DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT — non-con, degradation, humiliation, blood and injury, violence, forced orgasm, spitting, choking, coercion, masturbation, creampie
you’re too kind. gosh, you are. so willing to help strangers. especially the ones bleeding and broken. you just wanted to help. you really did. so now you’re on your own couch with your own panties shoved into your mouth, spread open beneath the man you patched up, while he fucks into your cunt like he owns it.
“see, that’s the problem with good girls like you.” his voice rasps against your ear, rough as gravel and just as cold. “you never check if the stray dog bites. you just open your door and roll out the bandages. real trusting.”
blood drips from his split lip onto your cheek. another drop, warmer, rolls from a wound on his side down your waist. you try to turn your head, but he catches your jaw, forcing you to look at him. his thumb brushes your tears away, smearing them across your skin like he's painting something. “i’m just paying you back for helping me.” he says it like a promise. mocking you. “next time, sweetheart, maybe check who you’re saving before you offer your couch.” then he slams into you deeper, and you muffle a scream against the cloth in your mouth.
he buries his face in your neck, kisses and bites until you’ll have bruises you can’t explain. your legs shake. you’ve lost count of how many times he’s made you come. one more gathers in your gut, hot and humiliating. you clench around him against your will. you turn your head away, face pressed into the couch cushion, but he fists your hair and yanks you back.
“if you scream, i’m going to make this night a lot longer for you. understand?” his tongue traces the shell of your ear before he pulls the panties from your mouth.
you don't scream. you sob. “p-please… I don’t like this- ”
“yeah?” he tugs your hair harder. “tell me how much you hate it. how disgusting i am. go on, pretty girl.”
“i fucking hate you- get off me- please-” the words come out broken, swallowed by tears. he laughs, low and dark. then he shoves your face into the cushion again, arches your back, and drives himself deeper. “i’m disgusting, baby? that’s what i am?”
“disgusting- you’re so fucking-” you gasp as he hits that spot. the one you hate and the one that betrays you every time. “disgusting- mmh…”
“yeah? am i?” his rhythm stutters. his breathless whisper made your cunt clench around him. you hated how your skin prickled, every hair standing up. he comes inside you, hot and thick.
“no- no, get off!” you beat your fists against his chest, slap his face, but he just laughs. the blood from his lips smears across your cheek as he catches both your wrists in one hand, grip bruising. with the other, he squeezes your cheeks, forces your mouth open, and spits. a thick gob of bloody saliva lands on your tongue. copper. salt. filth. you gag, try to spit it out. but he shoves his gloved fingers into your throat, pushing it down. you choke, kick, but he’s got you pinned. helpless.
a sharp knock at the door.
your eyes fly open. the fantasy shatters like glass.
you’re alone in your living room. legs spread wide on the couch. fingers buried knuckle-deep in your soaking cunt. panting hard. your panties are shoved halfway down your thighs, clinging to your skin, slick with shame. on the cushion beside you lies the blue mask. still damp and warm from your grip. the mask that you took that night he saved you, but you never saw his face. you wanted his face, his name, anything. the mask lay by your foot, warm with sweat and blood. you took it because you couldn’t let him vanish without a trace. you needed to have something of him. so you stole it, stuffed it in your pocket, and ran. cowardly? yes. you couldn’t let go of the only piece of a man who gave you nothing else. but you’ve put it to good use, haven’t you? good fucking use.
you yank your hand free. heart hammering, you scramble to pull up your panties, wipe your slick fingers on your thigh. you toss the mask onto the coffee table, smooth your hair, straighten your shirt. your legs shake as you force them to carry you to the door.
tony stands there, holding a toolbox. your quiet neighbor with mysterious way of living. “tony?” your voice comes out raw, still thick from the moans you were biting back seconds ago.
“you said you needed help fixing your bed.” he smiles. small. easy. but his eyes flick past you for half a second, scanning your living room. something in the way he moves makes your stomach twist.
“right… yes. yes, of course. come in.” you struggled a bit. then he steps forward. the space between you shrinks. you catch his scent. sweat, something metallic, and somehow a strong perfume. something that makes your freshly-used cunt clench again. it’s like the same scent that clung to the mask. the same copper tang that filled your mouth in that filthy fantasy you had. you push it away. stupid. he’s just tony. a nice guy who fixes things. nothing like the man in your head. you’re just being too disgusting.
you turn and walk fast toward your bedroom, rambling about screws and measurements you don’t understand. nervous chatter to fill the silence. behind you, tony stays quiet. too quiet. his eyes are still moving. when you finally glance back, he’s stopped. standing by the coffee table. looking down.
at the mask. damp. spit-slick. a smear of something glossy on the fabric.
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