One week of torture.
One week of feeling Knox’s c*m still trapped inside me every time I moved, the fresh back piece throbbing like a second heartbeat, reminding me of how he ruined me while the needle finished its work.
Tonight the second I step inside, he doesn’t speak.
He slams me to my knees on the cold concrete floor, rips my shirt open, buttons flying, bra shoved down under my t**s. My collarbone is already stenciled, the purple lines stark against my skin.
“Open,” he growls.
I barely part my lips before he shoves his c**k down my throat in one brutal thrust. My hands fly to his thighs, nails digging in, but he fists my hair with both hands and starts f*****g my face like he’s possessed, hips snapping, balls slapping my chin, spit pouring down my neck onto my bare t**s.
I gag,
