Page 132

He stood and levered my front half off the table by pulling at my hair. “Keep those eyes shut.”

I screwed up my eyes, and so I didn’t understand the sounds he created as they were mostly quiet.

“Let’s see what happens when soft meets hard.”

He dragged my dress up above my breasts and kept it there with a fist between my shoulders, then made me sprawl stomach down on the table again.

Bare stomach and there was cloth under me. There was sharp that sliced skin. Glass. My mouth opened, face contorting as I registered this. He had me lying on the glass. I went to rise and shrieked instead as he pinned me and the glass writhed in the cuts. Wetness seeped, glass sliced, blood slicked my belly.

Though I frothed out a mix of words and shrieks, he shushed me with commands.

“Shh. Shh. Small sounds. Only small. Open those legs wider.”

His first thrust rode me harder onto the glass. If he’d left big pieces I might be hurt irreparably, bleed to death, but I couldn’t scream as he fucked me onto them.

Each thrust caused a muffled, gurgling whimper.

“You’re going to come, dear girl. Let it build. Your pussy likes me. Ignore the blood, the cuts.”

I moaned, unsure where that noise came from.

Another thrust and I slid, shrieking quietly, arms at my side, with a small piece embedding in my cheek. Another, and I warmed below. Tinkles above my head as the uninvolved glass pieces tapped on each other.

“I could’ve...” he began.

A thrust and I gasped at the intrusion, the swell of cock in cunt, the mesmer hold on my mind messing with my perceptions. My clit liked being squashed to the timber and pulsed, rising.

Sex was a compulsive rhythm.

“Red? Is that your name? Come soon or I might find a big piece and fuck you with it.”

What parent named a child Red?

He tongue-fucked my mouth, he invaded between my legs. Lust injected, intensified, heating me like whiskey in my veins, as he reamed me, as the glass wormed further in. I moaned and my legs shook and tensed, shook and tensed.

“Your cunt’s sucking me in, Red.”

No. I groaned, blinking away the sweat, the tears, desperate to be me, and not his toy, even if I had to feel the fragments eating at me.

A violation was to be fucked on broken glass, worse was to be made to like it.

“No,” I whispered then “no” again, cracking my throat with denials.

“Yes. You can’t say no to me.” Another fuck and slide on cloth. Rocked forward, rocked back as he sucked out. “How I wish,” he murmured into my mouth, at my face. “I wish,” was said again to my neck.

Hot breath. So many wishes. I closed my eyes. Cock pushing into me. Pain? There was none. Sobbing, I pushed back, tightened, arched my butt, squeezing down. I raggedly moaned then mindlessly slammed into an orgasm like the obedient toy that I was.

And still he fucked me, shoved me across the cloth.

“...wish I could keep you.”

He jammed into me, deep, stayed there.

His own climax was a chaotic tide of pleasure merging with the shreds of pain, with every throbbing wound in my stomach and breast.

He had to turn me over to mop up the blood. I flopped there, on my back, arms out, legs apart, knees bent at the edge of the table. Dull within a foggy world of sloth, I watched him kneel above me on the table, flourishing some instrument. He’d gone away, come back. Bloody of hand, he held me, made me be still, as he plucked out glass and punched staples into my cuts.

If I screamed, it was distant. I could barely register my heart, let alone my screams. The ceiling faded in, faded out.