Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Then I let the same man who witnessed that beautiful performance of “Preston Loses His Shit Live” do this to me.
I don’t even know what “this” is, but it involves him shoving me into a locker with his massive, muscular body pressed against mine.
He’s heavy.
I don’t like heavy.
Heavy closes my throat and flips that morbid claustrophobia switch—the one that whispers, You’re being crushed alive, and there’s nothing you can do about it, sweetheart.
It’s the entire reason being straight makes sense—supposed to be straight. The women I fuck are lighter. I can lift them, flip them, and control every inch of the interaction. They can’t overpower me. I don’t let them.
My eyes widen because…wait. I’m letting Marcus.
I’m choosing to keep my hands braced against the locker when I could reach back and fight.
Hit.
Punch.
Kick.
He isn’t that much bigger than me, and I can fight—really fight bloody. I’ve taken down so many men bigger than me, slashed them to pieces, and watched their eyes turn vacant.
So why the fuck am I not doing anything right now? I’m actually choosing to…allow this.
Blasphemy.
Try again, brain. Give me literally any other explanation for the clusterfuck you got us into.
Marcus pulls away—and instead of relief, something weird, restricting, and uncomfortable ignites low in my stomach.
I can still feel his heat on my back, radiating in small, feverish sparks that coil inside me, settling deep in my gut.
The air turns thick. Charged. My body reacts instantly—tingling, tightening, coming back to life in ways I disapprove of.
What the fuck is happening? Seriously. I want out.
Give me the emergency exit. The fire escape. A trapdoor. Anything—
Thwack.
My spine jerks as the stick’s shaft connects with my ass. Pain explodes across the muscles as they give out under the strike.
“Count.” The rough edge of his voice fills the locker room like a curse in the form of a command.
“What?” I try to snap at him, but really, the feel of that lash was so fucking good, I’m distracted by how my blood rushes to my cock.
Thwack.
I get on my tiptoes, sinking my teeth into my lower lip as a groan tries to escape, and it does. Partially.
“Two. Count.” There’s a tap-tap noise of the stick hitting his hand. “Let me hear your voice.”
Thwack.
I clamp my teeth on my lip harder, even as my entire body vibrates with the hit, bursting across my spine and rushing all the way to my dick.
It’s swelling fast, and my head just does not understand it.
Why?
Just…why?
A shoulder presses into mine, and I stiffen but soon relax. It’s just a shoulder. A warm, broad shoulder that’s coupled with deep, rambling breaths that spread across my back.
Marcus reaches for my face in slow motion. I see his thumb before he shoves it into my mouth, forcing me to release my lower lip from beneath my teeth.
And now, his thumb is in my mouth, and my brain kind of stops functioning, unsure of what reaction I should have.
Marcus’s rough, deep voice sneaks into my ear like an ancient curse. “Don’t do that. You’ll bleed.”
My lips tremble around his thumb.
That’s the whole point of this surreal experience, though. Me, bleeding and hurting for his sick entertainment and mine.
His thumb slips out of my mouth, and his weight disappears from behind me. Before I can think about the loss, another hit comes.
A moan slips out of me, and I’m about to sink my teeth—
“Don’t.” His command carries in the air sharper than his whip. “Let me hear your voice, baby.”
Why?
Just why?
“Count for me, yeah?”
“F-four,” I whisper, then immediately purse my lips, because that was not me. That wanton, husky, needy tone can’t belong to me.
I’ll deny it under oath.
“Good boy.”
The way he purrs it sends a violent jolt straight to my already aching dick, hardening it at a pace that should qualify as a medical emergency.
I try to huff, but it dies in my throat and becomes a groan when he lands another blow, closer to my upper thighs.
And sweet fucking Jesus—I want out. Because how is this feeling so good?
Not just good. More than good.
Life-altering good.
Existential-crisis good.
I’ve never been this horny in my entire goddamn life.
And it terrifies me, because what the hell, me?
There are levels of horny, and apparently, I’ve just unlocked Horny—Pro Max Edition with Marcus Osborn, of all people?
This is too much. Too intense.
I want to tap out.
Friends.
That’s the word that will end this. I can leave and never come back.
Instead…
“Five.” It comes out cracked because my ass is throbbing.
Forget comparing this to when he used his hand the other day—that was child’s play.
But this? This is deeper.
Pain digs beneath the skin and fills that fucking hollow place inside me until it spills over.
I want pain.
More.
All of it.
Even if I won’t be able to sit for a week.
So when two more blows land, I’m panting, groaning, my breath shuddering as I whisper, “Six…seven.”