How I must look all flushed and stoned, turned on out of my mind. My eyes all wide and my mouth parted. And how my neck is arched and clutched by brutal fingers of a man, off camera. How his fingers pulse every few seconds and how every time that happens, my belly quivers and my juices ooze out of my channel. As if he’s literally squeezing the juice out of me. Out of my strawberry pussy.
And then that man rasps, a crack in his voice because it’s not as if he’s unaffected by all this, “Tell me why.”
“Why?”
He moves closer then, leans over me a little bit, tightening his grip on my throat and making me arch my back even more. “Tell me why you like this so much. You know, don’t you?”
I nod, as if hypnotized by him, his voice, his touch. “Because I’m… I’m a whore.”
He digs his thumb in my pulse so hard I cry out in pain. I cry out in pleasure. Then, “That’s not the answer we’re looking for, are we?”
“I-I’m sorry. I don’t?—”
“Try again,” he commands. “Think really hard and tell me why you lovemechoking you out. Why you lovemyfingers around your throat. Why does your pussy juice up when I don’t let you breathe?”
And it comes to me, the answer. “Because I’m… I’myourwhore.”
His chest moves with a satisfied breath and I can breathe too. As in, to the extent he allows me and my heart settles in my chest at pleasing him.
“Yeah, mine. Not a whore, my whore.”
“Yes.”
“Because you don’t do this just for anyone, do you?” he goes on, his words both sweet and rough, degrading and endearing.
“No.”
“You don’t dance for anyone else.”
“No. No, I-I don’t.”
“You don’t put on a show for anyone else either.”
“N-no. Only you.”
“Yeah, only me,” he says with a bite, a violence in his tone, a possessiveness that burns me even more. “You don’t spread your thighs like you are right now, like you want something between them just for anybody. You don’t offer up your tits, like you’re doing right now, all red and jiggling, like you want someone to suck on them. Not just suck butsuckleand drink from them.”
“Never.”
He breaths out again, sharply, choppily. “That a promise?”
“Yes. No one but you.”
“Good,” he says with a low growl. “Because even when I’m gone, you will still do this only for me. You will still hump the air, touch your tits, play with them. Only forme.”
For a few seconds, I don’t understand what he’s saying. And then I feel a tug in my nipples and look down. I see my own hands playing with my breasts, my nipples, kneading them, tugging at them. I’m gathering my tits in my hands, bringing them together, making a valley, before pulling them apart. I’m also humping the air as he said. My hips are twisting and writhing, the place between my thighs pulsing in anticipation.
“You see it now, yeah?” he rasps.
And I look up. I want to look at him, look at his face but I keep my eyes at the camera. Because I’m giving him a show, something to remember for later. I put aside my needs for now because he needs this from me. Because I know he’ll take care of me later. Iknowthat.
He’s my safe space.
“Yes,” I whisper, still playing with my tits, rolling my hips in a figure eight.
“Say it,” he commands, his words getting even more agitated. “Keep looking into the camera and say, ‘I’m Shepard’s whore.’”
I don’t even take a breath or pause to think. “I’m Shepard’s whore.” And then because I can’t stop myself, I add, “I’ll always be Shepard’s whore. His and no one else’s. Because only he makes me feel this way. Only he can do this to me. Because he makes me so wet. He makes me feel so horny, so restless. So safe. God, sosafethat I?—"
