Page 10 of The Last Feast
AX GOES WHERE?
AUGUSTE
I’ve said too much. I didn’t think or even use common sense before I allowed my verbal vomit to leave. Of course, this isn’t anything deeper than a crazy woman enacting her wildest sexual fantasy on someone she’ll never have to see again. I’m reading too much into it.
And. I. Told. Her.
The unease of allowing my thoughts free makes me search for anything to replace that I admitted I want her. I look at the knife sitting above her head and ask, “Did you kill the deer?”
Obviously, she did. Why else would she feel possessive of the weapon? But it’s better for her to think I’m an idiot with no deductive reasoning skills than be left with my emotions lingering in the air.
My overthinking and anxiety slow time, only to spiral into overthinking even more as she looks up at the knife. In reality, it’s only been a second or two, but in my head, where everything turns to shit? It’s hours until I hear her voice again as she wraps her arms around me.
“Yes,” she says softly.
“There was…” I’m unsure how I bring up that there was a bite mark in the torn out heart.
Instead of forcing me to spit it out, she grows angry and squeezes me. “Shut up, or I’ll wrap your pathetic dick in wires so you can’t come.”
I smile into her cheek as I place a chaste kiss on the patch of skin I’ve rubbed free from paint. Her skin is flawless, with small freckles at the top of her cheekbones that make me even more curious about how far they travel over her skin. Do they paint the bridge of her nose? Or both cheeks?
“Do it again,” she softly orders.
I kiss her cheek again, allowing my lips to linger.
“Again.” She relaxes further.
This time, I don’t remove my lips as I plead, “Take the paint off. Allow me to kiss each point of your face.”
Without moving her head, she looks at me, eyes full of fear. I try to ease her as I gently coax, “I’m bare for you, exposed and incapable of hiding even if I wanted to. Show me all of you, baby.”
“I’m not a baby.” The deflection makes me smile, because she isn’t formidable. Her strength doesn’t mean she’s free of weaknesses. She simply exists in spite of them.
“You’re right—you’re not a baby. You’re a woman who has me on my knees when I’ve just met you, so let me have a face to put to my God.”
I slowly lean into her, my gaze fixed on her lips, but she shuffles down. Hiding under my chest isn’t enough. She keeps moving down until my dick brushes her chin, and I lose thought of everything, including my own name, as she lightly runs her tongue over the swollen head.
“Baby, please.” I grind my hips, searching for her mouth despite the fear shaking my limbs.
And when she softly kisses the engorged vein, I nearly come on her face. But she stops me as she stretches up, twisting my nipple between two fingers. The sting of pain chases away my fear, leaving behind the deep need for her to continue toying with me.
Barely there touches. A hint of her tongue. Her soft lips brushing my length. Yet it all has me on edge when I’ve already been hard for fucking hours.
“I—” My head drops to the floor on a deep groan as she wraps her lips around me, slowly teasing my slit with her tongue, lapping at my pre-cum as she hums. The vibrations travel through my length, settling into my balls begging for relief.
She pays them attention, just not the release they’re begging for as she licks down with the flat of her tongue then softly sucks on my balls.
“Baby…” My voice comes out strained. “Please, stop.”
Hana doesn’t. She keeps fucking toying with me as the shame builds like grimy water circling a drain, pulling parts of me with it.
I can’t get the shame off me. I should. It’s been years—twenty, to be exact.
But I can’t prevent it clinging to me, clawing at my insides as the loathsome discontent of being in my own body returns.
She crawls out from between my legs, only to trace a line from my balls up to my ass.
Swirling her tongue on the sensitive nerves, she wraps her fingers around the belt to force my head up, forcing me to witness those bright eyes in the mirror as she kneels behind me, easing her tongue into me while choking me with the belt around my neck.
My cheeks are red and so are my lips, and I hate how alive my eyes are.
The casing around the electrical wires have warmed with my body heat and softened, so I can drop my shoulder enough to keep her eyes in view instead of my own.
“You’re a scared little whore.” She spits down, making me flinch at the temperature difference. “Do you want me to send your videos?”
“No,” I say weakly.
“So don’t say stop again. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I know,” I say even weaker.
The word stop is wrong in every dictionary.
It’s one that never really applies. People even blow through stop lights, yet that is at least punished with a fine.
When the word stop is used in relation to a body, it’s met with even less regard.
There are no flashing lights, fines, or embarrassment for those who barrel through those stop signs.
They revel in it, add their shame to the person they violate, because humanity is doomed to give a voice to inanimate objects, and breaking those rules requires justice.
Yet, breaking the human spirit isn’t really a crime—it’s an ego boost, and there’s no justice for the person whose voice is stolen.
Which is why I’m fucked up.
Why I will never be normal.
Why I will never have a relationship or someone I come home to at the end of every day. There will always be a moment they do the same—driving through the stops with a smile on their face. Their journey is more important than my boundaries.
And Hana proves that as she disregards my fears.
Despite all her obvious violence, she doesn’t force her fingers into my ass. She uses her tongue to slowly stretch me, getting me ready as she pulls my cheeks apart.
A fucked-up part of my brain comes alive as I watch her through the mirror.
I’m glad I forgot to eat so she isn’t disgusted by me.
Her teeth dig into the delicate skin where my thigh and ass meet.
I tense when she moves further up, biting me harder so I can envision the way her teeth indents curve over my ass like a path.
But when she traces the indents with her tongue, a moan slips out, and I see her eyes light up in the mirror.
The bridge of her nose and above are all I can see as she kneels behind me, forcing me to see how fucking weak I am.
Yet I don’t mind it with her.
Not when she bites me harder.
Or when she pulls my ass cheeks apart and shifts up on her knees so I can see more of her face as she pushes her tongue out.
I can only see her top lip, the hint of her tongue, and then I can feel it.
A lifetime of caring about other people’s opinions make me clench and suck in, but she bites me again, and her eyes harden.
I instantly relax, allowing her to circle my ass with the tip of her tongue, bringing back the glee to her features.
Leaning back, she slaps my ass. “Good boy.” She spanks me again as she stands to thread the belt up from my neck to rest across my chin like a muzzle strap. Then, she ruffles my fucking hair.
Out of everything—fucking everything that she has done—it’s ruffling my hair that makes me snap. “I am not a dog.”
“Hmm, really?” She cocks her head to the side. “You licked me, you liked it when I tickled your belly, and I have this.” Quickly lifting the belt, she whips it down, catching between my shoulder blades so sharply the air whistles.
Her eyes slowly rake down my body as she bites her lip, so I take the opportunity to examine her nakedness.
The crucifix branded on her side isn’t the only mark.
Others crisscross over her hips, and when she drops the leash to turn around, I wince at the deep slashes on her back.
Large, raised keloid scars stretch from the top of her shoulder to the opposite hip, like she’s been lashed.
There are some other brands mixing between the lash marks, curling through them like snakes.
But she hums a hymn as she walks into the shadows. Plastic crackles, a loud gulp, and then she walks back into the light like a hunter ready to slaughter their prey with an ax resting on her shoulder.
“Are you going to kill me?” I ask.
Her steps falter as she pulls her brows together. “No.” Relief settles in, but it’s only for a moment until she says, “I’m going to fuck you.”
I stare at the three-foot-long ax handle as she walks towards me, imagining the cold metal being forced into my throat.
The cylindrical shape will make it easier for her to shove it down, but the intrusion of the ax handle isn’t the same as the knife.
I’ll choke, suffocate, die. Yet, I can’t say anything when the alternative is the video of me stroking one out to genital mutilation being sent to everyone in my contacts.
My parents, professors, acquaintances—because no one can really be classed as a friend when I don’t trust anyone enough to show them who I truly am.
Keeping the ax balanced on her shoulder, she lowers to her haunches in front of me and stops the handle from touching the floor as she orders, “Open.”
I slowly part my lips, still staring at the handle. Surprising me, she lifts the bottle of water to my lips and slowly drip feeds me. “You really are a good boy.”
The cool water tastes disgusting with her words in the air.
You’re a good boy. You always listen to me, and you’ll make God very happy like this.
They hit too close, scratching that raw nerve that never seems to heal. Time hasn’t managed to do it, speaking about it didn’t help, and neither does some crazy fucking woman mimicking the very words that haunt me.
But she attempts to as she softly strokes my hair. “I’m glad I found you, Jamie. You interest me too.”
Why the fuck do I preen under her touch?