Go home
Go home, because I don't need you. Go home because you're completely useless and I only keep you around to fuck with anyway. That was fun, making you degrade yourself on the job. Let's do it again some time, but right now just go home because I can't be bothered keeping up with you.
You obey. You drive to the dog place and pick up William, and it's so early in the morning that you just take your clothes off and go back to bed. You're trying not to think about how humiliated you feel and just focus on the good parts, but your mind continually replays go home until you're stuck in an agonizing loop of self pity. Eventually you exhaust yourself enough to fall asleep and it's a relief because you're sure once you wake up with a clear mind, you'll have a better perspective on everything. There will be some angle you're missing that will make everything make sense.
You wake up around noon with a pounding headache and… full-on rage. There's absolutely no communication from Victor, as always, and you don't even bother to call this time. Victor Creed is a selfish idiot, and most importantly he has no idea what you're capable of. The ways that you've betrayed yourself on the altar of love and the hurts you've sustained, the irreparable damage to your soul. You are a wounded animal backed into a corner and poked with bigger and bigger sticks, and he simply doesn't expect that you'll ever bite back.
The fool.
That's the thought rolling around in your head all afternoon while you just sit around and wait. William watches you glare at the wall and slowly chew through a bag of gummy worms like you're gnawing off some part of Victor's anatomy, and he's confused by it but supportive nonetheless.
"I hate him," you confess quietly.
William puts a reassuring paw on your knee and sniffs around to check if the gummies are edible.
"He makes me feel wonderful and then makes me feel like shit. Every time. And now he's my boss and I quit my other job because I thought I could keep things platonic. I thought he would let me."
William gives you a look that says you weren't really trying all that hard, but you ignore it and shove another worm in your mouth.
"I want to fuck him up."
A whine from below your knees.
"Not like, physically, just… Mentally. Emotionally. Crush him some way he doesn't see coming and make it really fucking hurt."
You smooth your hand over your dog's head. "I'll probably lose my job so I'm sorry about that, but don't worry, we'll be alright. I'll just sell the house and move back—" the words catch in your throat because when you actually say it like that, you don't want to go back home. You want to be anywhere but the city where you met your ex and dreamed up all those dreams that never came true. "We'll move somewhere better, you and me. Somewhere we don't want to run away from."
The dishes need washing thanks to dropping everything yesterday when Victor only gave you an hour's notice that he was in the area. You go ahead and clean the floors too, because your headache is finally gone and you need something to occupy your hands while you scheme.
A bath comes next, and you exfoliate and shave everything for good measure. You put on the good lotion and your favorite lingerie, not because you plan to be seen in it but because it gets you in the right headspace. Black lace, powerful, evil, hidden under your clothes where no one would ever suspect it exists. You walk William and order delivery and even light a candle in your room. You lay on your bed in just the lingerie, watching the flickering patterns the candle casts across the ceiling. Your surroundings are the perfect calm, and any other day you'd be laying here trying not to fall asleep. But under your skin the predator writhes, pulling at the chains and snapping her teeth, feral for blood.
It's nearly nine before you hear the whirr of the front door lock when Victor scans his fingerprint. William hops down, excited that someone is home who isn't having an active mental breakdown, but the door remains closed and he's successfully kept from greeting his friend. You sit up, loosening that mental chain just a bit. Letting your blood begin to thrum in anticipation of battle and focusing on the way the thong is biting into your skin.
Slowly, tired-sounding footsteps climb the stairs and you swear they pause at your door for a few seconds. You hold your breath and kick yourself for not locking the door, because it never occurred to you that he might seek you out after everything that happened earlier. But then the feet are continuing down the hall, and it's not until then that you note he hasn't texted you that he was coming back. He didn't think it was even worth the bother. Go home was sufficient to convey everything he wanted you to know about how much he cares.
Doors close, and eventually the shower in the hall begins to run. Good, he'll be nice and clean for this. You haven't moved an inch since you sat down but your body is gearing up for the storm. Skin hot with the escalating beat of your heart, hands clasping your knees with the urge to do something. But the initiation has to be perfect. He's enormous and strong and you can't let him have the upper hand even for a moment. You'll have to rely on surprise and underestimation, and the pure incapacity of him being horny to have any chance of pulling this off. So, you clench your hands into fists and wait.
Finally the shower is off and you hear his bedroom door close. You spring up, surprising William so much that he leaps off the bed with a startled hmph, and you quickly strip off the lingerie. Probably smells like your ex, anyway. Naked, you stride down the hall and you don't pause when you get to his door which you're pretty sure won't be locked.
It isn't. Victor looks up and quickly thumbs his phone screen off, probably hiding porn. He's sitting on the edge of the bed with just a towel wrapped around his waist, which isn't doing much because he's just manspreading the fuck out of it, and he seems genuinely surprised to see you in your current state of undress.
You capitalize on it. Before he can open his stupid mouth you cross over to him and push his shoulders hard, until he falls back on the bed with a surprised huff of air. He probably let you do that, but you celebrate it nonetheless. One more way he's digging his own grave. With an upward flick of your chin you wordlessly instruct him to move to the middle of the mattress, and his confused expression is transformed into this smug, understanding look on his stupid face. He complies, leaning back on his elbows and cocking an eyebrow at you.
On my bed.
You climb your naked body over his, pushing his shoulders flat to the bed and tugging the towel open without ceremony. He's already half hard, still slightly damp from the shower, and you realize you've never actually seen him like this before. The weak part of you that cares for him wants to just stay here and stare at him and how powerful he looks even naked, but that would be a mistake and a waste of crucial time. Instead you run your hand between his legs and smile sweetly down at him.
Make you feel powerful, like you're controlling me.
You plant your palm square in the middle of his furry chest and use the other to get him fully hard.
"Hey, baby," you murmur all soft down at him, holding his gaze.
His eyelids stutter like that was the last thing he ever expected you to say, and you can feel the shock of it twitch his cock in your hand. You make a show of looking down at it and tilting your head.
"Baby's so hard all of a sudden."
That's when you see the understanding hit his face, of what's actually happening. It's the one moment you fear, where he will make the choice to either regain control or let you do what you want with him like he promised you could. You just look into his eyes and let a little bit of the predator come through in your expression while you slowly stroke him dry like this, and the moment passes. He's made his choice, you can tell in the way his muscles tense a little, like he's bracing himself for the next thing coming.
You spit in your hand and bring it back down, smearing it across him and then watching your thumb slide back and forth over the top little slit.
"H-mm," you say in a pleased chuckle, "that's a pretty cock."
You make sure your voice is soft and low and just sexy as hell, and he seems to eat it up. There's this rumbly noise in his chest, vibrating through your palm almost like a purr. His eyes keep bouncing between your hand and your face, like he can't decide which one is more interesting to watch.
"I bet baby's been all tight and uncomfortable in those pants today. Just needed a nice soft hand to fuck, didn't you?"
You let your eyelashes do the work for you, tickling the top of your cheekbone and then fluttering back up to look at his eyes, which are dark and fully focused on you. You swipe off a little bead of precum and then watch him through your lashes while you suck it off your fingertip.
"Aww, baby's dripping. Does this cock need some special attention?"
A little teasing glide of your fingertips, all the way from the bottom to the top, swirling around before sliding back down.
"Fuck." It's the first word he's said to you, although he says it more to the ceiling, letting his head tilt back while you caress him.
He's already so hard. That's when you know for sure that he hasn't had time to jerk off all day. He's been stalking and working, and probably using his free moments to remember about how fun it was to tease you and make you cum in his car. He probably thinks you're just willingly living out his fantasy right now, going through all the motions he said you would, and he suspects nothing.
Your hand wraps around him and you give him a few hard pumps before settling into your desired pace. Steadily, unrelentingly stroking him, swirling your thumb at that special spot every time you reach the top. Masterful disguised as casual, you work him up as fast as you dare.
His hands curl into fists at his sides, and you coo down, "There you go, baby. Let me take care of this cock for you."
"Mmmp," he complains, "don't want—"
"Shhhhh, you need this. Baby's just so hard."
He purses his lips and rolls his neck out against the mattress like he's just having to delve into the depths of his self control, and you smile back with your best thoughtless, babydoll expression.
"Baby," he tries again, throbbing a little under your fingers, "let me—"
"Just relax," you soothe, cutting him off. "Let yourself cum."
It's an educated bluff. Just as you suspected, you feel his muscles instantly tense in protest, and you put more of your weight onto his chest to remind him to stay down. His breathing is getting shallow and you can feel him mentally resisting the motion of your hand.
"Nu-uh," you chide, tightening your grip, "baby needs to cum."
"Wait. Baby–"
Victor's arm twitches up hesitantly, and that's when you make your move. As fast as you can manage you drop your elbow forward and down, earning a choked noise of surprise when you put weight on his neck with the hard front of your forearm. His hand instinctively clamps around your elbow and you gasp when five tiny pricks puncture your skin, but he doesn't have any force behind it and within a few seconds the pain is gone again.
You lean your full weight onto his throat, forcing him to turn his face to the side so he has room to gasp in a breath of air. Amazingly he just lays there and lets you hold yourself up by the arm pressed to the side of his windpipe. He's swallowing, adjusting to the position and the way you're still relentlessly fucking him with your other hand, though your spit is drying up and it can't feel great with those patches of friction. You let go to spit on your hand once more, and he lets out a relieved groan when everything is all slick and soft again.
"Feels good, doesn't it, baby?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady like it was before. "Getting that pretty cock rubbed on this nice comfy bed."
He likes it. There's no hiding the way he gets rock hard when you say that, flexed tight like he's about to explode.
"Wait," he gasps out, "Waitwaitwait—"
You don't wait. You continue and make him fight the growing tide of sensation and ask quietly, "Wait for what, baby?"
A set of muscles in his jaw flex in aggravation, and you smile heartlessly. You're paying very close attention to the muscles in his arms and stomach, and you mark the exact moment that they relax, finally surrendering to the unwanted orgasm. It's exactly what you were waiting for.
You drop your hand low and hold it there, wrapped motionlessly around the base of his cock, withholding. His fist pounds the mattress at his side but you're convinced he's too proud to let out the noises he wants to. His whole body is just rigid, flexing under your fingers with how much he wants to cum, but his jaw is obstinately locked into place.
"Aww, was that a close one, baby?" You ask softly, finally dragging your fingertips feather-light up his shaft and teasing them around the head of his cock.
"Hah," he chokes out humorlessly.
"You don't have to say it, baby. I know it was."
You wait a few seconds and then your hand is back in place, slowly and steadily pumping him.
"Is this your idea of f—" his words choke off in a splutter because you've suddenly gripped him tight and you're maintaining that ruthless drag up and down his cock, your hand now just an inescapable vice.
"Uh, oh," you remark, giving your voice a laughing edge, "Baby's gonna cum."
There's no denying it. He's minutely curving his whole body up into your hand, silently begging for it, claws pricking your arm once more. You stroke a little faster, enough to increase the pulse in his neck to a hard gallop, and just when you're sure he's at the very fucking edge, you drop your hand down once more and give him nothing.
It's so close that you actually worry he's going to work himself over the edge all on his own. He's throbbing there, overworked and leaking and agonizingly close to cumming, lips peeled back to reveal that fang on the side of his mouth. Still diligently silent.
You decide to get him a little more wet, and it's just one finger that deposits more of your spit on him, softly swirling it around the desperate, stretched skin.
"The fuck are you waiting for?" He finally grits through his teeth.
"Someone promised me shaking and begging."
There's a few seconds where you're dancing your fingertips across the underside of the head, and he's just working his jaw, hating you for reminding him of his own words, and then he finally growls out, "You realize I could just fucking flip y—"
You don't let him finish the threat, just start furiously pumping him until the words choke off into nothing in his throat and his hips flex upwards on instinct, and then you just… let go. Lift your hand completely away from his cock without warning.
"FUCK!" he roars, and you smile.
"What were you saying, baby? Didn't catch it. Must not have been important."
In the pit of your stomach you know you're being cruel, doing things to him that he would never do to you. But it's not about the physical abuse, it's about making him feel the way he made you feel. The confusion and the hurt and the abandonment that have been your constant companions for months, wrapped up for him all pretty for one final night.
You start to touch him again, a slow, teasing up and down motion, and his grip on your arm surprisingly drops away. He is shaking now, a barely discernible tremor rippling through his stomach for how bad he needs to cum. But he's being good for you, so you ease up on the pressure of your arm on his neck a fraction, and—
That was a colossal mistake. He takes the opportunity to rotate his face forward and he's looking at you, right up into your eyes while you torture him. His face is tight, but not with agony, with restraint. He's letting you do this to him, has been from the beginning. Every second of it only occurs because he's decided to allow you to do your worst, like he believes he deserves it. He's just lying there with your weak, human arm flattened down on his throat, so fucking hard and hurting from it, and the only reason he's not holding you down to the bed and fucking you right now is that he wants this to happen. Enduring this is better than not having you engage with him at all.
You're never going to get the satisfaction you want from this. You realize that, staring down at his blown out pupils which are tracing minutely over your face like you're not his own personal demon. Almost like you're someone he… cares about.
It ruins everything. Erases the anger from your mind and just desolates you with hopelessness. It makes your hand falter and still while you stare down at those beautiful eyes. Slowly you change your grip, sliding down and beginning to determinedly work him up again, because you don't even care any more.
It doesn't take long.
He's cumming, and you let him. You make sure it's soft and comfortable and generous. His eyes are unfocused at the ceiling, flexing up into you and spitting out incoherent consonants that just end in one long, agonized groan. Your hand slows at the right time and you just let pulse after pulse of cum splatter onto his stomach and drip down your fingers.
That was a fucking good orgasm. You know it, he knows it. It was perfect.
It was awful.
He's at the tail end of the comedown when you let go. You don't look at him, and you don't say anything. There's no need, because he's just lying there, panting and debilitated in a warm pool of cum, and you're free to go. You just push yourself off the bed and cross the room and open the door to leave—
But then the door is suddenly slammed closed again, the doorknob wrenched out of your fingers with the action, and you see a large hand planted there on the door, right in front of your face for a split second before you're being lifted and body slammed back onto the bed.