Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
“You want this cock pounding your little pussy?”
“Mmm.”
He puts on a condom, and I tilt my head as he strokes his cock in one rough go, humming deep in his throat.
“Like this?” He thrusts inside her, and she screams, and it sounds like, “Yess, fuck me, please.”
The camera shakes as he drives into her with long, harsh strokes.
In a way I’ve never fucked her before.
A way I wouldn’t fuck her.
Because Danika is the softest thing in my life, and I treat her like a treasure.
She is.
She was.
Not anymore, though.
Because in the video, she’s moaning and screaming as she’s being fucked to within an inch of her life by someone else.
That someone flips her around, hauls her off the bed, and fucks her doggie style, shoving her head on the carpet as she blabbers and asks for more. He removes the condom, whirls her so that she’s facing him and fists her hair as she deep-throats his cock. His fingers flex, his groans filling my ears as he fucks her face, making her gag, cum and saliva trickling down her chin.
Her face shows in those shots, so messed up with snot and tears and his cum, and yet she looks at him with big, wide eyes, her cheeks flushed, her expression eager.
Something I’ve never witnessed, because she’s never looked at me the way she’s looking at him—as if he’s a god.
She’s so into it, she comes more than once.
A few times, actually.
I can see it in her shaking limbs and hear it in the throaty moans and loud screams. I witness it in her eagerness to help him put a condom on. She even suggests removing it altogether, but he doesn’t.
The entire thing rolls before my eyes in high definition. I see the way his cock plunges in and out of her pussy again. I listen to degrading, dirty talk I wouldn’t dare say to her that she seems to get off on.
And I watch.
On and on.
Frozen in place as the video plays.
I witness the absolute sheer madness of how he fucks—going deep and slow, then harsh and fast as he kneads and slaps and parts her ass cheeks.
And I listen, really listen, to the way they moan and groan and how she whimpers and begs.
I’ve fucked Danika more times than I can count, and yet I’ve never seen her like this.
It’s like I’m watching a stranger—someone so removed from my memories, it’s as if I’m staring at an imposter.
But she’s not.
An impostor.
Or removed from my memories.
She’s just not someone who fits into my life or the scene in the perfect picture I imagined hanging in my future home.
My. Not our.
I don’t believe I’ve ever thought of us as an actual “us,” and I’d feel sorry for that under different circumstances.
That I’m not sentimental enough.
Not caring enough.
Simply not enough.
Not now, though.
As she rides Yulian and keeps praising his cock, his performance, and the way she’s “feeling him in her stomach,” I let my real emotions slip through.
Detachment.
I don’t know how long the video lasts. It’s long enough for them to go into multiple positions. Long enough that I feel like I’m watching porn stars on drugs.
I don’t even see all of it since it was edited and cut and zoomed in on all the parts a “porn director” would think are fit to tantalize his audience.
Just when I think the video will never end, the final shot, the one that exists in all porn movies, comes through. He grunts, rubbing his cock—aggressively, I might add—then comes all over her stomach, breasts, and face.
He marks her in front of the camera for me to see as she licks his cum off her lips. Then, she moans with a sigh, sounding satisfied and positively spent. “You should’ve used my mouth.”
I expect the video and the surreal experience to end.
It doesn’t.
Instead, the camera flips back to show the face of the man whose dick’s performance I watched for the past half an hour or so.
His hair falls on either side of his forehead, damp with sweat, his eyes glinting, the blue looking darker, almost gray, the brown as black as his soul.
He grins at the camera, then bites his lower lip, and says in Russian, “This could be us, Mishka.”
Then the video stops. On his face.
A smash echoes in the air, and I realize I’ve crushed the bottle of milk with my bare hand.
I remain calm as I watch my blood mixing with the milk, drops enlarging in a pool, turning pink. The liquid sloshes off the counter, drenching my shorts and leaving streaks across my white socks.
A mess.
Like my life right now.
Just because of a thorn in my side that I should’ve left to die in that cave.
But I didn’t.
The time has come to put him in his place and teach him the manners he obviously lacks.