The chill of the night air is replaced with warmth as he steps inside, the black behind your eyelids suddenly golden with light. You can’t help it–you open your eyes, curiosity getting the better of you.
Your vision is limited from your position in Jimmy’s arms, but you’re able to glimpse a high ceiling, a gold-lit chandelier, and a tall, winding staircase, its railings deep chestnut and elegantly balustered. Already you can see why Jimmy called David’s home–nice by anyone’s standards, including your own–a shithole.
Jimmy chuckles, and your eyes find his face–he’s already looking down at you, as if he has been for some time now, his teeth bared in a cheeky grin. Your stomach does a panicked flip, your limbs briefly tensing as if to take off in flight–a rabbit who’s forgotten that she’s already in the snare.
“Little hen done playing dead, then?”
You say nothing and look away, burying your face in his chest for lack of any other place to hide. Your silence must not bother him too much–he laughs, his fingers briefly digging cruel grooves into the flesh of your arm and thigh where he holds you, but nothing more.
The rest of the journey is made in silence, the three of you trekking up the winding staircase. Your refusal to open your eyes again disorients you–you couldn’t say where the staircase ended and the upper level began, but suddenly Jimmy is stopping, his voice lashing a sharp command.
“This one,” he says, and there’s barely a beat before you hear the distinct sound of a door being unlocked and pushed open.
There’s another change beneath your eyelids, the golden glow of the chandelier fading into the muted grey of an unlit room. It’s colder, too–you wonder when’s the last time this door was opened. You suddenly imagine that he is carrying you not into a room, but through the lip of a dark cave, hard and gray and damp, with chains bolted into the walls to keep you prisoner.
Your eyes snap open, as if to make sure this isn’t your reality, and you’re almost relieved when the room is just a room–a bedroom, to be exact, almost as large as you and David’s master. Jimmy carries you to the large, four-poster bed pushed against the wall, and panic floods your body with heat.
“No,” you say, voice so small and hoarse that you’d be surprised if Jimmy even hears you.
You jerk in his arms with surprising vigor, sudden and forceful enough that it takes Jimmy by surprise, if the way he grunts and fumbles his hold on you is anything to go by. David’s tattered, bloodied robe does you some good here, the fabric loose and slippery enough that it allows you to slip free. You slide down Jimmy’s body, his fingers still tight around the robe that no longer encases you, and nearly find your footing on the floor–but then his fingers are digging hard into the flesh of your arms, blunt nails biting into you painfully as he yanks you back up. He throws you over his shoulder with little fanfare, sending a hard, punishing slap to your ass. You cry out in pain and he kisses his teeth in agitation.
“Calm down,” he barks, “I’ve got better things to do than fuck ye all night. Ink, get the covers.”
You groan against his back, anxious and hurting, your brief struggle reawakening every ache and pain you’d accrued from this man mere hours ago–especially the ache in your core. An aborted scream is caught in your throat as you’re suddenly tossed from over Jimmy’s shoulder, your body in freefall for a terrifying moment before you’re landing on your back, onto a soft mattress. The duvet has been pulled back–Ink’s doing–and Jimmy wastes no time wrapping it back around you, pressing its soft edges into your sides, leaving only your head and neck visible–quite literally tucking you in. He gives you one of his awful smiles, this one closed-lipped, crooked, and satisfied.
As cold as his blue eyes are, and as smug as the set of his mouth, he still looks at you with something horrifyingly close to tenderness. He speaks without ever taking his eyes off you.
“Go wait outside, Inky. I’ve got to tuck me little hen in proper.”
Ink doesn’t move or speak. She eyes you with something that you think–that you desperately hope–might be concern. Jimmy doesn’t look away from you, but he must notice Ink’s lack of movement–he tilts his head to the side, just slightly. Not enough that he’s looking away from you, but enough that he’s facing Ink more than he was before. This simple, silent gesture speaks louder than words–Ink leaves the room without another moment’s hesitation, shutting the door softly behind her.
Leaving you and Jimmy alone.
Jimmy turns towards you fully, settling on one knee at the head of the bed. He brushes a hand from your sternum to your belly, leaving his hand to rest warm and heavy over your lower stomach–too close to your mound for comfort. You shiver at his touch despite the thick duvet that divides you and turn your head away from his expression–still that unsettling mix of flat cold and sickly sweet. He tuts at you, reaching to tilt your head back in his direction.
“Dinnae be so cold with me now, honey. Ye’ve been so good for me up ‘til now.”
You ignore this delusion. “You can’t just keep me, Jimmy.” You keep going despite the way his smile falters, “I–I have a life. The police–,”
Jimmy’s scoff cuts you off. “The police? And who’s calling them? David?” His voice takes on a nasty edge at the name. You flinch and look away. “Ye know now what kind of business he gets up to. He willnae be calling any police, lovey. Not tonight or tomorrow. He’ll lick his wounds and clean his place and pretend as if ye never existed. It’s all he can do. Ye seem to be forgetting–ye are not here on a whim. Yer here to pay a debt. Now fuckin’ look at me.”
You glare at him, eyes blurred with tears, mouth set into a stubborn, trembling line. Jimmy grins, evidently unconcerned with the hatred in your eyes so long as those eyes are on him.
“Good lass,” he praises, “Now give Jimmy a kiss goodnight.”
You’re repulsed by the idea, but Jimmy doesn’t give you much of a choice–the fingers still framing your face tighten painfully, the pressure on your jaw increasing until you have no choice but to open your mouth. He leans in, mouth slotting over yours.
He wastes no time exploring your mouth, his tongue sweeping over your own, over the roof of your mouth, even over the back of your teeth–over every inch of you. It doesn’t feel like it’s about sex–it feels like he’s out to make a point, or stake a claim. Or both. You force yourself as still as a rock, stubbornly determined to give him nothing–but it’s hard to fight the instinctual urge to kiss back.
He takes his time with your mouth, pulling back for breath and then licking back into you with a soft moan. He draws back to nip and suck at your bottom lip, then dives back in, his tongue passing over yours in a slow drag. You lose your one-sided fight–your tongue surges forward, brushing against his in an act that feels against your own will. He latches on greedily, sucking your tongue into his mouth, moaning deep in his throat. This is too much for you–you pull back, throwing your head to the side to dislodge the kiss. A string of saliva still connects you–you feel it slacken and fall against your cheek, leaving you cringing in disgust.
Jimmy pants above you for a moment, silent for once. You expect him to force you back into the kiss–you brace yourself for the pain of his fingers on your face, or the wet intrusion of his tongue. To your surprise, he doesn’t–instead he sits back, arm thrown over his knee, head tilted back as he regards you with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. He drags his tongue over the plush of his top lip, gathering your combined saliva, slow and lecherous, eyes on you all the while. For once, you don’t look away–you watch as he draws his tongue back into his mouth and swallows.
“Good lass,” he praises again, “That’ll do for now.”
And like that, he rises and heads for the door, not another word or glance spared for you. You can barely manage any relief, raw and violated as you still feel from his kiss. He opens the door, the golden light of the hallway turning him lustrous. He steps out, pulling the door behind him, but not quite shutting it–a thin sliver of gold still lights the corner of the room, and you can just make out his pale hand grasping the handle. He and Ink are speaking, you realize. You strain your ears to listen.
“I want ye to watch her. She’ll be yer responsibility when I’m not here.”
“Me?” You can hear the incredulity in Ink’s voice.
“Am I talking to the fuckin’ air in front of ye?”
“But I–ye told me to handle the doctor. I need to–,”
“Ye need to do what I tell ye. My pet here needs a feminine touch to settle in.”
“Then Jimmima–,”
“Ink.” Jimmy’s voice has gone flat and dangerous. The following silence makes anxiety build in your gut.
When Ink speaks again it’s just two words: “Yes, Sir.”
Jimmy shuts the door fully behind him, and the room is plunged back into dim grayness. You can make out the shadows of their feet at the bottom of the door, but if they continue to speak you can no longer hear them.
You keep your eyes on the bottom of the door, only occasionally looking away to glance at the doorknob. If Jimmy leaves or–infinitely worse–decides to come back inside, you want to know.
Your vigilance is noble, but you find that you’re even more worn thin than you’d realized: soon enough the light at the bottom of the door is blurring, and your eyes become lead weights in your face.
You drift to sleep before you know it, gold still burning at the back of your eyelids.
The next time you wake up, you know exactly where you are.
Early sunlight spills through the single, wall-length window in the room. In the daylight you make out the details of the room you missed the night before–the large vanity dresser, the fully-stocked bookshelf, the two doors that you can only assume lead to a closet and a bathroom. All the furniture is in deep wood tones, elegantly carved and surely antique. The top half of the walls are covered in ornate wallpaper, the bottom half paneled. The curtains and the bedding are in deep jewel tones. You can’t deny that it’s beautiful.
And soulless–empty and staged, like something out of a catalogue.
You’re still flat on your back, tucked in exactly how Jimmy left you. You slept like the dead.
You shift where you lay, dislodging the duvet around you. You wince in pain, your body sore all over, nowhere near recovered from last night’s events. Your cunt is sore and, as if to add insult to injury, you can feel where you and Jimmy’s combined fluids have dried between your legs, tugging uncomfortably at your skin with every movement. You sit up in bed, hissing between your teeth at the pressure–he’d abused your ass as much as he did your pussy, you suddenly recall. The duvet falls from your shoulders over your lap, and that’s when you notice the neatly folded stacks at the foot of the bed–one stack of what looks like lounge clothes, and the other a towel and washcloth, topped neatly by a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a plain bar of soap.
Somebody came into this room while you were sleeping. You try not to let it upset you.
You toss the duvet from over your body and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Standing as tentatively as a newborn fawn–careful not to further irritate your bruised body–you slowly limp to the sliding doors next to the bed: it opens into a large closet, as you expected, completely bare without even a spare hanger to indicate its purpose. You close it and go to investigate the window–no latch. You feel along the frame as if you could simply be overlooking it, and when you still find nothing you try to lift it open anyway. It’s a futile effort–the window may as well have been soldered shut.
You look through the pane and see nothing but green hills and a distant, winding road. You wonder just how isolated you are–you have no clue how long the drive from David’s house took, asleep as you were. You try not to feel frustrated with yourself over this lack of foresight: the persistent ache in your body is enough to remind you of why you preferred the bliss of sleep in that car.
The vanity is next–you look briefly at your reflection, cringe, and look away. You determinedly ignore yourself in the wide mirror as you open up every dresser the vanity has to offer–it’s completely empty, save for a single box of tissues in one of the bottom drawers. You take it out and sit it on top of the dresser. Considering your current circumstances, you’ll probably need it later.
You burst into a fit of laughter at this thought, unable to stop the flood once it’s started, shoulders shaking. You drag your hands down your face as it subsides, feeling trapped and insane.
You limp to the door leading to the hallway, your body lagging as the pain you’re in becomes more pronounced. You try the doorknob–locked, of course. It doesn’t budge even a millimeter under your grasp, and there’s no keyhole. You can tell that the knob and the door are both made of sturdy, impenetrable materials–the kind of materials David used to fret over when renovating his own house, muttering about security. You turn away, trying to fight off a wave of panic–and then flinch at the way the skin between your legs pulls.
You’re still covered in him–still leaking him. You can’t bear the thought of staying this way any longer: how are you supposed to think?
You beeline for the third and final door in the room. As expected, it reveals a bathroom that’s as spacious and gorgeously constructed as the bedroom, with terracotta flooring and glass shower walls. There’s a single window above the shower, round and large, spilling abundant daylight into the room. It’s high, too–you know immediately that you could never hope to reach it without a ladder. You open up every cabinet and mirror, not even sure what you’re looking for at this point–but the bathroom, of course, is as empty as the closet, as empty as the vanity. It’s as if this mansion was just built yesterday, not yet lived in.
Or a façade.
You shake these thoughts off–the purpose of this building is the least of your concerns, and out of your control to boot.
Something you can control: the current state of your hygiene.
You don’t waste any more time–you first brush your teeth, the water hotter and your scrubbing more vigorous than perhaps necessary, but you’re eager to rid your tongue of any evidence of Jimmy. Once done, you turn the shower on–hotter than you can normally stand it–, shed your filthy nighties, and step under the spray.
It hurts. You flinch at the burn of it, but you need it–you can feel it washing him from your flesh, drowning out the memory of his touch. You lather your washrag and scrub your body harder than you ever have before, stand under the scalding spray to rinse yourself clean, and then repeat this once, twice more.
Afterwards, you squat in the middle of the tiles, blistering water running down your back, and push, forcing that last stubborn bit of him out–it’s hard to believe, even as you feel it slide out of you, just how deep he planted his seed last night. You shudder at the feel of it and reach for the detachable shower head, switching it on and aiming it right at your pussy–any other time something like this would be done for pleasure, but right now it’s meant only as a cleansing.
You can’t bear the thought of even a drop of him remaining in you.
You stay under the spray for what must be nearly an hour, until the water runs cold and won’t reheat no matter how far left you turn the handle. You dry hastily, wasting no time pulling on the clothes left neatly folded for you, as if he might walk in at any moment and take advantage of your nude body.
The lounge set is silk, the material cool and soothing against your singed skin. The sleeves and pants are blissfully long, the fit slightly oversized on you. It’s a welcome change from your skimpy nighties: you button the shirt all the way to the top. It almost feels like armor.
No underwear was left for you. You try not to linger on it.
You’re just finishing buttoning your shirt when the door opens: fear seizes you and makes you freeze like prey. You just barely relax when you hear a woman’s voice, agitated and clipped.
“Fuck off, JJ.”
“I wanna see,” a male voice whines, “Come on, I stay home once and miss all the fun.”
You watch as Ink pushes backwards into the room, still in her bright red. She’s facing a young man, who’s trying to shoulder his way through the door–he’s lean and eager-looking, his blonde hair shaved into a buzzcut, his thin face bisected by scarring. He bears the same mark as his peers: a dark, inverted cross slashes down the middle of his forehead. His eyes lock onto yours, bright and green, and you tense. He lights up as if he’s just won the lottery, whistling sharply.
“Fuck yeah!” he says, “Boss has great taste.”
Ink swings around, gaze sweeping over you from head to toe. It’s then that you notice she’s carrying a silver platter–a literal silver platter–topped with a round dome. She steps properly into the room, turning her back on her companion, but not moving from the doorway–blocking him out.
“Good,” she says, “Yer up. I’ve got breakfast.” She swings around, voice hardening as she addresses the man behind her. “JJ, fuck outta here. If ye dinnae right now I’ll tell Jimmy ye were oogling his woman.”
That makes the man–JJ–finally look away from you. He sneers nastily at Ink, but backs away. Now that he no longer crowds her, you can make out his outfit–another tracksuit, of course, his as green as Ink’s is red.
“Not much of a woman, that,” he says, looking down at Ink but jerking his head in your direction, “That’s a toy through and through.”
“Ye’ll be a fuckin’ chew toy if ye dinnae–,”
“Fuck off, yeah, yeah, I got it,” the man says, waving a dismissive hand in Ink’s direction as he turns away. He stops in his tracks, twirling back around with a wicked smile on his face. “Hey, Inky, d’ye suppose Boss’ll let us have a turn with her once he’s thro–,”
Ink slams the door in his face. You can hear the faint sound of his laughter through the thick wood and cringe, looking down at your bare feet. Some time during the man’s appraisal of you, you’d crossed your arms protectively over your chest–despite his absence, you can’t bring yourself to lower them.
Ink turns back around, tray balanced neatly on one hand. The two of you regard each other silently for a moment–you’re unsure what to make of this woman, and you’re certain she feels the same about you. To your surprise, Ink looks away first, huffing in a put-upon way. She walks briskly past you, so suddenly you startle, and sets the tray on the large vanity dresser, next to your box of tissues.
“Dinnae mind JJ,” she says, not looking at you as she fiddles with the silver dome, “He’s just trying to scare ye. I dinnae think he even likes women.”
You’re not sure what to say to that–you’re hardly about to thank her for her reassurances, complicit as she is in your captivity. She turns around at your silence, ever-present frown on her face.
“Have a seat, then,” she says, gesturing at the vanity chair, “Breakfast is served, or whatever the fuck they say.”
You hesitate, but in the end sit down as instructed–you are hungry, you realize, now that food has been mentioned. Ink pushes the tray across the dresser until it’s centered neatly in front of you–you notice at least half a dozen small tattoos inked across her hands. Your eyes linger on the letters blazoned across her knuckles: WWJD.
Something tells you the acronym has little to do with Christ.
Ink removes the silver dome with little fanfare. “Bon appétit.”
Breakfast is a large waffle. Arranged around it in small bowls are an assortment of toppings: fresh berries, warm syrup, powdered sugar, butter. There’s a cup of tea on a saucer, a small jar of honey and a bowl of sugar cubes next to it. The scent, previously contained by the dome, wafts up at you, and your stomach reacts with an embarrassingly loud growl.
Still, you can only stare down at it, unable to bring yourself to reach for the silver fork and knife.
“It’s not poisoned, ye know,” Ink says, “Jimmy likes ye too much for that.”
“Did…Jimmy make it?”
Ink scoffs. “No. The cook did.”
A cook. The house–the mansion–you’re in is luxurious. At least eight people live here, assuming Jimmy keeps his underlings close. Nine, if you count yourself, but you don’t do that. Of course there’s a cook.
You begin to eat, tearing into your waffle plain, not even bothering with the toppings as hunger overtakes you. Ink suddenly beelines for the bathroom and you watch after her, puzzled. Your stomach does an odd little flip when she comes out with your discarded nighties balled in her hands.
“What are you–,” you swallow your suddenly dry throat, “Why do you–,”
“They need to be washed.” Ink’s voice is short.
“Can’t I do it?”
“Ye cannae leave this room.”
Stubborn tears sting at the back of your eyes. “I don’t want you to wash them.”
Ink scowls and holds out your shorts–stained red with blood, crusted with dried cum. “Ye want them to stay like this, then?”
You can’t help it–the sight of your ruined clothes, the reminder of what happened to you, the embarrassment of someone else seeing and knowing, being trapped in this room–it all compounds and you burst into tears, fork clattering loudly against the silver tray as you bring your hands up to your face.
It takes about a minute for the worst of the sobs to make their way out of you, the heaving of your shoulders lessening as you calm. Your jaw aches from the effort of trying to hold your cries back, your eyes sore, your nose stuffy. A dull headache throbs at your temples–you’ve lost a lot of water from crying since last night, you suppose.
Ink offers you the box of tissues as you collect yourself. She won’t quite look at you. You take it without a word and go through the messy process of cleaning your nose, uncaring of her presence.
“Sorry,” she says, surprising you, “That was unnecessary.”
When you look at her, your bloody shorts are out of sight–bundled into your cami top, you assume. You throw your tissues into the wastebasket next to the vanity and shrug.
“I don’t want them back. You should burn them.”
Ink shrugs. “Probably will. Yer robe’s already trashed.”
David’s robe. You don’t bother to correct her. You hadn’t even noticed its absence.
“Does he do this often? Rape women and then force you to serve them breakfast and clean up their bloody clothes?”
Your turn to be cruel, you guess. You expect–you want–Ink to flinch at this; you want to see her shoulders curl in and her face twist with shame. You want some indication that maybe she would help you out of this. But she only looks at you, gaze unhappy but steady.
“No,” she says, “This is a first.”
It’s not the response you expected. Before you can think of what to say, Ink is backing away, expression flattening. “Make sure ye eat,” she says, “There willnae be anything else until evening.”
She leaves at once, gone before you’ve had the chance to even process her words, the door clicking behind her with finality.
You look down at your tray and try to find your appetite again.
You spend the rest of the day bored out of your mind.
You skim the bookshelf: few of the old, lofty titles are familiar to you, but you take some to bed anyway and attempt to read them. By the fourth time you doze off mid-sentence, you give up.
You sit vigil at the tall window, eyes keen on the scenery beyond, waiting for any signs of life that aren’t birds or small animals. After an hour, you give up.
You brush your teeth again. May as well. It makes you feel better, at least.
Finally, you bang on the door leading to the hallway, loud and incessant, hoping it might draw someone to you. Nothing. Either Ink is busy or she hates you more than you thought.
In the end, you force yourself to go back to sleep—at least that’ll make the time pass quicker.
The Sun is just beginning to turn west when Ink shows up with another platter. This time, she has no green-clad strangers with her.
You don’t move from where you’re sprawled out on the bed, not that she seems to care—she places the new platter on the foot of the bed and beelines for the platter from this morning, still sitting on the vanity. She eyes the largely untouched breakfast for a moment and then begins to pop the berries into her mouth.
“Jimmy willnae be happy with ye not eating,” she says around a blueberry.
“I was banging on the door earlier,” you say, ignoring her statement, “Did no one hear me?”
Ink shrugs and tears off a piece of waffle from the edge you didn’t touch. “House was empty most of the day. We’ve all got our jobs to do. Why Jimmy put me on babysitting duty when he knows that is beyond me. Take it up with him.”
Her back is turned to you. You’re almost certain she can’t see you through the vanity mirror from this angle. She closed the door behind her, but you know that it can’t lock or unlock from the inside—your captors always lock it behind them as they’re leaving.
Your pulse jumps in your throat as the idea hits you. You don’t let yourself overthink it—you slip as silently as you can manage from the bed and make a break for it.
You have the door halfway open when Ink reaches you, a human battering ram forcing you against the door, slamming it back shut in the process. She wraps her arms around you, pulling you backwards, and you drop your weight like an anchor, going dead in her grasp. This catches her off guard–she falls backwards, unbalanced by the shift in your weight.
You scramble out of her grasp, crawling for the door and pulling yourself up by the knob. You feel a tug on your pants and kick back wildly without looking, the muffled umph you receive in return letting you know you made contact. You yank the door open and run into the hallway.
You falter, disoriented by the change in scenery. The chandelier you glimpsed last night hangs right before you–you’re briefly blinded by its crystalline golden glow. You’ve stepped out onto an indoor balcony of sorts, the winding staircase from last night on either side of you, leading to the floor below—to a way out. You bolt to the left, bare feet sinking into thick red carpet.
You’re just coming up to the top of the stairs when Ink catches up to you. She snakes a hand into your hair and hauls you backward, her other arm wrapping around your torso. She slams you back onto the carpeted ground, the impact winding you. You don’t even get a chance to catch your breath before Ink is bearing down on you, her weight on your ribs constricting your breathing even further.
“Fuckin’–cunt–,” she snatches your wrists together in a shockingly steely grip and begins to drag you across the carpet—back towards the room you’ve been held hostage in all day.
You kick and twist in her grasp, though it doesn’t do much to slow her down—so you screech instead, screaming like a banshee out of hell.
It won’t do anything, you know—no one is coming to save you, even if they do hear you. But it will give the woman currently dragging you back to your living hell a headache.
You’ll take your petty wins where you can find them.
Once Ink has you back in the room—you refuse to think of it as your room—she wastes no time leaving, dropping you like a sack and locking the door behind her.
You scream again, just to let it out. Then you kick at the door—it hurts you more than the wood. You limp back to the bed, ankle twinging, dejected, and fall into it facedown.
Back to waiting.
Barely an hour has passed when the door opens again.
The Sun is just beginning to set over the green hills, lazily throwing its deep, golden rays through the window. You’ve been watching the beautiful scene mulishly from where you lie on the bed, bored and increasingly angry.
You roll around to face the door, expecting Ink.
It’s Jimmy.
You sit up, heart leaping to your throat. Jimmy grins at you, wide and toothy, gold incisor glinting in the setting sunlight. He looks broad in the doorway, still in his purple velour, still with his gold hanging heavy from his neck and stacked upon his fingers.
The most ridiculous tiara has been added to his ensemble–it shines silver against the gold of his hair, pinning his long hair back from his face. Dozens of delicate, white gems glimmer in its setting, and you wonder if this hedonistic, tacky man has something of genuine value on his head.
“Good evening, bonnie thing.”
Your eyes dart behind him—despite your earlier anger, you hope to see Ink lingering behind him. He catches your look and hums, stepping fully into the room and shutting the door behind him.
“Just you and me, honey.”
He walks towards the bed where you still sit, hugging your knees to his chest. One of his arms hangs by his side, a box in hand. The other hand reaches towards you, his knuckles brushing gently against your cheekbone.
You flinch away from his touch, as if he hasn’t already touched you in ways irreversible—as if he hasn’t already been inside you.
He pauses, lips thinning at your rejection.
“No greeting for me, honey?”
You turn your head away from him, jaw tensing. You know how much he hates it when you refuse to engage with him. Let it speak for you.
You hear him kiss his teeth in disappointment and try to brace yourself for what he might do next.
To your surprise, he breezes past you, heading towards the vanity. Both of the platters sit there now, the second completely untouched. You never even opened it after your altercation with Ink.
Jimmy opens it for you, revealing a sandwich. It’s cold and several hours old now, but you can tell by the look of it—layers of different cheeses and meats, stacked on artisan bread—that it would’ve been the best sandwich of your life. Jimmy tuts in exaggerated disapproval, and you think of Ink’s earlier words. Jimmy won’t be happy with you not eating.
“Jimmy Ink said ye tried to escape earlier,” he says, replacing the dome and turning to face you, “Had the bruise on her face to back it up. Figured ye might try something like that, honey–Ink wasnae too happy with me, but that’s why I had her watching over ye. Between my girls, she’s the one better suited to that kind of wrangling. Jimmima would’ve let ye slip right through those doors–not that it would’ve done ye any good.”
He stalks towards the bed, as slow and leisurely as a wildcat tracking its prey, until his thighs brush against the edge of the mattress. “Thank me, honeypot, for making sure it was Ink who hauled yer disobedient arse right back where ye belong and not one of me lads. I dinnae think ye would much liked their treatment.”
He’s a looming presence over you. You maintain your stubborn silence and refusal to look at him, though you tremble faintly now at his proximity.
He reaches the limit of his patience: his fist comes up and slams against the post of the bed nearest him. The wood rattles under the force of his hit, the vibrations of it traveling through the entirety of the bed. You jump at the sudden sound, hands coming up to cover your face.
“I said fuckin’ thank me!”
You try to maintain your composure–you really do–but the fear that’s thrumming through your veins makes the tremor in your body even more prominent, and your breath stutters in your throat.
“Thank you,” you whisper, voice shaky. Tears blur your vision and you blink them away. You still can’t bring yourself to look at him.
“Good,” he says, voice higher than usual, as if still holding in anger. He pulls back, fist lowering, and your shoulders relax a fraction.
They tense again when he speaks. “Come sit on the edge of the bed, honey. I’ve got somethin’ for ye.”
You slide over to the edge of the bed, finally deigning to look at him as you do so. A smile twitches across his face when he catches your gaze and you cut your eyes away, narrowly avoiding rolling them.
“Good,” he purrs, “Now turn to face me.”
Doing so would put your legs over the edge of the bed. Jimmy stands too close for this to be possible. You look up at him, not bothering to hide the irritation you feel. He grins at you, clearly pleased with himself.
“Ye can figure it out, honey.”
Heat blooms hot in your chest and travels up your neck to your face. You swallow the humiliation, still shaken from his outburst, and open your legs, throwing one around the width of his thighs so that your own are spread around him.
Jimmy laughs, low and satisfied. “To the edge, honey.”
You hate him. You slide forward until you’re seated on the edge of the mattress. The position brushes your crotch against his thighs. It’s awkward, too, unbalancing you–you’re forced to bear your weight on your hands, which are propped on the mattress behind you, opening your body up like a flower in bloom. Jimmy drinks the sight of you in greedily, blue eyes lingering on your breasts, then the wide spread of your thighs–or rather, what lies between them.
It almost feels like a joke now, the comfort your conservative loungewear brought you earlier. A suit of armour couldn’t save you from Jimmy’s penetrating gaze.
“Good lass,” he says, voice thicker than it was, eyes darker. He brings his hand forward, proffering the box you’d noticed earlier. “I’ve got a gift for ye.”
You bring one hand from around your back, realizing what the box is as your fingers close around it–a phone, still neatly contained in its packaging. You take it from him, puzzled, scooting slightly away from him so that you can open up the box without unbalancing. To your relief, he doesn’t stop you. You take the phone out–it’s new, black, sleek, the latest model of its kind. You click the button on the side and a default homepage lights up the screen.
A homepage–not a welcome screen. It’s already been set up.
You distrust it immediately–there’s no way Jimmy hasn’t tampered with it, somehow.
You set the phone facedown on the bed and look up at him. “I want my phone.”
Jimmy’s easy smile twitches, then drops altogether. “I just gave ye yer phone, hen. It’s not to yer liking?”
“I don’t want this phone, I want my phone.”
Jimmy pauses and then laughs. “As I seem to recall, ye left yer phone behind last night. It’s long gone by now.”
Left it behind. As if you had a choice. Anger warms your chest and neck. “Then–,” you try to choose your words carefully, “Then we–someone–can go back and get it–,”
“Nah, honey,” Jimmy cuts you off, “That ain’t happenin’.”
“Why not?” you bite, voice sharp despite yourself.
Jimmy is tilting his head as he looks down at you now, observing you with the keen, curious interest of a cat waiting to see what the mouse between its paws will do next. Then he smiles, slow and cruel.
“Ye think yer gonna just waltz back into David’s house and pack yer things, then? After last night? After what ye did to the poor bastard?”
“What I did to him?”
“Fuckin’ another man in front of yer lover ain’t the way to go, honey–not unless he’s into that and I dinnae think that limp dick ye called a lover was much into it.”
You open your mouth to respond and find that you can only inhale, sharp and hurt and angry.
Jimmy’s words–the way he’s made it sound as if last night was something you did and not something that happened to you, as if you sought to hurt David intentionally, as if this were all your fault–you know none of it is true, and yet you still feel panic fluttering behind your ribcage like a trapped bird.
David doesn’t see it that way–he can’t. He was upset by the end, yes, but–it couldn’t have been at you, not really. He was as much a victim of that situation as you were. He’s a better man than that–a better man than the one stood in front of you.
“He–he knows you forced me. He’d never hold that against me.” You can’t help the way your lip curls in disgust when you add, “He’s not like you.”
Jimmy laughs at this, and before you can blink, his hands are on you, grasping roughly at your upper arms as he pulls you to your feet. You make an embarrassingly high, frightened noise and flail in his hold, your flight instinct kicking in–but his hands are a vise around you. He pushes you against the post of the bed frame, caging you between it and his body. He leans into you, his expression too mean to be called a smile.
“That’s where yer wrong, honey–yer little boyfriend is more like me than ye think. Yer man may not have appreciated that show ye put on with his big head, but his little head certainly did.” He grabs himself through the fabric of his velour pants as he says this, emphasizing what exactly he means. You wince in disgust, backing further into the post, wanting as much distance between your bodies as possible.
You don’t believe him for a second. “You’re a liar.”
“Oh, dinnae get me wrong–he was angry enough when ye were squirting all over my cock, that’s true. But I think he was just embarrassed, honey–upset that he could never make ye do that himself.”
“Get away from me.”
“He was hard as a brick from the moment I put ye face-down on that couch–making a wet patch in his trousers like a fuckin’ teenager.” He sneers in disgust as he says this and you could almost laugh at the absurdity: Jimmy disgusted not by what he did to you, or what he’s accusing David of, but by the thought of David making a mess in his pants.
Your vision is blurry with tears now–all you can see is the deep purple of Jimmy’s chest. You shove harshly at him, though it barely pushes him back for a second before he’s crowding your space again, laughing under his breath.
“You’re a filthy fucking liar.”
“I’m many things, honey, but a liar ain’t one of ‘em. Not my fault he wasn’t the knight in shining armour ye thought–in fact, seemed to me like he enjoyed seeing his little damsel in distress. Bet ye if I’d let him up out of that chair he would’ve fucked ye right with m–,”
His words become too much, or else the emotions bubbling up inside you do–shame, indignation, anger, panic. Like a shaken bottle due to burst, you lash out, all those emotions and more backing you. You punch him.
You’ve never thrown a punch before, and you probably end up hurting yourself more than him: your balled up fist makes contact right beneath his eye, the hard bone of his cheek painful beneath your knuckles. Jimmy grunts, low and surprised, and stumbles back. There’s a moment where time itself seems to stop as you and Jimmy regard each other, both shocked at what you just did.
Time restarts as you watch Jimmy’s face. The way it changes is fascinating: at first open and unguarded with shock, the most honest you’ve seen him look yet, his eyes wide and mouth slack. They both shift at the same time, his eyes narrowing as his mouth twists into a tight scowl. His nose scrunches, nostrils flaring like a bull’s, face flushing a stark red.
You barely have time to feel fear at the rage on his face before his fist is lashing right back, aiming in the same exact spot–high on your cheekbone, his knuckles connecting painfully with the bone, the rings stacked on his fingers scraping your eye.
He hits you hard–you drop like a sack, sprawling bonelessly across the mattress.
Those first few seconds after the hit are maybe the clearest your mind has ever been—there are no thoughts, no emotions, just pain. It isn’t kind enough to stay isolated to where he hit you, either—it travels from your eye in sharp, branching pulses, spreading over the entire side of your face, from your temple to your jaw. Even your teeth ache.
You’ve never been punched before—certainly not by a grown man.
You make a sound, delayed—something between a whimper and a sob. The pain settles into a loud, throbbing ache–still awful, but you can think again. You touch at the point of impact, tentative, and jerk your hand away immediately when even that soft graze makes the pain intensify. There’s blood on your fingertips—Jimmy’s many rings must’ve split you open.
You feel a dip in the mattress and look over, vision blurred from pain—and in your hurt eye’s case, from swelling. Jimmy is leaning on one knee in the middle of the mattress, one arm braced casually on his thigh. The other reaches out and pushes at your shoulder, turning you on your back. You groan at the way the shift in position sparks fresh pain in your head.
Jimmy brushes the back of his fingers over the damage he dealt, a nasty bruise already forming. Trace amounts of your blood coat his fingers, and you watch as he brings them to his mouth and licks it off.
There’s an angry red mark on his face where your unskilled punch made contact. The sight of it makes something triumphant swell in your chest, hot and ugly.
“Didnae mean to hit ye so hard, honey. But ye really shouldnae have done that.”
“Fuck you.”
Jimmy laughs, high and oddly giddy. Then he grabs you by your wrist and forces your hand between his legs.
He’s hard, hot steel wrapped in soft velour. Of course he’s hard, the godless bastard. You try to pull away, but he’s stronger than you–he presses your hand even firmer against his cock. You can feel the agonizing heat of it, the intimidating width, the way it pulses in time with the beat of his heart.
You pull away again, and this time he lets you. You turn onto your side, putting your back to him, cradling your head with a soft, plaintive groan. You hear him rise from the bed, and the low, heavy sounds of his footsteps as he stalks to where you lie. You can feel him hover over you, dread filling the pit of your stomach. He pulls your hands away from your face, and you glare up at him fiercely. He’s looking down at you with that same unsettlingly tender expression from the night before, pale eyes heavy-lidded and soft.
And cold.
“Bonnie thing,” he purrs, his thumb brushing over the bruise he’s left you, “Even prettier like this. I’ll fuck ye, if ye want. Since ye demanded it of me.”
He pulls back, his hands latching around your ankles as he goes. He uses his grip to drag you forward on the bed until your hips sit on the edge of the mattress. You kick at him, screaming in rage–he jerks back, turning his face to the side to dodge your kicks, and then rushes forward, wrapping his arms tight around your raised legs, the mockery of a hug. You hear him laugh, and then he’s bearing all his weight on top of you, the force of it pushing your legs forward until your knees are pressed against your chest.
The extreme angle makes you cry out in discomfort. Your hands come up to push against Jimmy’s shoulders, to no avail. You jerk and wriggle, searching for a way out, but then you notice the hot, hard press of Jimmy’s erection against your cunt, the layers of clothes between you doing nothing to mask the feel of him. You go still with a pitiful whimper, unwilling to give him any further pleasure.
The new position puts Jimmy’s face right over yours–the tiara pinned in his hair doesn’t stop a few long, wavy strands from falling forward, kissing gently against your skin. He’s panting from the brief struggle. He’s turned on, looking down at you with dark, intent eyes.
Then he grins.
Jimmy shifts back, his weight coming off you just enough for your knees to lift from your chest, and then he’s reaching down, ripping the front of your lounge shirt open with one quick, brutal tear. The buttons pop and scatter carelessly, the fabric parting to reveal your breasts–you cross your arms over your chest protectively, sobbing, thinking back with irony to how relieved you felt to be dressed in these clothes. Jimmy laughs cruelly at your attempt at modesty, turning his attention to your bottoms–he makes quick work of yanking the fabric down your hips, then halfway up your thighs: just enough to expose your ass and pussy.
The absence of any underwear in your folded stack feels especially intentional now.
Jimmy’s attention shifts back to your chest. He grabs hold of one of your arms, pulling it away.
“Dinnae hide, honey,” he says, “Let me see those pretty tits. Didnae get to last night.”
You spit at him.
It’s a better shot than your frantic punch, landing almost squarely in the same spot–right beneath his eye, across his cheekbone. Jimmy flinches back, eyes squeezing shut, entire body freezing in shock. He laughs, the sound more disbelieving than amused, hand coming up to wipe the saliva from his face. He opens his eyes, hand pausing, looking down at you–with his face covered as it is, you can’t quite make out the emotion behind the stare. Jimmy pulls his hand away, shaking it out once, twice, as if to rid it of some toxin. His expression stays neutral.
Then he slaps you, hand landing hard across the unbruised side of your face. You go slack beneath him, dazed, ears ringing. This second hit has reignited the sharp pain in the other side of your face, and you can only lie there, overwhelmed by the painful dual sensations.
Distantly, as if it’s happening to someone else, you feel him move your other arm from over your chest, fully exposing your breasts.
“Good,” you hear him say, “That’s better.”
You hear fabric rustling, and then feel the hot drag of his bare cock up and down your dry slit. Panic brings you back to awareness.
“No,” you beg, teary eyes finding his, “Jimmy, please.”
“It’s alright, honey,” he soothes, “Yer worried ‘cause yer not ready, is that it? I’ll make ye ready. Yer an easy one, honey—I’ll turn ye back into my little honeypot soon enough.”
He lets up his weight and you could cry in relief when your body unspools, your legs parting around the bulk of his body, hips aching from the sharp angle they were pressed in.
Jimmy leans over you, bracing himself on one forearm, his other hand coming up to squeeze at your breast. He nuzzles against your tits, mouthing over them in lazy, open-mouthed kisses. You tense—you weren’t expecting this.
Jimmy notices your tension and laughs, shifting so that he can cup both your breasts in his large hands, circling his thumbs over your rapidly-hardening nipples.
“Relax, honey. I’ll make ye feel good.”
He leans down, taking one of your nipples into his hot mouth, licking and sucking at it languidly. You gasp, bucking.
Jimmy takes his time, clearly enjoying himself, tongue tracing lazy, wet circles over the skin of your areola, then traveling up to flick teasingly against the bud of your nipple. He sucks it fully into his mouth, drawing back until it releases with a wet pop, then dives back in, sealing his lips back over the sensitive bud and sucking with a deep moan.
You moan yourself, arching your back completely off the bed before you can help yourself.
Jimmy chuckles against your breasts, giving them a frisky squeeze. “That’s right. Give me some honey.”
He switches to your other breast, lathering it in the same attention, sucking and circling over the hard point of your nipple with his tongue. He pulls back, flicking his tongue over the bud as he goes like a parting kiss. He squeezes your tits together between his hands, switching back and forth between them, mouth greedy and searching.
You whine, back arching once again, hips rolling searchingly, desperate for some pressure or friction against your cunt. Jimmy pulls back from your breasts with another wet pop, eyes dragging down your body.
His lips twist into a gleeful smile at the sight of your pussy, slick and swollen, just as he told you it’d be.
“Good lass,” he breathes, “Fuckin’ honeypot.”
He shifts, pushing his velour-clad knee against your cunt, the odd rough-soft feel of the fabric electric against your swollen clit. You rut against him greedily, hips rolling against his knee, mouth parting around a loud moan, head falling back.
Jimmy pulls his knee back, and you whine in protest.
“What’s that, honey?” he goads, “Ye need somethin’?”
You look away, stubborn, and he chuckles. He dives back into your tits, alternating between licking and sucking over your sensitive nipples and pinching them between his fingers. You go loud and wanton at the sensations, hips bucking in search of friction, hands clutching onto Jimmy’s broad shoulders desperately. He pulls back again, pinching harshly at your nipples, eliciting a gasp from you. He doesn’t let go, pulling them back as if to tug them straight off your body, eyes intent on the way your tits stretch forward. You whine, the pain erotic, and he lets go, watching the way your breasts move like water with dark eyes and parted lips.
He presses the hard flat of his knee forward, indulging you–you grind down at once, embarrassingly loud and wet as you take your pleasure, hips bouncing against him. He watches you, watches your tits, a man obsessed, stroking his erection absentmindedly.
He draws his knee back again and you groan in frustration, hands leaving his shoulders to cover your face. “Please–,” you gasp, pathetic.
“Tell me what ye need, honey.”
You groan again, hands still over your face. Him. You know he wants you to say him. You refuse.
Something brushes over your clit and you jerk in surprise, hands lowering–Jimmy has his hand between your legs, his thumb brushing light circles over your clit, his knuckles tracing the line of your wet slit. His other hand still strokes his cock. You whine, legs spreading further.
“Wet as a fuckin’ fountain,” he says, “Could feel how wet ye were through the velour, honey. See? I know what ye need. I just need to hear ye say it.”
You almost moan his name. You bite your lip hard enough to hurt instead.
“I don’t need you.”
Jimmy laughs, drawing his hand away. You try to pretend as if that doesn’t make you want to die.
“About to lose yer head because ye cannae ride my knee like it’s a cock. I think ye do, honeypot.”
Jimmy stands from the bed, pulling you forward until your cunt rests at the edge of the mattress. He hikes your legs up over his shoulders, bearing his weight on your thighs in a way that has you once again bent in half, your pussy tilting towards the ceiling–if he fucks you like this, he’ll be thrusting down into you, all the combined force of his weight and gravity behind his thrusts. The thought makes you clench, and you desperately hope he doesn’t notice.
Jimmy takes his cock in hand and rubs it up and down your slit–this time you’re more than wet, and you coat him in warm slick. You both moan–you at the nudge of his shaft against your clit, him at the promise of your sweet cunt. You feel his thick cockhead press against your entrance and panic briefly seizes you: it took you so long to accept him the night before, he can’t possibly expect to just slide it back in?
But he does, in one long, slow press of his hips down into yours. You whine, legs jerking, toes curling. There’s pain, of course, but more than that, there’s pleasure, the stretch of his thick, long cock overwhelming your senses in the best way. You clench around him as he pushes deeper, your head thrown back, drool pooling in your open mouth. Eventually, he hits a wall–your cervix itself, you’re sure. You whine in discomfort, though it’s a drop in a pond compared to that delicious stretch. Jimmy comes to a stop, panting hard above you.
He’s not even fully sheathed in you, and yet you’ve never felt so full in your life.
Jimmy takes a moment to collect himself, fingers flexing over the soft give of your thighs.
Then he braces one foot on the edge of the mattress and fucks you.
The pace he sets is demanding, every downwards thrust of his hips punching a loud, shameless moan from your lungs. You were right about the angle–his cock quite literally pistons into you, hard and relentless: you can hardly think for how thoroughly he fucks you.
Your breasts jostle with every movement, liquid in motion, downright painful at times–your hands come up to restrain them, your fingers digging into pliant flesh, nipples peeking from between your fingers. Jimmy watches greedily.
Then he looks at you.
He slows his brutal pace to a stop, reaching out to take your face in his hand. He turns it first to the left, then the right–you cry out at the sharp stab of pain his scrutiny sends through your temple. He drinks in the sight of your bruised eye, your swollen cheekbone, the thin scratches that decorate either side of your face. He looks sickeningly smug.
“Gonna make a right mural out of ye if ye keep that attitude up. Think yer gonna spit on me?”
His fingers suddenly frame your jaw, tightening painfully. You cry out again, and he hooks his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling your mouth open. He leans forward and spits, then forces your jaw back shut, hand clamping tight over your mouth.
You screech in rage, feet kicking wildly, hands coming to push at his shoulders. He doesn’t budge, of course. He looks down at you with a sadistic kind of glee in his eyes.
“Swallow it,” he commands.
You groan in disgust, squeezing your eyes shut–but you do. You have little choice. Jimmy eyes the bob of your throat, releasing his hold on your face once he’s satisfied.
“Good lass,” he says, “Try that shit again and I’ll make ye swallow my piss next time.”
Jimmy pulls back, readjusting his hold on your thighs, and resumes his plundering of your pussy. He goes slower this time, fucking down into you with measured, steady strokes. It doesn’t take long for the godly stretch in your cunt to once again override all other senses–you sigh in pleasure, arching off the bed, inadvertently putting your tits on even greater display for Jimmy. You’re so wet you can feel your own slick dripping down your ass, to the small of your back. Jimmy’s pace picks up, and you both moan–you can’t help the way you grip and clench around his thick cock with every outward draw, as if your cunt is loath to ever let him go.
Jimmy braces himself on his forearms on either side of you, head falling against your chest as he loses himself in your cunt, his tiara scratching lightly against your skin. He’s loud now, moaning and grunting into your skin, hips working fast against your body. The only thing louder than Jimmy is you: your own whines and pleading moans, yes, but also your sopping cunt. You take him in gladly, wetly, messily, the wet, sucking sounds of your pussy speaking louder than words ever could.
Jimmy moans loudly against your chest, and then braces himself on his forearms, leaning forward so he can speak directly in your ear, voice gritty and shot with pleasure.
“Forced ye,” he pants, mocking your earlier words, “I didnae force ye to squirt all over my cock. Didnae force ye to get so wet for me, either. Not then and not now–and yet here ye are, honeypot.”
You shake your head furiously, as if that might somehow make the words he says untrue.
“No.”
“No,” Jimmy mocks, “That’s right, hen–no, I never forced ye into anything.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. He grips your chin between his fingers.
“Look at me.”
“No,” you mock back, eyes still squeezed shut like a stubborn, disobedient child.
Jimmy slaps you. It’s somehow even harder than the first slap, and the coppery taste of blood blooms over your tongue as the soft inside of your cheek catches painfully against your teeth, flesh tearing. The cold, hard steel of his rings leaves a lingering, stinging impression on your skin. You moan, cunt clenching wildly around his cock. Your own reaction takes you by surprise, a hot flush of humiliation warming your entire body.
Jimmy laughs, incredulous and wheezy. His hands grip low on your thighs, close to the junction of your hips, holding you in place as he fucks you even more vigorously. The movement of his cock in and out of you is euphoria, the stretch alone toe-curling. You bite your lip, trying to hold back any more noises after your embarrassing outburst. You try to focus on the pain, instead–the ache in your eye, the stabbing pain still radiating from your cheekbone, the way the entire side of your face stings from where he slapped you. But just like last night, pain and pleasure seem to become one: it makes no difference to you.
He’s fucking a litany of high, delirious sounds out of you before you know it.
“Good fuckin’ girl,” he pants, “Knew ye fuckin’ loved it. Now look at me.”
You look, eyes bright and glazed with pleasure, mouth wet and parted.
“Good. Fucked all that attitude right out of ye. Now open yer mouth.”
You moan at the command and open, sticking your tongue out for good measure. Jimmy laughs in delight.
“Slut.”
He leans over you and spits generously onto your extended tongue. You feel it slide from your tongue to the back of your throat, and close your mouth around it greedily. You should hate it. You want to hate it. Yet you find yourself swallowing at once, not even needing prompting this time. The sheer filth of the act makes you moan as if you’d just swallowed the sweetest honey. You clench involuntarily, gushing fresh cream around Jimmy’s cock, and he moans, hips stuttering.
He comes to a slow stop, hips rocking into yours, cock nestling deep inside you. You moan at the depth of him, head falling back, neck bared to the animal over you–and he is an animal. The bruise swelling the side of your face, the coppery tinge on your tongue, even the way he fucks you–only an animal masquerading as a man could be capable of such things.
He looks down at you, panting, recollecting himself. Thinking. You can feel his thumb rubbing absentminded circles over your thigh.
“Yer gonna ride me, hen. I wanna feel that honey dripping down my cock.”
Before you can process this, Jimmy is pulling out of you, leaving you so terribly empty, cunt clenching desperately around nothing. You push yourself up onto your forearms, watching as Jimmy makes quick work of undressing–he first strips off his pants (no underwear, of course–you could have guessed that), then his jacket, and then the plain white tee underneath. His many chains, rings, and his tiara–they all stay on. You watch in disbelief as he folds his discarded clothes, setting them next to your forgotten phone.
The sight of his clothes like that, so neatly folded at the foot of the bed–it answers the question of who came into this room while you were sleeping. You look away from them, stomach twisting.
Your eyes find Jimmy’s, who’s already looking back at you, head tilted curiously, that stupid tiara still firmly in place. You realize suddenly that this is your first time seeing him fully nude–you skim him from head to toe, and then look away, oddly embarrassed.
Jimmy tsks at you. “Ye can look if ye want, hen.”
You laugh–you don’t even mean to. You’re absurdly proud of how dismissive it sounds.
“I don’t want to.”
“I suppose I’m not as pretty as ye are, honey,” you hear his heavy footsteps, coming to stand directly in front of you, “Ye should see how ye look right now.”
A frazzled, embarrassed heat floods you as it occurs to you how you must look–ruined shirt still half-hanging from your shoulders, nipples hard and dark and wet from Jimmy’s mouth, bottoms halfway down your thighs, cunt a weeping mess and still clenching in sporadic intervals, begging for something to fill it.
Your arms raise to cross over your chest, an automatic impulse, but then Jimmy’s hand is coming around your wrist, as firm and unyielding as a shackle.
“Let’s not play this game again, honey. Take it off.”
Jimmy’s harsh hold around your wrist has reignited that familiar, angry, humiliated spark in you–but you know better than to argue this. You shoulder the top the rest of the way off, the silky fabric falling in a heap behind you. Jimmy lets go of your wrist, satisfied, then makes quick work of yanking your bottoms the rest of the way off, pulling them past your ankles and letting them fall to the floor in a careless heap. No neatly folded stack for you.
“Now give me some room.”
You scoot to the foot of the bed, giving Jimmy space to climb onto the mattress. He makes himself more than comfortable, spreading out on his back and stretching his limbs like some giant, gold-furred cat. His head and shoulders are propped comfortably by the assortment of pillows at the head of the bed, his cock standing tall and proud between his legs. He crooks two fingers at you and you crawl towards him, burning with irritation.
“Go on, honey,” he says, “Ye heard me earlier.”
You balance on your knees, swinging one of your legs over his hips to straddle him. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, the proximity to his cock alone has your pussy clenching in anticipation, your clit positively aching. You take his cock in hand, skin silky over a steel shaft, and hold it in place as you sink onto him.
There’s no pain this time, your body long remolded to fit him–just the gut-deep bliss of being filled. You bottom out this time, your cunt completely receptive to him now, your head rolling back on your shoulders, toes curling, mouth parting in a blissful sigh. Your sigh soon turns into a moan as your hips rock forward once, and then again–and again and again, in short and greedy bursts, your cunt clenching wildly.
The pleasure of this angle takes you by surprise–it briefly turns you into something that doesn’t exist beyond the pleasure of Jimmy’s cock, inside you, right now. You lose yourself in it, riding him hard–not quite bouncing on his cock but rolling, your hips sliding over his like waves on a shore, back and forth, wet and slippery and utterly overwhelming. Distantly, you hear Jimmy curse beneath you, his hands coming up to grip your waist. Your hands clutch over his, both of you hanging on for dear life.
“Slow down, honey,” Jimmy moans, and with a plaintive whine you do, hips rocking to a slow stop, the wet, sloppy sounds of your pussy obscene. Jimmy laughs breathlessly, his large hands rubbing up and down your sides.
“Such an easy, bonnie thing ye are. Didnae even have to ask ye to ride me like a fuckin’ horse. Am I still forcing ye now?”
This clears the lust drowning your mind, your good sense abruptly resurfacing for air. You tense, glaring down at him, shoving his hands from your sides, your skin crawling at his touch.
You don’t even try to dislodge his cock from your guts, but you don’t let yourself think about that.
Jimmy pulls his hands back, holding them palm-up around his head in a wry gesture of surrender, his expression amused. “Didnae like that, did she?”
“Fuck you,” you bite, “As if you wouldn’t have forced me some other way!”
“Would I have, now? Didnae give us much of a chance to find out, jumping on me the way ye did.” He watches as the anger builds in you, eyes bright and gleeful, teeth on full display in a sharkish grin.
“Getting angry are ye, honey?” His smile goes flatter, meaner, teeth bared. “Are ye gonna do something about it?”
You stare down at him, unsure. Jimmy huffs a laugh and turns his head to the side, tilting his chin up. Offering himself.
“Go on, honey. Hit me. I willnae get angry with ye. It’s a good way to let it out.” He turns back to look at you, smile still sharp and mean, eyes even moreso. “But I guess ye learned that earlier, didnae ye, when I laid yer stupid ass out–,”
You slap him, of course.
It goes better than your punch, the impact actually feeling significant–Jimmy’s head snaps to the side, and your manicured nails catch against the side of his stubbly face, leaving thin, red lines. Barely a beat has passed before he’s laughing, giddy and wheezy. You swear you feel him twitch where he’s seated inside you.
“Atta girl. Knew ye had a good hit in ye.”
Now that your anger has ebbed (and he was right about that–the hit did let it out), you see just how easily you played into his game, one he’s clearly deriving some sick pleasure from.
You can’t do this–you feel sick yourself, of this man and his volatile moods and his voice and his hands on you.
You move, making to climb from atop him, but Jimmy’s hands fly to your waist, squeezing painfully and forcing you back into place–fully seated on his cock.
“Ye’ll stay right fucking there–so convinced I’m forcing ye, then I guess I will.”
Tears spring into your eyes, tired and overwhelmed. “You’re a disgusting man.”
“Not disgusting enough for ye, honey–ye love it.”
That makes the tears come faster, hot and angry and self-pitying. You wipe them away furiously.
Jimmy must not like this response–he pinches at the soft skin of your hip, hard enough that you yelp, flinching away from his touch–that will surely bruise later.
“Stupid lass, sitting up there crying when I already told ye what ye need to do–hit me.”
You hate him. So you do–you send an uncoordinated slap across his face, and then another, and another. You scratch harsh welts down his neck with your nails, beat your fists furiously over his chest. He smiles in the middle of your assault, wide and pleased, and so you slap him harder, wishing that he’d bleed the way he made you bleed.
He likes it–his hands settle over your hips, and he holds you in place as he begins to roll his hips up into yours. It’s not long before pleasure begins to travel through your body, the drag of his cock against your walls bringing your cunt back to life. The pleasure comes at around the same time you tire yourself out, panting hard, still crying, hands balled into fists on either side of Jimmy’s head.
You find yourself rolling your hips back to meet his, body electric even as your mind is miserable.
And then the glint of Jimmy’s tiara catches your eye. It’s so stupid–you hate it almost as much as you hate him. So you tear it off, your hand wrapping around the bejeweled silver piece and yanking. It gets caught in Jimmy’s hair and he cries out–more in surprise than anything, but also with a hint of the first real pain he’s felt all night.
You’ve barely pulled it away from his head before he’s regained his bearings, hand clamping hard around your wrist and twisting. You make a high, pained noise, releasing it immediately–it slaps back against his face, still caught in his hair. He lets go of your wrist almost immediately, but only because his attention is on his stupid, stupid fucking tiara instead.
He’s detangling it from his hair, cringing every time it snags painfully in his long locks. It’s not long before he gets it free and–to your surprise–tosses aside, aiming vaguely for the foot of the bed where his tracksuit lies. You expected more delicate treatment of something he must surely flaunt as a status symbol.
Then his eyes land on you, dark and angry. You freeze in fear, anticipating another hit–and then yelp, startled, as he instead flips your positions, sending you once again landing on your back on the mattress, his broad form a suffocating presence over you. He wraps a hand around your neck, not squeezing, but firm. A threat.
“Dinnae push yer luck. I’ll excuse it this time since ye didnae know and I was encouraging ye to be bold, but I’ll only tell ye this once–nobody, under any circumstances, touches my crown. Do that again and I’ll show ye more than just anger, honey.”
He releases your neck, and then slaps you–not as hard as the previous two, but still enough to make you moan in pain. Or pleasure.
“Now hit me back.”
You do, hand firm, your slap echoing loudly. He grins, pleased, then hikes your thighs up, pushing them back until you’re folded in half again, this time with your knees spread on either side of your torso rather than directly over your chest. Like before, Jimmy hooks your legs over his shoulders, his weight bearing across the backs of your thighs. Unlike before, he is intimately close to you, the entire length of his body lying against yours, warm and heavy.
You groan at the ache in your hips, and then moan, louder, when Jimmy slots himself between your legs and fucks you. He goes quiet, save for his soft moans and pants, intent on chasing his pleasure–his eyes dart from your shaking tits to your bruised, teary face. He seems equally turned on by both.
Your hands thread through his hair as his thrusts go brutal, a liferaft. The force with which he rocks your body makes you tug at the long, wavy strands involuntarily. Jimmy moans, and you tug harder, with more intent. He moans louder, head tilting back in pleasure.
“Keep that up and I’ll cream this sweet pussy right now.”
You yank, hard, twisting your fingers deep in his roots, the way you remember him doing to you last night. He moans, long and guttural, and then laughs.
“Good lass. Learn so quick.”
Jimmy props himself up, looking down at where your bodies join. He slows his thrusts, rolling his hips leisurely into yours, watching the way you take him in and nearly refuse to let go. He rubs his fingers over your clit, and you jerk in surprise, whining–it’s been neglected for so long, swollen and aching and hypersensitive.
“Will ye squirt for me again, honey?” he asks, rubbing steady, gentle circles over your clit. “Felt so honored last night. Was it yer first time?”
It wasn’t, but it was your first time with a partner, and certainly the most you’d ever released. Not that Jimmy needs to know that.
“No,” you gasp, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, even as he plays your clit like a fiddle.
Jimmy tsks. “I dinnae believe ye, honey. But that’s alright–we’ll build trust soon enough.”
He rolls his hips forward, sinking his cock as deep into you as it’ll go, his fingers pressing harder and faster against your clit. You cry out, hips jerking up. He pulls out slowly, pausing the movements of his fingers, and then pushes in again, balls deep, fingers resuming.
You as good as lose your wits–the deep, penetrating stretch of his cock coupled with the hard press of his fingers over your clit turns you into something less than human, something driven only by cock and pleasure. You twitch your hips desperately forward, wanting him to go faster, harder, to fuck the life out of you, your cunt clenching and creaming wildly around him–there’s a white, frothy mess where your bodies meet, coating the length of his cock and surrounding your messy, greedy hole. You’ve never been louder–even though he’s fucked you harder than this–, something about these combined sensations turning you base.
Then he stops.
“Jimmy,” you whine, high and pleading, “Please.”
“Please? Ye gonna come, honey? Gonna gush it all over me?”
“Please.”
“I want to feel it, honey.”
“I will–I will, just–just let me come.”
Jimmy laughs and works you again, his slow strokes picking up pace, his fingers over your clit never letting up. You’ve never been so vocal in your life, screeching like a cat in heat. Jimmy is mostly silent, his brows drawn in concentration, eyes intent on where your bodies meet. When he does speak, it’s to guide you to your peak, voice breathy and broken up by his own small, lustful noises.
“Come on, honey,” he encourages you, fingers working fast over your clit, “All over me, put it all over me. Dinnae be shy, bonnie thing, I know ye can do it, cover me with it, gush that sweet cunt all over me, come on, come on, come–,”
You do come, and it’s just as he hoped it would be–your pussy turns into a fountain, gushing clear fluid all over him, an amount that should be impossible. You scream, loud and long, cunt clenching almost painfully around him, legs jerking. You can faintly hear him underneath it all, a litany of yes and good lass and all over me, honey.
You drop against the mattress like a wet rag, limbs turning boneless, utterly spent–but Jimmy is still hard as a steel beam within you. He’s hunching over you at once, fucking into your lax body like an animal, chasing his own release.
“Come on, honey,” he pants into your ears, “Do Jimmy a favor.”
You understand, even with your brain as fogged as it is. Your hands come up, threading through that golden hair, fingers clutching weakly at the roots. You pull, as hard as you can, as hard as your sapped strength allows, twisting the strands between your fingers in a meager imitation of the way he abused your own scalp the previous night. Jimmy moans long and low into the crook of your neck. He brushes his mouth against your ear, speaking words that your lagging, floating mind can barely comprehend.
“Sweet lass. Didnae know Heaven was in a cunt–I’ll keep this piece of Heaven with me always. Stubborn ye are now, honey, but I can tell ye: ye willnae want for anything so long as my cock has a home in you.”
Nonsense. You forget the words as soon as he says them, so much of a mush is your brain. You remember that you’re supposed to be doing something.
Your fingers, gone so lax that they’ve nearly slipped from Jimmy’s hair, find their purpose again, twisting back into his roots. You yank at them again, and then again, and again–your strength is negligible, but this must do the job, for Jimmy’s hips stutter, his thrusts turning erratic and somehow even harder, the man as good as whimpering his release in your ear as he pounds your pussy into oblivion. You can feel the fine tremor going through his body–and like before, you swear you can feel the pulsating twitch of his spending cock, the molten heat of his cum filling you to the brim.
You moan at the feeling: it’s perhaps the most intimate sensation ever visited upon your body.
Jimmy is just barely holding his weight off of you as he comes down, propped weakly on his forearms, his golden locks a curtain around both your faces. After a while, he pushes off, flopping onto his back at your side, chest heaving. You wince as his cock slips out of you, and then again at the feel of his hot cum leaking from your gaping hole, down the cleft of your ass. You stretch out your aching body, wincing at the pain in your hips, your face. You wonder if you’ll ever go another day without pain.
Despite it, you feel like you’re on a cloud, light and fuzzy. You’re surprised when a violent shiver wracks your body, and you realize how cold you are now that you’re coming down from the exertion of sex, a sheen of sticky sweat covering your body. This stirs Jimmy, who sits up, reaching his arm across your body to grab the edge of the duvet. He pulls it over your body in an odd echo of the night before, when he’d tucked you in. When you meet his gaze, his eyes are bright.
“Did ye hear me? Of course not–poor lass disnae know if she’s here or there. Fucked the brains out of ye, did I? I said ye cannae sleep in this bed tonight–ye’ve got it ruined.” He grins and you see your own tired face, reflected distortedly in his gold tooth. “Ye’ll have to sleep in mine.”
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