Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
Once that’s done, I start. Dancing for him in heels is still hard for me, but I do it because I know he likes to watch me stumble and fall. I don’t know why, but it gets him excited to the point where he slides over to the edge of his seat. Stupidly, it makes me want to keep falling for him for the rest of my life. It makes me want to keep dancing for him for the rest of my life too.
I ignore all these feelings though and make my way over to him. At which point it’s not my show anymore, it’s his. Because the moment I’m within arm’s reach, he’s in charge. He pulls me toward him and makes me sit in his lap. He arranges me how he wants to, mostly with my legs spread and over his so he can control my movements, and makes me dance for him with his thorny hands on my rosy body, with his filthy words in my ears.
“You like to fuck with me, don’t you, Little Strawberry?” he rasps in my ear, his fingers grabbing my throat.
“I just…” I try to say, my hips twitching with the way he’s playing with my air. “I’m t-trying to tell you something.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“That I don’t… I don’t belong to you.”
“Then how come,” he says, squeezing my neck so hard that I gasp for breath and arch my back, my core pulsing crazily, “you always end up in my lap with your legs spread and your pussy dripping?”
I grab his hand on my neck. “You m-make me.”
“Yeah?” he keeps growling, squeezing and releasing my throat, alternatively letting me breathe and letting me die. “Well, I can make you do other things too, you know that, don’t you? Because if you think this bullshit every night is going to tide me over, then you really don’t know anything about obsession.”
“I do. I know about obsession,” I tell him. “I’ve been obsessed with you since I-I saw you.”
A puff of air escapes him as he growls, his hand pulsing around my throat. “Yeah, you may have been obsessed with me since you saw me a year ago, but I can still teach you things about obsession that’ll make you clutch your naive schoolgirl pearls, yeah? Because, baby”—he squeezes my throat again and stretches my neck up, making me moan with discomfort—“you may dress like a fucking whore but we both know what you really are is an innocent little rose.”
A year ago wasn’t when I saw him for the first time. This should be my cue to stop everything. This should give me enough sense to get off his lap and run away before I keep drowning in my own lies. But I can’t. All I can do is blush and whisper, “So then, y-you should leave me alone.”
Another puff of breath. “Yeah, you don’t really mean that.”
“I do,” I insist. “I’m not a w-whore. You just said it.”
He hums as if in satisfaction. Then, “Maybe not. But it’s time to make you one. It’s time to turn my Little Strawberry into my Little Whore.”
With that, he widens his thighs, making me open mine, and before I can drag in another breath, his other hand goes down to my pussy. He cups me between the legs, gives me a squeeze, making me moan and twist my hips. And then, he goes ahead and slides my panties aside, exposing me. And as if that wasn’t enough of a shock to my system, him exposing my throbbing and wet core, he proceeds to run his finger up and down between my lips. As if he’s trying to bathe his fingers in my juices. Trying to scoop it out. Trying to pet my pussy.
Before he smacks it.
Holy fuck. That was… I practically scream and spasm in his lap, coming instantly. At which point, he smacks my pussy again, making me scream even harder, making my orgasm spread all over my body. Like my blush. Like the sting of his slap.
But if I thought he’d let me go after that, I was wrong. He doesn’t. He keeps assaulting my core, sometimes smacking it hard, sometimes tapping it soft, like playing an instrument. Making music out of my drenched pussy and my hurt-y and lusty moans. And like any instrument, I’m a slave to his fingers, coming and coming and coming.
Just when I think I can’t take any more, he rasps, his hand on my pussy, rubbing my burning flesh, “Are you a whore yet, baby?”
I’m panting and rolling my head side to side on his chest. “Y-yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good, that’s good,” he praises. “Because you can’t stay an innocent little rose forever, can you? That’s not how the world works. You like playing the sexy little schoolgirl, don’t you? Here’s a little fairytale lesson for you: one day, a man comes around. People call him the Thorn, but what he really is is a toxic snake. He catches a glimpse of you, of your gorgeous red hair and your creamy skin. He hears your sweet voice and your musical laughter and gets a little obsessed. Days pass, months pass and his obsession grows. He doesn’t like it, but he can’t escape it. Until one day he decides to stop escaping it and do something about it. He decides to do something about you. And what else can you do with a rose than to make it bloom, yeah? For him. For me.” His fingers keep skimming my core, going up and down. “Because what a waste of a fucking rose, baby, don’t you think? What a waste of a tight fucking pussy if I don’t get to wreck it and make it mine.”