She fought me. She wriggled and squirmed, but I didn’t let up.
I wasn’t myself anymore.
I was the creature she made me, and that filthy knowledge made me want to roar with tragedy.
I was dead already.
I might as well take her with me.
My balls tightened as the first wash of an orgasm ripped into me with needles. Every instinct and sane part of me bellowed to withdraw.
To stop this.
To walk out the door and run.
Run!
But she’d broken me.
She’d turned all the good pieces of me into the thing I’d been terrified of all my life.
I was my father, after all.
And this was a whore.
Just a whore.
Bought and paid to accept a bloodthirsty assault by a brutal beast.
I was no longer human as I drove ever faster, harder. My heart pounded, sweat slicked, and my soul vanished beneath contaminated filth.
And then, I felt it.
Felt the final condemning, life-stealing thing. The sentence to my future, ensuring I would forever walk alone because I didn’t deserve anyone.
Especially Olin.
Fuck...
My fingers dug into my teacher’s cheeks, hoping to draw blood as I stopped fighting the inevitable.
Tallup gasped behind my hand. Her eyes wild. Her face almost purple. But her body jerked and quaked with frenzied release. Her pussy clutched and clenched. Her limbs stiffened. Her back bowed. Her entire body came apart because of what I’d done to her.
She was in ecstasy.
I was in utmost hell.
I was almost sick.
Almost.
But I was lost.
Lost to the rampaging onslaught I reaped.
Lost to the chemical intoxication of Viagra and despair.
And I couldn’t stop.
My own release shot with the most agonising mixture of pleasure and abhorrence. A firing line of grenades and shrapnel, tearing me apart, stripping me into pieces.
Between my legs, up my cock, spilling with fire and brimstone.
Wave after wave of sick, debilitating lust. Spilling into a traitor. Sharing pleasure with an adversary.
I hadn’t finished coming before a wave of bile shot up my throat.
Ripping my body from hers, I barrelled off the bed and barely made it to the bathroom before spewing my guts into the sink.
My body purged.
My cock dripped more cum on the tiles as my stomach rid itself of Viagra and rum all while my heart flogged itself, maimed itself, sought salvation for the destruction I’d caused.
Sliding to my knees, I hugged the vanity as shock began.
My teeth chattered as the full consequences of what I’d done crippled me.
I’d spend my life in jail.
I’d never see Olin again.
I’d always be known as a rapist.
“Get up.”
I hunched, fighting another wave of sickness as Tallup tapped me on the shoulder.
“Get up,” she repeated, stepping into the shower and turning on the hot water.
I didn’t move while she soaped and rinsed, fighting to put myself together again so I could stand and face the police.
Her bare wet feet appeared in my line of vision on the floor as she wrapped a towel around her well-used body. The body I’d tried to suffocate. The vessel I’d tried to murder for what she’d made me become.
Her hand landed on my head, and in some twisted, disgusting way, I looked up to her for guidance. She was my teacher. She was supposed to teach me, help me grow, guide me into adulthood.
Instead, she made me into this.
Tears pricked my eyes as I noticed the red marks I’d left on her mouth from holding her down. Her lips were swollen, and blood glowed from where she’d bitten through.
But instead of horror on her face; instead of marching to the phone to call the police, she smiled loose and satisfied. “Turns out, I didn’t need to teach you how to fuck, Gilbert Clark. You’re a master all on your own.”
I froze.
More bile churned in my belly.
She turned and dropped her towel, striding toward the bed and sitting on it with the slyest, nastiest grin on her face. “Now you know what I like, get back here. We have all night before that Viagra stops working.” She patted the bed. “Come here.”
I shook my head, cursing the burn in my belly. The hunger to obey. The need to come again. And again.
Her eyes narrowed, her temper fizzing in the space. “We agreed on one night. Not one fuck. Obey and you’re free. You have my word I won’t harass Olin Moss. I’ll let you graduate. You can pretend none of this ever happened.”
Her hand trailed between her legs, spreading them, revealing exactly where she put her finger. “But if you don’t crawl on your hands and knees to me this very second, our deal is void, and I’ll call the police.” Her finger dipped inside herself. “They won’t treat you kindly, Gilbert. They won’t have any reason to doubt my claims. I have the bruises to match the accusations. You’ll never see Olin again. Never be free.” She tutted with a sad shake of her head. “Poor, innocent Gilbert Clark. What a terrible predicament you’re in.”
Her lips spread into an evil smile. Her eyelashes fluttered as she fingered herself. “Now, crawl.”
I crawled.
Chapter Thirty-Two
______________________________
Olin
-The Present-
“COME ON, GIL. Pick up the damn phone.”
I cancelled the call as it dropped from ringing to his answer machine for the fourth time. I understood why he wasn’t answering. I doubted being interviewed at the police station allowed personal calls to interrupt. It had only been a couple of hours since he’d been ‘borrowed’ for questions. I was probably overreacting.
I knew all of the above, but it didn’t change the fact I desperately needed him to pick up.
Something isn’t right, Gil.
And...I’m not sure what to do.
Tossing my useless phone onto my lap, I clutched the steering wheel with both hands and focused on the road. My foot rocked on the accelerator, inching over the speed limit, testing the black van tailing me.
My heart raced as the van matched my increase, gliding like a threatening shadow about to swallow me whole.
Shit.
I should’ve stayed in my apartment.
Then again, the bastard Gil was trying to protect me from had definitely been there. I didn’t feel safe knowing his hands had touched my stuff, walked my carpets, and investigated my home.
After the police had left, I’d tiptoed through the rest of my place, doing my best to untangle superstition from fact. I’d almost managed to convince myself it was just crazy imagination, lack of rest, and Gil’s ominous ‘you’re in danger’ talk that made me second-guess the privacy of my home.
However, that false hope popped the second I entered my bedroom and found my pillows on the floor. Strange but perhaps not too strange. Gil could’ve tossed them from my bed while I made us coffee before we left. He could have a weird need to do something odd—to mess up the bed I’d slept in and not offered him to join.
I could’ve spun a tale that far-out, if it hadn’t have been for the symbolism of blood smearing the linen.
Gil was a painter, but I doubted he’d ever take a bottle of red nail varnish and dribble it over my bedding and pillows, staining them with acrid crimson, turning fluffy comfort into fabric corpses.