But I was lost—completely and utterly lost in the pleasure that had consumed me, in the heat of his touch and the intensity of his gaze. My body had betrayed me, responding to him in ways that I couldn’t control, that I didn’t want to control. And now, with him so close, his hand still pressed against me, I felt powerless to stop what was happening. My eyes locked onto his, pleading silently for him to move, to give me back that overwhelming sensation that had drowned out the guilt and the fear. But he didn’t. He just held me there, his fingers motionless, his expression unreadable. It was like he was testing me, waiting to see what I would do next. And as the seconds dragged on, the tension between us only grew thicker, more unbearable. Desperation welled up inside me, and I tried to move against him, to find the relief that he was cruelly withholding. But as soon as I shifted, as soon as I sought to take control of the situation, he responded by slowly, deliberately starting to wit
"You’ve never been touched?" he asked, his voice low and filled with something that almost sounded like disbelief. I was teetering on the edge, every nerve in my body attuned to the pleasure coursing through me, each wave stronger and more consuming than the last. I wasn’t in the mood to answer his questions, or even think about what he was saying. All I wanted was to lose myself in the sensations he was creating, to drown in the bliss that was quickly overtaking me. My mind was foggy, my thoughts incoherent, and the only thing that mattered was the feeling of his fingers inside me, the way he was pushing me closer and closer to the brink. But then, suddenly, he changed his rhythm. The gentle teasing was replaced with something more forceful, more demanding. He thrust his fingers back inside me with a force that made me gasp, the sudden intensity catching me off guard. I could feel him staring at me, his gaze piercing, and even through the haze of pleasure, I could sense his need for
Confusion wrapped around me like a suffocating blanket. The rapid shift in Clyde's demeanor left me spinning, unable to anchor myself in the storm of emotions that churned within. I felt a strange, unexpected pang of rejection gnawing at me, a hollow ache that settled in my chest and made it hard to breathe. I had never thought of Clyde in any romantic way—if anything, I was supposed to despise him. Yet, there was no denying the sting of his sudden coldness, the way he had so quickly pulled away as if touching me had been a mistake. The realization was a bitter one, twisting in my gut and making me feel small and unwanted. I didn’t even know I was crying until I felt the warmth of a single tear sliding down my cheek. I blinked, startled, as if that lone tear had betrayed something I wasn’t ready to acknowledge. Why was I hurting like this? Why did his rejection feel so personal, so deeply cutting? “Did you not hear me?” His voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and cold. The warmth,
I buried my face in the pillow, trying to stifle the sob that threatened to escape. I didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to give in to the emotions that were clawing at me from the inside. But it was too late. A single tear slipped from the corner of my eye, soaking into the fabric beneath me. This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. Sleep, when it finally came, was fitful and full of shadows. Even in my dreams, I couldn’t escape the memory of Clyde’s voice, his touch, his rejection. The nightmares I had been fighting for so long were back, more vivid and haunting than ever. And as I lay there, tangled in the sheets, I knew that nothing would ever be the same again. I didn’t know when sleep had finally claimed me, but when I awoke, it felt as though only moments had passed since I’d buried myself beneath the covers. The memory of what happened with Clyde still clung to me, a heavy weight that made it hard to breathe, let alone think clearly. My body felt slug
“I'm not coming,” I muttered, my voice muffled by the fabric. “And just so you know, I hate it when not even a mere servant listens to me.” I expected silence to follow, maybe even the sound of retreating footsteps, but instead, I felt the bed shift beneath me. The mattress dipped slightly, the unmistakable pressure of someone sitting on the edge of the bed. My breath hitched, and for a moment, I stayed completely still, as if by some miracle, they might not notice I was there. I lay there, my back turned, seething quietly beneath the sheets. How dare she enter my room after I’d explicitly told her to leave? Who did she think she was? I could feel my frustration bubbling up, ready to spill over. But then, a voice broke through the silence—low, smooth, unmistakably his. "No one dares to even breathe in this house if you tell them to do otherwise," Clyde said, his tone laced with a confidence that sent a chill down my spine. My eyes flew open, the fabric of the sheet suddenly feel
The anger that surged within me wasn't directed solely at him; it was a seething fury turned inwards, a reflection of my own feelings of inadequacy. In that moment, I realized the depth of my own incompetence. His words, spiteful as they were, struck a chord of painful resonance because, in a way, they rang true.His accusations acted as a mirror, reflecting my insecurities and self-doubt. I grappled with the bitter truth that perhaps I had indeed failed in overcoming the shackles of my past, perpetuating a cycle of conflict I wished desperately to escape. The blame he laid at my feet served as a stark reminder of my perceived shortcomings, igniting a turmoil of self-recrimination and frustration within me.In the midst of Clyde's cutting words, the swell of emotions within me reached a limit, culminating in an outburst I instantly regretted. The weight of his accusations, branding me as a burden and utterly useless, stirred a tempest of emotions. They triggered a cascade of memories,
Clyde's response was cryptic, a single numeral that reverberated with a chilling finality. "1," he uttered, his voice devoid of emotion, each syllable a harbinger of an impending confrontation.As he again took a deliberate step forward, the air crackled with the tension of an imminent reckoning. His measured movements were like the ticking of a clock, counting down to an unfathomable conclusion. The world seemed to shrink, narrowing to the space between us—an arena where our mutual Hatred for each collided.He was counting, counting to the fatal moment—three, the number that marked the culmination of his sinister design. Three, when his bullet would tear through the barrier between life and death.As Clyde's actions unfolded, a chill crawled down my spine, freezing the air around us. His calculated movement, sliding his empty hand into his pants pocket, exuded an eerie confidence—an unsettling display of control in the face of impending chaos. Each step he took forward was a delibera
When did you slip in, Susan?" I inquired, my voice laced with a feigned nonchalance. "I must admit, I didn't even catch a glimpse of you." The words, thoughtfully chosen, concealed the undercurrent of curiosity that surged within me, hidden beneath the façade of casual conversation.As my question hung in the air, a subtle shift occurred in the atmosphere. The smile that had graced Susan's face vanished as if it were a fleeting mirage, leaving behind a void of warmth and cordiality. The transformation was striking, for the mask of pleasantness that she had worn so effortlessly had now dissolved, revealing the true contours of her emotions. Her countenance, once a portrait of congeniality, now bore the unmistakable marks of displeasure.A veil of discomfort settled upon Susan's countenance, casting a shadow over her expression as she mustered a response. Her voice carried a subtle edge of dissatisfaction as she addressed the matter at hand. "Why did you choose to don his clothes?" The