The hardwood floor is warm, of course it is. The finite moments of peace fade. Sleeping on it is never comfortable but after all this time, it’s familiar. Reality, the waking world, claws its way back. That dream was so nice, even just a minute longer would have been divine. It echoed moments from before, friendly people, places, safety. The sleepy haze almost feels like a high.
The peace is short-lived. It usually is with him around. Insults first thing in the morning are nothing new. His presence is sobering, and equally irritating.
”Come on! Get up. I don’t have time for this, you’re going to make me late.” Derek kicks your thigh, hard.
His dress shoe leaves an imprint. The pain sprouts immediately, followed by a faint red mark. A sigh escapes through your gritted teeth. The chains inhibit any real ability to lurch forward at him. In the grand scheme of injuries he’s inflicted, it’s nothing. Still, it is horribly infuriating. Ego bruising. Sleep cakes the corners of your eyes as you groggily stand, a scowl plastered on your features.
“What is your problem?” You hiss.
Derek rifles through a dresser drawer. It’s filled with ties, all neatly folded and organized. He selects one and holds it against his shirt, it’s not good enough and he tests another. To you, they all look the same, but apparently not to him. He’s right, everyone will pick apart his tie selection, obviously. They’ll think about it for days even. He’ll be a laughing stock.
“We have to be at the office by seven.” Derek huffs.
“We?” You scoff.
His gaze snaps to you as he finishes buttoning his shirt. Muted blue and perfectly ironed. His brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line. Again, he takes off the tie to try another, and you laugh a little inside.
“We?” He mocks, forcing his voice into a nasally pitch, “Are you deaf? Yes, we. You’re coming with me today.”
You can’t help but gaze down. The scars, welts and bruises that litter your skin. Someone will notice, someone has to notice them. They might even say something. Derek’s frustrated sigh draws your attention back to him.
“My assistant quit, so you’re going to have to fill in.” He grumbles, “Stupid cunt, let’s see her poor ass ever get another job. Fucking me over in the middle of—”
His words, more so the day they promise, rattle around. Leaving the estate. The office. People. Help. Escape. It repeats, over and over.
”Hey!” He yells, now standing right in front of you, “Are you fucking listening?”
“Ugh, yes!” You bark, thrashing forward once against the restraints.
Derek reaches towards you. Instinctively you recoil away from him. His eyes flash with excitement. He can see right through your tough facade to the terror that lies underneath. For a beat too long, his gaze lingers on your scars. Each one a permanent reminder of his cruelty. He grabs your wrist and unlocks one of the chains.
It clatters loudly against the floor, startling you. The heavy, oppressive, weight is suddenly gone. The freedom is just as alien as it has been the other handful times he’s unchained them. The sight of your bare wrist is foreign.
“Trying to get me all excited before work?” Derek chuckles as he steps behind you, wrapping his forearm around your neck, “Looking at me like that…I like it.”
He uses his free hand to unlock your left arm. Again the loud noise is startling, and he can feel you jerk in his grasp. Derek’s body is warm against yours. His forearm constricts tighter with every second. You try to free yourself, but to no avail. He has you firmly held in place.
His partial erection can be felt through his slacks. Even not fully hard it presses against your backside. Disgusting. For a split second you find yourself missing the chain, the predictability that accompanied them. His lips brush against your ear, and he uses his other arm to wrench his chokehold tighter.
”Don’t even think about running. That would be really, really, stupid.”
The words you try to form sound more like a croak. Instead, you nod. But you have been thinking about it. Since you woke up here. It’s the only thing you’ve thought about. Escape has never been closer, and you’ll be damned if you let it slip away.
“Good, that’s what I thought.” His cologne is strong, “I’d hate for this to be the last time you ever go outside.”
Outside. Last time. Standing out. Just one person needs to notice. Just one, normal, everyday person. You’re starting to forget what life outside is like. The concept is abstract, like a different planet now. Derek is the only person you’ve been interacting with. Last time. Never free. Only him, forever. He’d love that. He’s such a liar. Derek shakes you, and you nod again.
“You’re going to speak when spoken to. You’re going to do what I say, when I say it. If someone tries to talk to you, you’re going to look for my approval first.” He orders, “Don’t forget, I own you.”
You nod. He’s not the only one that can lie. The pressure is so tight on your trachea. Little black dots start to form at the edges of your vision. It doesn’t relent or slack. He knows, he knows you’re plotting.
“Speak when spoken to.”
You choke, relieved, “I understand.”
The words are garbled, raspy, practically unintelligible. Derek cackles at your struggle. His erection twitches beneath his slacks. Slowly he releases some of the pressure. The black dots begin to fade as you draw in a few shuddering breaths. He keeps your back pressed against his chest. His hand snakes down to your waist.
“You smell really bad. Go shower, now.”
In one motion he releases you and shoves you forward. The force of which causes you to stumble slightly before regaining your balance. He laughs again, almost doubling over. Internally you roll your eyes. He’s the man who’s going to take over their company one day, an heir. He never acts like it.
The bathroom is large, almost comedically so. It’s decorated like his room, expensive, polite. Like it came straight out of an interior design magazine. It’s cleaned spotlessly. At least once a day one of the staff members comes in to tidy. They always avoid looking at you, let alone speaking to you.
The shower is large too, a big glass box with a rainfall head. The shelves are carved into the walls themselves. Black granite tile plasters the inside. At least the manor is nice. It could be worse, he could be evil and live in a shithole.
The water heats up quickly. It’s soothing against your achy muscles and various other pains. It carries the dried blood, the sweat, the tears, and maybe some of the shame down the drain. Twinged ever so slightly brown. As much as you hate to admit it, Derek is probably right, you do smell awful.
Every bottle of soap or shampoo is from an expensive brand. You make sure to use a little extra, not that it would hurt his pockets anyways. The warmth and the comfort is so addicting, you don’t want to get out. On cue, the blossoming bruise aches at the fantasy of disobedience. It’s just not worth it.
Steam billows from the glass door as you step out. The bath mat is soft, probably the softest thing you will ever feel again. Water soaks into the towel, little droplets dribble onto the floor. Derek hates it when you’re messy, but you don’t care. The remaining water on your skin cools. It’s just as relaxing as the warmth of the shower. So nice to feel clean again.
You work the towel over your exposed skin. The door swings open, no knock, no warning. He struts in as you start to dry your hair. The large room suddenly feels much more cramped.
“Are you trying to make my father pissed at me?” Derek seethes.
You continue to dry your hair. One can only hope. It’s hard to feel bad for him, considering he’s such a petulant asshole all the time.
”I bet you would just love that, wouldn’t you?” He gets uncomfortably close to you, “If you make me late today, you’re dead.”
He tosses a stack of neatly folded clothes onto the wide vanity. You wrap your hair into the towel, hoping to speed up the drying process. The realization of the day ahead starts to sink in. The thought tears through your gut, heavy.
“You are taking forever!” Derek groans.
Your quip tumbles out harsh, “I am going as fast as I can, asshole!”
Before you can think or even choke out an apology, his hand is wrapped around the back of your neck. The grip is crushing. Derek’s scowl burns holes into the back of your skull. The reflection of a person you don’t even recognize stares back at you, pathetic.
“You are so lucky I don’t have time to teach you some manners right now, bitch.”
Derek shoves you forward. The cold, immovable, marble collides with your gut. It knocks the air from your lungs. Derek doesn’t even laugh at your discomfort this time. He’s staring in the mirror, making sure every hair is slicked into place.
As you choke on the returning air, you reluctantly pull on the outfit. Black skirt, long enough to be appropriate. Black sheer pantyhose, delicate white socks, black pumps with a small heel. A set of disgustingly perverse undergarments, of course. A thin black belt, a grey button up. Finally, a chunky necklace.
The necklace makes a strange clicking noise as you latch it together, almost like a mechanical whirring. Again, you glance in the mirror as you remove the towel. Still unrecognizable, you’re not sure if you’ll ever really feel like yourself again. But now, fully dressed, you almost look human.
The knots in your hair brush out seamlessly. No doubt thanks to his grossly expensive hair products. Even the spare wardrobe he has allowed you is filled with pieces from designer brands.
Derek sighs, “Your hair is still wet. You're doing it wrong.”
He reaches beneath the vanity cupboard and pulls out a sleek black hairdryer. He plugs it in and switches it on. It screams to life, and you’re sure he’s holding the noisiest part near your ear on purpose.
You jerk away from the deafening sound and he roughly yanks you back into place. The hot air is centimeters away from your scalp. It burns, and the smell of smoking hair fills the room. Each pass of the dryer ignites more searing pain.
It feels like hours have passed by the time he finishes. He unplugs the hairdryer and stows it away gently. More gentle than he’s ever been with you. The pain on your scalp begins to fade.
“Useless,” He mutters, “I can’t believe I got the most worthless one.”
Derek grabs your shoulder and drags you out of his bathroom, then his room. Suddenly you are in a part of the manor you haven’t seen before. Except the slivers that are visible when the door to his room is opened.
Staff meander along the hall as he shoves you through it. They don’t look at him, or you for that matter. Every time you catch their gaze they quickly look down to the floor. The thought of saying something to them barely crosses your mind.
You reach the large, open, foyer. Two women stand inside cleaning the various trims and statuettes. Derek waves them off dismissively, and they quickly gather their cleaning supplies and bustle out of the room.
“You are going to behave.” His grip is bruising.
“Ow, Jesus, yes!” You snap.
Derek smirks, “That’s a good girl.”
“Don’t call me that.” You grumble.
The pressure is released, but followed by a firm smack. The flesh of your cheek burns. For the second time today your skin blooms a bright red. The noise was loud enough to turn a few heads, but not enough to pull them away from their tasks.
“That’s not behaving, use your manners.” He orders, the painful grip returns harsher than before.
You roll your eyes, “Thank you.”
Derek smirks again and leads you outside. The doorman doesn’t comment on the assault he just witnessed, why would he? The sun is sparkling and alive. You’ve forgotten what it felt like. It’s so foreign that it feels blinding. The rays burn your exposed skin. Your steps stutter for a moment.
Again, Derek’s forearm is wrapped around your neck, “Don’t even think about it.”
He keeps his pace and watches with delight as you awkwardly shuffle in front of him. The valet, a nervous young man, hurriedly opens the passenger door. Derek shoves you inside and chuckles as you try to catch yourself on the leather seat. You glare at the valet who is too busy scrambling to open the driver door.
His nervousness pisses you off. No one ever calls Derek out on his behavior. That kid doesn’t even know the half of it. He doesn’t have the right to be nervous.
Derek hops in, “Come on, hurry up!”
The valet goes pale and quickly shuts the door. Coward. Just as Derek gets the car in gear the valet jumps out of the way. He narrowly avoids having a limb ran over. Derek’s expensive car roars down the endless driveway. The gate is practically running towards you. It starts to open slowly as Derek speeds up exponentially.
“Derek, slow down, you’re going to kill us!” You yelp
and clutch the safety handle.
Derek doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at you. Definitely doesn’t slow down. He just rolls his eyes. The passenger side of the car narrowly misses the rising gate. You exhale a shaky sigh of relief.
“See?” He groans, “You’re so boring, grow up.”
The rest of the drive is silent. Derek glances at the clock intermittently. Each time the number ticks up, so does his speed. He weaves through traffic. Cars honk and swerve to avoid his recklessness. Every time he’s caught behind a car going ‘too slow’ he drives abhorrently close. Like he’s trying to physically push them out of the way.
Derek practically drifts into the parking lot. 6:50 AM. He snakes through it and pulls into his reserved parking lot. Most of the lot lies barren. A few cars scatter near the back of the lot. The openness is alien and adrenaline pumping. He rakes through his hair a final time, all in place. The silence is broken, and you are snapped from your thoughts.
He grips your chin, and forces you to look at him, “I’m being really, really, nice to you right now. Do not embarrass me. Keep your mouth shut.”
The stunningly tall building looms over the car. The parking lot doesn’t look big enough to fill half of it. Grey, dismal, empty.
Safety is never guaranteed, especially when you cross one of the richest men in the world.
Chapter 3/3 | Chapter One | Chapter Two
Prefer Ao3? :3
Tags/themes: Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Breaking and Entering, Past Abuse, Abuse, Past Suicide Attempts, Mind Break, Psychological Horror, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal ideation (past), Stalking, Obsession, Gun Violence, Derek Goffard Being an Asshole, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Narcissism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Rape, Blood and Gore, Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Self-Mutilation, Mental Coercion, Sexual Coercion, Coercion, Gunshot Wounds, pistol whipping, Gun Kink, Gun Sucking, Sexual Abuse, Psychological Torture, Mind Rape
CHAPTER 3: Dangerous, Tainted, and Flawed
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You’re stuck again. Frozen in place. A part of you didn’t want to do that. The gun returns to a shaking toy in your hands, just when it started to feel autonomous.
Derek is rushing at you faster than you thought possible. A large tear in the shoulder of his long sleeve shirt. Nothing changed.
You missed.
He’s too fast, even if you could move. In a blur he has you thrown to the ground, the gun clattering out of your reach. Your head smacks against a bookshelf as your bodies thwack against the floor. You fucking idiot you should have moved! Derek’s body weight is shockingly heavy. The world feels fuzzy, ringing your entire body.
Heart beating so fast it must be visible. You press your arms against his chest. Slap at his muscular body. Your body moves before your mind can process what it’s trying to do. Derek wrestles your arms to the floor. The hard wood greets your wrists painfully. The dull thud louder than the shot. Your writhe under him as he reaches out. He’s going for the gun. You thrust yourself in the same direction.
The gun feels miles away. You kick at Derek. He remains unaffected. Maybe his adrenaline is pumping just as fast. His hand envelopes your skull. He presses down hard. It's a sharp pressure that starts to build sharper with every second. It feels like it will crack open under his weight. Blindly clawing at his arms you catch the tear in his shirt. It rips larger.
“You disgusting cunt.” It almost sounds like he’s holding back a laugh.
When he removes his hand the gun is centimeters from your face. The barrel’s metal abyss indifferent to its master. For a moment, the house’s floor does open. A portal back to that concrete divider. The wind, the cars, the burn. Derek keeps the gun trained on you. The blood drains from your body.
“You like playing with guns?” He muses, pressing the metal against your skin.
Tears spill without regard for the situation. They burn as they roll down. Goddamnit, you’re going to die. He’s going to get away with it.
Derek's cold eyes bore into you, “Should I just do it? I think this shit-hole would look much better with your brains splattered all over the place.”
Answering him would make him more likely to fire. There’s no telling how riled up he’d get from begging now. Now that it was real. While the pleas are easily contained, the sob is not. It’s loud and vulnerable and embarrassing.
“Guess you haven’t changed that much,” his voice is heavy, “it’s still so easy to make you cry.”
A nauseous feeling floods inside. Shame. He notices the look that crawls across your features. A deer in headlights.
”Sit up.” Derek orders.
“Get off of me!” You whine, unceremoniously shoving against his chest again.
Derek smiles, and this time it really does seem genuine. Sick and perverse, but genuine. He stands, making sure to keep the gun pointed at you. A specific kind of fear, long buried, crawls to the surface again. It settles deep, a full body experience. Powerlessness.
You adjust to a sitting position. What if he wasn’t lying? Maybe he really just wanted to talk. To yell, insult, and then go. This could have gone a thousand different ways. Maybe if you waited a few more minutes, he would have left.
“You’re fucking brainless.” He seethes, “Worthless cunt. You are nothing without me.”
The gun is surely going to leave an indent with how hard he’s pressing it into the skin. The pit in your stomach deepens, constricting tighter. He is so good at breaking people.
“Say it.”
Your body jerks before you can think better of it. His canines are sharp. Derek’s hot breath fans across your face. His finger curls gently around the trigger. He raises his eyebrow, taunting.
“I’m worthless!” You yelp, “I’m nothing, I’m sorry. Please don’t do this.”
His smirk widens, you have a knack for giving him exactly what he wants.
“Show me.”
“What?” You balk.
“Show me how goddamn sorry you are, bitch” Derek chuckles, “You know what I want to see.”
Again, you roll your eyes. A scowl flickers across his face. His request is obvious, annoyingly so. The fact that the knowledge hasn’t dissipated after all these years is painful. The time that passed, the success that followed, the physical distance never really brought you any farther away.
Derek knows how humiliating this is, and he likes it. He revels in it. It’s exciting, but certainly not taboo, he must humiliate people like this on a daily basis.
With a heavy exhale your tongue pokes out. The decade old wound formed a keloidal scar years ago. A protrusion that the mind never habituates. A wave of embarrassment crashes, wild and feverish. The room grows warmer.
His eyes light up upon the reveal. Like he had no idea what would be there. He slides the gun down slowly, resting the barrel against the scar. Your heart races as a manic look creeps into his eyes.
“I should give you another scar, for old times sake.” Derek muses.
No. Fuck no he shouldn’t. The question alone burns with agony. The knife was bad enough. A bullet to the tongue? That doesn’t even sound survivable. You shake your head, the metal of the gun slipping on the wet muscle.
“No? Are you telling me no?”
A hot tear rolls down your cheek and splatters on the floor below. The room is so quiet it’s audible. Did he hear it too?
“I should break your teeth for disrespecting me.” Derek hisses.
He slides the gun forward, the muzzle presses past the barrier of your lips. The safety is still off. The sturdy metal presses against teeth and your jaw unhinges wider. You wrench your eyes shut. He’s going to do it, he’s going to pull the trigger.
The gun scrapes past your teeth, into the dry openness of your mouth. It’s so bitter, the smell is so strong. The barrel is lukewarm. Derek pushes deeper, until you can feel it hitting the back of your throat. At least he’s not going to fire, yet.
He slides the gun out gently before trusting it back in again, rough. As the intrusion hits the back of your throat it tightens around it, trying to force it out. Warm saliva floods in and slickens the muzzle.
While Derek’s finger remains trained on the trigger, his thumb moves to flick the safety. The metallic click is nauseatingly loud. On. Off. On. Off. Derek starts to thrust the gun faster. Spit pools at the corners of your mouth and drips down your chin.
Splat—Splat—Splat
“You’re still such a slut,” He whispers, “You really do like playing with guns.”
Finally, you glance up at him again. His face is flushed a deep red. Just like the desert. His eyes are lidded as they drink you in, your fear. Derek presses the deep, deeper than every other thrust. You gag violently, a puddle of spit spewing around the gun.
SPLAT
The tent in his dark pants twitches at the scene. He chuckles and reaches down with his free hand to gather some on his tan fingers. Derek smears the liquid across your face. He grinds his palm down to really rub it in.
Disgusting, sticky, and slimy. Again, your body recoils before you can think better of it. Leaning back, the gun disappears from your lips. A long trail of saliva still connects it to you.
Before the gravity of your mistake sets in, Derek has his arm cocked back. It clicks as the gun makes contact with the side of your head. An explosion of agony bleeds from your skull. Once again, your ears are ringing. The flesh stings, if you’re lucky enough to survive the night it’s going to leave a nasty bruise.
“You just want me to hurt you!”
His strong hand clasps around your neck as he shoves you back to the floor. The force of which causes the air to be crushed from your lungs. Derek positions himself in a straddle over your chest. The large tent in his pants rubs against your chin.
The ringing, the lack of oxygen, the dull throb from the pistol whip. The powerlessness grows with every claw at his arms. Your teeth begin to dig into your tongue and a salty, metallic taste begins to flood your mouth. As your vision begins to fade you make a last ditch effort for the gun.
Distant and muffled, Derek chuckles. He removes his hand from your throat, and holds you down with his foot against your rib cage. Air floods back in with deep gulps. Frantic and raspy. You don’t have time to process him turning around until a loud bang fires through the air.
The compounded ringing is so loud, so overstimulating. For a moment it feels like a bee has stung your leg. Derek covers his mouth with a laugh of disbelief. As you look down the stinging becomes harsher. Derek lifts his leg from your chest and repositions himself. You lay there, unmoving, as the sensations scattered across your body collide.
The feeling of a warm liquid spilling across your calf causes you to jolt up. With shaky hands you inspect your leg. As the wound comes fully into view, the real pain starts. It is a teeth shattering, unexplainable flavour of hurt. A bright light shines against the bullet hole. The gory sight looks like a prosthetic.
“Oh wow. That doesn’t look too good, does it?” Derek muses, flashlight in hand.
Your head is spinning. You wrap your hand around the wound and press down hard. A trail of blood drips down your leg, seeps through your fingers, and a puddle forms on the floor. The pressure hurts, and the irritated flesh weeps at the feeling.
The room smells like gunpowder and metal, dark and claustrophobic. The moon kisses Derek’s skin. He threads his fingers through your hair and forces you to look at him. His face is distorted, flushed, demonic.
“You made me do that.”
“I…sorry.” You whimper.
So many aches make it hard to think, let alone form a sentence. The leg wound throbs and pulses. The feeling echoes out in a flood. It climbs upward, fast and violently. Every nerve hones in on the white-hot searing.
Derek’s lips brush against your ear, “You should probably get that out of there. Looks like it hurts.”
“What? No. Just pressure, supposed to keep pressure.” Your words are as jumbled as the thoughts that birth them.
“I think you need to pull that fucking bullet out before I shoot you again.” Derek aims the pistol above your trembling hand.
“No, no no!” You sob pitifully, “Please. Please, Derek, please don’t make me .”
“Fish. It. Out.” his finger falls back to the trigger.
This isn’t real. It looks fake. No one would ever make another human being do something like this. Nobody, except Derek.
His order is clear, the consequences of disobedience clearer. You bite your lip hard as the tips of your fingers find the opening of the hole. It is warm, slick, and unbearable. The noise of your breathing is loud and choppy as you hyperventilate through the nose. A scream falls from your lips as you plunge your fingers into the hole. The corners of your vision black, and the only thing that exists right now is that wound. You bite down on your free arm in an attempt to spare your teeth from shattering.
The inside is hot. Pain explodes from the new sensation. The warmth envelops your fingers as they scramble in search of the metal lump. The walls of the wound are gritty and jagged. Every brush against them causes the torture to shoot deeper in your leg.
The screaming doesn’t stop. It sounds like an animal. The resistance of the mangled flesh makes things that much more difficult. Regrettably, you steal a glance at Derek. The flashlight is tucked into his armpit as he palms himself over his pants. You feel like you're going to throw up all over his shoes.
Your nail catches something hard. Only one way to find out. You pull, but your fingers slip against the slick surface. No, no, no.
“Keep going.” Derek moans.
With a hysterical sob you are able to leverage your nail against the cold mass. The lump scrapes across the walls as you drag it to the opening. Just a little farther.
A pause takes over at the worst possible moment. It’s so close, you can see the shiny mass. It’ll all be over when it’s out. With a deep breath you drag it further until your finger is finally out of the wound. With a squelch the bullet clatters to the floor.
It’s out, oh god, it's out. Another broken sob rings through the air. Blood oozes from the wound, harder, angrier, Derek stares at the hole, star-struck. It’s such a sickening sight. Blood stains your fingers a deep red. Waves of sharp, burning, pain radiate from your calf.
“You actually did it…” He murmurs.
Derek reaches his hand out. Your heart starts to pound faster. The adrenaline rush is intoxicating. It gives the ache a dull blanket. His fingers ghost over the wound. You tense. He’s going to do it. The heat from his hand is palpable. It starts to hurt before he even presses his finger to it.
Warm red liquid squelches around his intrusion. Fuck, it burns. It’s going to get infected. He circles his finger inside. He’s going to rip it. Every torn muscle ignites as he wiggles around. The gun still trained against your head.
Derek looks you deep in the eyes, and tears his finger out. You sob, but feel a mild sense of relief after a moment. At least it’s empty now.
“Learn your lesson?” He smirks, standing.
Without hesitation, you nod. “Yes…yes.”
Derek glances at his fingers. He presses them together and gawks at the string of blood and plasma that forms between them. He raises them to his mouth and sucks them clean. His flush is deep, and he groans as he swallows the substance.
He breathes heavy and gestures to his groin “Fuck, I think I missed the way you taste.”
There’s nothing left to say. You shudder as he gets closer. A wet spot has formed on the twitching tent. Your heart sinks. This isn’t even close to over.
Derek lets the flashlight fall to the floor as he undoes his belt with one hand.
His garments cascade to the floor and pool around his ankles. His cock is throbbing with desire. Precum pools at the tip. Tears spill harder and you cover your eyes with your hands. No. No. No.
The night just keeps getting worse. Derek’s hand wraps around your ankle and he violently pulls you towards him. His fingers dip into the hem of your waistband and rip your shorts off. He doesn’t bother lubricating or prepping.
“Please don’t!” You scream as the head of his cock presses against your cunt.
Derek cracks the gun across your face again, “Be grateful.”
Again, the side of your head throbs. A terrible feeling settles into your stomach. You’re going to be sick. The smell of sex is absolutely nauseating. His musk fills your senses and he leans closer to you.
His cock pressing in burns, so does the second pistol whip. A mixture of a moan and a sob falls on his deaf ears. Derek loves seeing you like this. He gets halfway in and pulls out, testing. He grunts as he stares down at you, half lidded.
You try not to think about it, to leave your body. This isn’t happening. Your tears stream faster at the attempt to self soothe. Just lay there and get it over with.
Without warning he drives himself in. He stalls for a moment, your insides flutter and pulse around him. His hand trails up your calf, to the wound. He starts thrusting rhythmically and it feels like your insides will shred. His fingers press into the gaping hole on your leg.
You scream as he violates your holes. The noises you make excite him. He should have killed you. You should have finished the job on the overpass.
His pace picks up, and a thin coating of lubricant begins to coat his cock. After all of the pain tonight, his rhythmic thrusting starts to feel sensual. Your body betrays you, and that hurts more than anything you experienced tonight
Moans fill the air, harmonizing with the symphony of skin slapping together. Finally, Derek mercifully removes his fingers from your wound. You moan louder at the relief. Every thrust electrocutes your insides.
Derek grips your knees and presses them closer to your head. The stretch gnaws at your gunshot wound. Drips of blood spatter onto your face.
His cock pounds deeper. As he pulls out it feels like your insides will follow. He drives back in, slamming painfully into your cervix.
“Stop, stop it, you’re hurting me.” You beg.
Derek pants and smirks. His thrusts become harder, sloppy, noises echo through the room. Each thrust feels like a blunt punch in the gut. You moan loud, slamming a hand down to muffle it.
“You,” he grunts, “you missed me”
Derek is wrong. You shake your head no. He loosens his grip on one leg to wrap his hand around your throat. It’s tight and restricting, but not enough to cut off air supply completely.
He presses your mangled leg higher. Your ass is off the floor completely and the stretch in your hamstring is unbearable. Every inch of his long dick slams into you. Derek spits into your open mouth, not breaking his rhythmic thrusting. You swallow; muscle memory.
Derek moans, slowing down dramatically to feel the suction of your cunt, “You want this. Say you want to go home with me.”
Every slow pump draws you in. The stretch of his girth, the natural lubricant your body continues to produce. It is all intoxicating and mind melting.
“I don’t.” You cry, unconvincingly, in a shuddering moan.
He quickly snaps back to roughly hammering in. Derek’s grip against your throat tightens. His eyes wrench closed and he tilts his head back. His pace starts to become erratic.
“Lying,” He gasps, “bitch.”
He stretches you as far as possible for his last thrust. Derek drills in as deep as he can possibly go. His cock twitches angrily and he pumps you full of cum. He groans loudly as he releases. You draw in a raspy inhale at the sickening feeling of being filled.
Derek pulls out with an audible pop. He watches as his cum spills out of your abused hole. It pulses and constricts from the sudden feeling of emptiness.
At last, he allows you to breathe again. It’s over, it’s finally over.
You stare up at the ceiling as you catch your breath. The wet sensation feels disgusting. When Derek returns he already has the gun in hand again. For what feels like the 50th time tonight, it’s aimed at your head.
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