Upward Ambition Ch. 08

"It is getting tiresome," he says into my ear, voice silky as a spider's web, "reminding you again and again that fucktoys don't get to decide how they are fucked."

As he speaks, he reaches over and pulls open the top drawer of the bedside table. When the first handcuff clicks shut around my left wrist, my survival instincts override my submissive instincts for the first time all night, and I try to push myself up. I might as well be trying to lift the entire Harrow mansion off my back for all the good it does me.

"Wait," I beg again, even though I know it's useless, even though I know I'm just digging myself a deeper grave.

Derek wrenches my cuffed hand behind my back and easily catches my right wrist to twist it back as well. I buck against him ineffectually but don't even manage to slow him down as he cinches the cuff closed. Now that I'm restrained by more than my own submission, a true sense of my own helplessness floods over me. I want to beg some more, but I don't want to be gagged again, so I bite my lip to silence myself.

Stupid, stupid, stupid of me to forget the most basic tenet of our relationship: that I'm nothing but a fucktoy to be used for his pleasure.

Derek grabs something else from the drawer, and then, instead of forcing my legs apart again, he slides off me and kneels beside my prone form on the bed. He grabs me by the hair and yanks my head up to look at him.

"Since you want a choice in the matter so badly, I'm going to give you one. If you part your cheeks and beg for it like a good little whore, then I'll use this." He shoves a bottle of lubricant in my face. "If not, then this bottle goes back in the drawer, and you'll just have to pray that nothing tears irreparably down there."

Sophie's fucking choice, right there.

"Well?" Derek demands. His patience from earlier has apparently all dried up.

Hot, humiliated tears well in my eyes, and I'm perversely grateful that every time I manage to forget how much I fucking hate him, he is quick to remind me. Only hours ago I'd told him, "I'm yours," over and over again, like a promise, like a prayer. Now I wish I'd spat in his face when I had the chance.

Sniffling, I arch my back and stretch my arms until I can grasp my butt cheeks in each hand. I slide my knees apart.

"Wider," Derek snaps, giving my ass a sharp spank.

With my face in the pillow and my rump in the air, I spread my legs wider and dig my fingers into my fleshy cheeks to pull them apart, until my asshole is on full, lewd display.

"Please, Mr. Harrow," I grind out between clenched teeth, calling to mind the phrasing he likes best. "Rape my little boy pussy with your huge cock."

"Lazy," he says, giving me another smack on the ass.

I grimace.

"Please," I try again, injecting a moan into my voice. "I need you inside me. Please fuck me, sir."

"Unoriginal."

The fuck is this, a performance review? I have a creeping feeling that he's beginning to enjoy himself, which only enrages me further. I take a slow, steadying breath, reminding myself what's at stake here. As bad as it's going to be to have his cock in my sore hole, it would be a thousand times worse without any lube.

"I've been bad," I say, trying to force some sincerity into my voice. "I deserve to be raped from behind by a real man."

"Now you just sound like a cheap porn star."

"Just fuck me already, goddammit!" I bite my lip so hard on the tail end of the outburst that I taste blood.

Derek only chuckles, confirming that he is, in fact, amusing himself by toying with me.

"That was more believable at least," he says, "but I could do without the obvious disdain."

Before I can respond, he clamps his right hand over the lower half of my face, his strong fingers like iron bands on my jawbone.

"Maybe you just need a quick reminder of the consequences," he murmurs, and then rams a finger into my asshole, all the way to the knuckle. It's hardly an onerous intrusion, considering all my hole has taken in the past month, but the dry scrape of his skin against my ultra-tender, ultra-sensitive chute is excruciating. The thought of that agony multiplied by the size of his massive cock, for as long as it takes him to finish--which, given his impeccable self-control, could be quite a while--brings tears to my eyes.

He rotates his finger slowly, making certain that his point has been made, then he loosens his grip on my face, though he keeps my chin cradled in his palm.

"I don't know what you want from me," I whisper tearfully, eyes pleading.

"I want you to tell the truth." He hooks his finger against my prostate, and my back arches with the sudden pleasure that shoots through the pain. My fingers clench more tightly on my butt cheeks.

"I'm a bad slut," I whimper. He prods my special place again, harder this time, and I moan--a real one this time. I strain to spread my legs wider, submitting wholly to his touch and his gaze. "I'm your pain whore. Your fucktoy."

"Keep going," he whispers. His gaze is burning, and he leans in to lick the tears from my cheek.

"I hate you," I choke out. If he wants the truth, then I'll give it to him. "I hate you when you fuck me, and I hate you when you don't fuck me. And I hate sucking your cock, and I hate how good it feels when you shove it down my throat."

His lips move to my earlobe, and he bites down, just hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to drive me absolutely fucking wild. My words are sharp as cut glass, lancing my throat and tearing the air between us into ribbons.

"I hate kneeling at your feet, and I hate how I feel like I've never belonged anywhere else. I hate what you've made me, and I hate that I don't think I can ever be anything else. Please, Derek, just fuck me. Just do whatever you want with me. It's all I want. It's all I'm good for. Please."

My voice cracks on the last word, and I drop my face into the pillow with a sob.

Derek is silent as he moves behind me. I don't hear the lube bottle open, but I feel the cool oiliness on my pucker as he slides two fingers in to prepare me, gentle but inexorable. There is a wet squelch as he lathers up his cock as well. I don't move. I keep my cheeks spread and my legs open wide as he fits himself into place between them. There is a brief, terrible moment of pressure as his cock head forces its way into my abused hole, but I will myself to relax, and it pops in with a new sizzle of pain.

He is not gentle when he takes me--but then, he never is. He slams himself to the hilt and pauses there a moment, taking his time while he rotates his hips, filling up every last inch of me. He glides his mouth along my back and leaves another bite mark, right between my shoulder blades, drawing a cry from me as if to remind me that I'm not allowed to drift away while he rapes me. I must be present for every single second, feel the full power of every thrust, offer my gratitude with trembling moans every time he angles to hit my prostate.

He slams into me again and again, and I take it, because I have no other choice, because I do not want another choice.

He fucks me senseless, and as always, I hate it. And I hate how much I love it.

#

I don't know what time it is when I awaken, groggy with that special combination of exhaustion and pain that only sessions with Derek Harrow can bring. The room is dark. I'm still in his bed, which is a relief, because some part of me had assumed that he'd make me sleep on the floor like a dog.

Beside my ear, Derek breathes in the steady, deep rhythm of sleep. One arm is slung over my stomach in a gesture that is more possessive than protective. Either way, I don't mind it. It's been a long time since I woke up with someone next to me, and there is something comforting about it, no matter the circumstances that brought me here.

My eyelids droop, and I'm about to succumb to sleep again, when I hear a faint creaking, like the shifting of weight on floorboards, deafening in the silence of the night. With Derek's arm on top of me, I don't dare sit up and disturb him, but I crane my neck up as far as I can and squint. Now that my eyes are adjusting, the moonlight through the windows and the glow of an LED light somewhere in the room makes it just possible for me to make out the broad shape of the person standing in the open doorway.

He is just standing there, utterly still, watching.

Groves? I open my mouth, but before I can formulate my confusion into words, he vanishes from the doorway, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Derek sighs in his sleep, a strangely childlike sound. I forget what it was I was so confused about. Sleep claims me before I can remember.