"It's been a long day, Mom. I'm so sick of this job. There's this guy Brock at work, and I always catch him staring at me. Gives me the creeps."
I can already hear the sigh coming—the one that always precedes her repeat lecture for the millionth time.
"Honey, I've been telling you to find something else. You have the experience and education—"
I cut her off. "I know, Mom, but I'll never get an entry-level position with these benefits."
She launches in again. Same script, different night. Half listening, I mute the TV with the remote and interrupt once more. "Mom, I'm going to go to bed."
"Okay, sweetheart. I love you."
"I love you too, Mom. Good night."
I end the call and set my phone on the counter, then head to lock the front door. Weird. I don't remember locking it earlier. I shrug it off—what bad guy is going to lock themselves in? I flip off the kitchen lights as I pass and, thinking of nothing but my head hitting the pillow, start down the dark hallway to my room.
I pass the bathroom and hear a faint rustle from the right. I freeze as movement flickers in the corner of my eye. Suddenly a hand clamps over my mouth, an arm snakes around my waist, pinning my arms tight against my sides.
"Are you going to be a good girl and stay quiet for me?"
My heart hammers, mind reeling. I know that voice. There's nothing I can do but nod once, tiny and terrified.
"That's my good little whore."
His grip starts to ease—testing me. I twist hard, trying to break free, and manage half a scream before his hand slams back over my mouth and his other arm crushes me tighter. The next second I'm thrown backward against the wall, the impact knocking every bit of air from my lungs.
I struggle to drag in a breath. His hands shift, fingers wrapping around my throat, squeezing just enough to make the world tunnel. Right as I finally gasp in a thin thread of air, he tightens again, cutting it off completely.
I claw at his forearms, nails digging in, scraping skin, desperate to loosen the vise. My vision blurs at the edges, black creeping in. I stare up into his eyes—those cold, familiar eyes—and my last clear thought before everything fades is: It's Brock.
The next thing I know, I'm being dragged toward my room by my ponytail, my scalp burning. As we cross the threshold, he growls, "Stand up."
My mind scrambles—where's my phone? The counter. I have to get back to the kitchen.
I push to my feet, spin, and bolt for the hallway. He's faster. His arm hooks around my waist, pulling me back hard against his chest. Cold steel presses against my throat—sharp, unyielding.
"Looks like this little whore can't listen," he murmurs, patience dripping from every word like honey over a razor. "What am I going to do with you?"
I stop resisting. Every ounce of fight drains out of me, my body going limp against him, resigning to whatever comes next.
"There's no stopping what I'm about to do to you," he says softly, almost tenderly. "Relax, princess, and you might just enjoy this… I will."
He walks me forward to the foot of the bed, the knife never leaving my neck. With a rough shove, he forces me down onto the mattress.
"Crawl up," he orders. "All the way on the bed."
I obey, trembling, face pressed into the sheets, heart slamming so hard I can taste it. Terrified. Knowing what's coming.
His hands find my calves first—slow, deliberate—then slide up my thighs. He lifts the hem of my nightshirt, dragging the fabric higher until it's bunched around my waist. Cool air hits my bare skin.
He pauses. A low, satisfied hum escapes him.
"Hmmm… no panties?" His voice drops, thick with dark amusement. "I knew you'd be my good little whore."
He roughly forces my knees wider apart, spreading me so hard I know there will be bruises on my inner thighs. "I know you know who I am," he says, voice low and mocking. "I give you the creeps, huh? Well, I'm about to give you something else."
He barks, "Open your legs further."
Humiliation burns through me—face flaming, cheeks scorching as I spread wider, fully exposed under his stare. Every inch of me on display, vulnerable, helpless.
"What a beautiful pussy," he murmurs, almost reverent, before his fingers trace my outer lips. He pulls them apart, pinches them closed, toys with me like I'm his to play with. I know what's about to happen. Tears spill hot down my cheeks, silent and unstoppable.
His fingers glide in easily—too easily. My body betrays me, slick with unwanted arousal. He chuckles, low and cruel. "Oh my… it seems the whore is enjoying this."
He starts a slow, deliberate rhythm, sliding in and out, curling just enough to make my hips twitch despite myself. The pressure coils tighter, heat building low in my belly. I bite my lip, pour every ounce of will into staying silent—but a soft, broken moan slips out anyway.
Instantly, his fingers withdraw.
I hear the smirk in his voice, thick with satisfaction. "Uh oh… the whore is enjoying this a little too much."
Before I can catch my breath, those two wet fingers—fresh from my pussy—push past my lips, forcing their way into my mouth. The taste of myself floods my tongue, salty and intimate, as he presses them deep, holding them there.
He yanks his fingers from my mouth, my whimper echoing in the quiet room. Behind me, I hear the unmistakable rasp of his zipper sliding down.
Oh no. Not this.
The thought barely lands before confusion crashes in behind it. Why is my body still humming? Why do I feel a traitorous ache for more? What the hell is wrong with me?
The mattress dips as he climbs on, positioning himself above me, knees bracketing my hips. I brace, muscles locking tight.
No warning. No gentleness. The thick head of his cock nudges once—then he drives in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
I suck in a sharp breath, the sudden stretch burning and blooming into something darker, hotter. Pleasure floods through me, unwanted and overwhelming, as he starts pounding—relentless, deep, ruthless.
My hips rock back to meet him even though every rational part of me screams no. The pressure coils again, tighter this time, faster. I bite the sheets, but a low moan slips out anyway, then another, louder.
He fucks me harder, grunts and ragged moans spilling from him, vibrating against my back. The sounds—raw, animalistic—push me over the edge.
Orgasm rips through me like a shockwave. My walls clench and flutter around him, milking every inch as he slams deep one last time. Heat floods inside me—he throbs, pulses, fills me completely with thick spurts of his release.
For a heartbeat, I’m lost. Breathing hard, floating in dazed bliss, the world narrowed to the aftershocks and the heavy weight of him still inside me. I forget the knife. Forget the fear. Forget everything except this liquid heat.
Then he pulls out—slow, deliberate—and reality slams back.
Cold dread rushes in. What now? What will he do to me now?
The zipper rasps up again. Footsteps retreat across the floorboards, heading toward the hallway where it all started.
He pauses at the threshold.
“You did good, princess,” he says, voice low and almost fond. “But next time… maybe actually put up a fight.”
The front door clicks shut behind him—soft, final.
I stay on my stomach, legs still trembling, his release slowly leaking out of me. My body glows, warm and heavy, as a twisted sense of pride washes over me.
I pleased my Master.