By now they feel like papercuts. All the bruises and lacerations I mean. Last night he was sane enough to knock me out first, whether it was accident or not. Today i'm not so lucky.
I stare up at him, not blankly, but without using one of my muscles, I haven't the will power. He, Moriarty, is efficiently bare and flushed with heat. His penis is small, giving exactation that he needs to bark louder to accomodate. And only minutes ago I had his nubby, piercing fingers moving to open me up.
"I'm going to use you." He says like he hasn't been doing that before.
Another minute passes, and he's pushing in. The head sucks in the tight outer ring, but the painful part wasn't that, it was him enjoying it and the noises of disagreement I made.
He thrusts in slow, checking my solemn face, and it's oddly intimate and sensual. He slides in and out slow with slurps and stickiness of skin. I'm glad it's me, Sherlock seems to abstract from sexuality to handle it properly.
A few more thrusts and I start thinking about him, I let his name slip out. "Sher-" The pain of rape subsiding.
Moriarty stops, smiles at me, "Should I kidnap him too, babe?"