Or… at least, he was before I got my claws in him. Although, the longer we play this game, the more I’m starting to think there’s a hell of a lot more festering beneath the surface.
“I’m not playing a game.” I try for my most innocent voice, making it sound soft and high-pitched. The same one I use on every new foster parent.
Manipulative, sure. But when you’ve had people fuck with my head as much as I have, you learn to play the game. And well.
“Don’t pull that shit with me, runt,” he growls, pressing tighter, lifting my chin higher.
Fuck, my neck’s gonna break at this point. I can’t swallow, let alone breathe.
“You don’t wanna see me snap.” He says it like it’s a threat…but it’s what I’ve wanted all along.
There’s something wrong with me. Whether it be the mommy issues, the ‘I don’t know who my daddy is’ issues. Years of abuse and trauma… who the hell knows. But after watching Peris come in his pants to the sight of me jerking off a dude in the choir room. Well…
Like I said. I love playing games…of the mental variety. But I’ve never been invested in one person for so long.
Four months is a long time. But when Peris’s mom, Elise, started fostering me, it seemed like fate was finally in my fucking corner.
“Because if I do, I’m gonna bruise that pretty skin of yours. Fuck you up and make you bleed.” His finger drags down my gaunt cheekbone, digging into the hollow.
I want to pant, to beg in his ear to quit being a pussy and just get on with it already. He’ll feel better after—they always do.
“All you are is a sad, worthless waste of space, and I can’t wait…” He leans in until his nose is brushing mine, so he can breathe the words into me where they flow straight down my throat and into my gut where they sit like a lead weight.
“Until I never have to fucking see your disgustingly pretty face again.” Peris rips himself away from me, face twisting, and I wish it would make him look at least a little bit ugly, but no. The fucker is so hot, he can make anything look good.
I watch his tendons and veins pulse and bulge through his cut-off shirt. We both stand, inches from each other, in the darkened hallway of his house—the one I’m living in for another two months—chests heaving, breaths the only sound permeating the air for long moments. He touches the piercing at the bridge of my nose, almost absentmindedly, before he shoves me back into the wall and stalks to his room, slamming the door shut behind him.
I keep my eyes pinned in that direction far longer than necessary as I catch my breath. It takes too many minutes for my head to come back to me, for my fight-or-flight instincts to infiltrate my conscience again.
And they sayfight.Harder. Make him snap—’cause I wanna bleed. I wanna ache with his bruises, if only to have the satisfaction that I made him fucking do it.
My hands reach down to cup my throbbing erection as my tongue skips across my crooked teeth. My fingertips on my other hand brush over my cheekbone, down to the throbbing points on my chin where he held me, pinned me in place, before reaching up and into my hair, where his nails bit into my scalp.
All proof that it wasn’t in my head.
That it was real.
I dazedly make my way back into my room, warily eyeing Peris’s door just a few feet away. The moment mine latches into place, I heave out a desperate breath, and I flip the lock, shoving my jeans and boxers to the floor in a rush. Touching the places he touched, I slouch against the wall, legs collapsing. My ass slams into the carpeted floor with a dull thud, giving me a jolt.
My mind’s spinning in pained pleasure, at the impossible practicality.
God. The way he called me ‘disgustingly pretty’ like he fucking loathed the very words coming out of his mouth.
A visceral truth.
My hand wraps around the base of my dick, fingers dipping down to feather over my balls, heavy and full.
‘Worthless waste of space.’
‘I’ll bruise that pretty skin.’
‘Fuck you up and make you bleed.’
My hand flies over my dick, the drops of precum at the slit working wonders against the friction. It stings just enough. Head back against the wall, I stare up through closed lids, replaying the harsh brutality of his touch.
It doesn’t take long for my balls to pulse. At the tell-tale throb, I slump back, shoving my shirt up under my chin as I angle my hips upwards to watch my cum shoot out of my head in fascination. My eyes roll back, a pained whine ripping from my throat as white ropes paint my torso in thick, glossy globs.
Panting and dazed, I keep stroking my shaft until it hurts and I’m forced to let go with a whimper. My hand drops against my stomach, smearing my release around. As I catch my breath, I play with my cum, swirling it through the thick line of hair leading to my groin.
