Debt Page 9

  I am so screwed. He has me by the figurative balls and I don’t know what to do other than grin and bear it until I can figure something out.

  I’ve deliberated going to the cops, but what can I tell them? There is no sign of forced entry into my home. I solicited an attack on MYSELF. I begged him to have sex with me two times now...They would think I am certifiable.

  And that brings me to the other thing that is scaring the shit out of me: What the hell am I doing?

  Why is it that I hate him, that I fear him, but then when he touches me, all I want to do is touch him back?

  That my body explodes with passion when he makes me beg for him, when he bites me, pulls my hair, and purposely demeans me?

  I was never abused or mistreated. I don’t have an excuse. I just have always kind of desired that extra stimulus sexually. And I kind of enjoyed the fact that I had my shit together as far as a good job, good friends, and stability while having a secret “freaky” side. But that dirty side never went as far as my imagination had wished. Some guys I dated dabbled in that with me, but that’s all it ever was: dabbling. This was real, frighteningly real. It’s like some karmic force is punishing me for my sick desires.

  In the short time since our first encounter, I don’t even know who I am anymore. He makes me become someone else. Or even worse, he brings out who I truly am.

  After I let the tears flow, and wiped the remnants of him from between my thighs, after I questioned my sanity, I stood up and dried my eyes. I had a job to do. I had fucked everything else up, but I was not going to do that with Alea. I had been entrusted with a company that was run brilliantly and provided jobs for twenty hard-working, good people.

  They didn’t deserve to suffer because of my personal bullshit.

  And that’s what I have done all week, bury myself in my work. Spent as little time alone as possible. Anything to keep my mind off of the inevitable reunion with Tax.

  I also made a declaration to myself. It was clear that Tax was getting a rise out of having the upper hand, the element of surprise. I think he got off on my confusion, but if I didn’t give him that, then he couldn’t win. If he wanted to kill me, I’d be dead by now. He wants to take something else from me.

  So I won’t cower in fear. I will meet him head on. I don’t have much left when it comes to him, he’s taken it all, but he won’t get to enjoy my uncertainty.

  I walk tall into the conference room, where he is waiting for me, just like the last time. I emailed him some reports, and I am surprised to find him scanning copies as I walk in. But I am pretty sure that’s not why he’s here.

  “Good morning, Mia,” he says with mock cheerfulness.

  “Good morning, Tax,” I say, placing my laptop bag on the table. He looks damn good, with his neck tat peeking out of a well-tailored grey suit. It looks like he has a fresh haircut, but the neatness of his hair contrasts sharply with the stubble on his masculine jawline. Before he can say anything else, I walk over to the door, close it, and lock it myself.

  I feel his eyes on me. I think I might have thrown him slightly off kilter.

  “So are we going to work, or are you going to fuck me?” I ask defiantly.

  Tax hastily stands up from his chair, and I’ll admit, a bolt of fear strikes my chest. He is so tall and dark. Not just his features, but his aura. His neck tattoo moves with the motion of his muscles as he swallows. The sinew along his jawline snakes as he grinds his teeth.

  “Are you trying to give me sass, Mia?” he says, standing an inch away from me, looking down on me like a bug he could squash at any moment. “Because I promise you, you will fucking regret it.” Heat from his body envelops mine, and wraps it in a suffocating embrace.

  “Isn’t this what you want?” I say, trying not to give in to the fear, but my voice wobbles.

  “I’ll tell you what I don’t want,” he says, the fragrance of his skin and musky vanilla scent of his cologne flooding my nose and violating my desire. “I don’t want to deal with your sudden streak of confidence at five in the fucking morning.” He presses me up against the closed door with his chest. “I fuck you when I want, how I want. I own you. Period. Don’t pretend like you have any sort of say in this. Don’t convince yourself that you can play mind games with me, because you will lose. Every. Single. Fucking. Time.”

  His breath tickles my nose, his chest presses against mine with each angry heave. And like the sick fuck that I am, I worry for a moment that he might not fuck me, just to prove a point.

  I stare back at him through moist eyes, desperately trying not to let them hit their saturation point.

  “Why are you trying to torture me?” I ask.

  “Because you owe me,” he says. The same damn answer he gave me last week.

  “What? What do I owe you?”

  “Your pain.” His brown eyes, which at times can be deceivingly warm, go chillingly dark.

  “Is there anything other than cruelty in there?” I ask.

  He smirks. “You don’t know me, Mia,” he says, flatly. “Don’t for a second convince yourself that what we do means you know anything about me.”

  He has to remind me at every moment he can that I am worthless to him, a piece of meat he can fuck and leave without even saying a single kind word.

  “I’m a good person. I know you think because of the service I bought, I’m not. That I am some immoral whore. Maybe that’s what you’re punishing me for. But I am a good person.”

  “Take off your clothes, but leave on your heels,” he commands.

  Admittedly, I dressed up for the occasion again—I never said I wasn’t fucked up.

  I don’t budge. Despite my attraction to him, I don’t want to give him the instant gratification. I want to defy him. And yet, there is a great chance that he prefers my defiance over my submission. Maybe my resistance is the source of his greatest pleasure.

  “You can take it off, or I can rip it off,” he says. “Better yet, I can just leave and send the video out. Your call.”

  I tremble with frustration, never letting my angry stare leave him as I hesitantly motion to unbutton my blouse.

  “You don’t have to make it so fucking hard on yourself, you know?” he says with a smirk. He’s not trying to comfort me; he’s mocking the inevitability of my submission.

  Tax doesn’t give me space to undress. Instead, he stays close, hovering over me, one arm pressed against the door behind me, grazing my body with his as I disrobe. Slowly, I pull off my blouse like someone undressing in confinement, trying not to impose on Tax’s space even though it’s him who’s imposing on mine.

  Finally, I stand naked, my back against the cold door, only wearing a pair of black pumps. The cool air of the room strokes my skin, making me feel exposed and alone. Ironically, Tax is the only warmth, and my body craves his heat.

  “Touch yourself,” he says, just as he grabs my fingers and slides them between his full lips. It’s oddly soft. And it’s almost crueler than being rough, because he’s playing with my head.

  I slide my wet fingers onto my clit and roll soft circles, closing my eyes and tilting my head back.

  “No, don’t close your eyes. Look at me,” he says. But I don’t want to, I don’t want to be reminded of what I am doing, how I am surrendering my body to such a heartless person. I’m trying to let my mind go somewhere else and he won’t let me. “Do it.”

  I open my eyes and his are right there staring back, challenging me, overwhelming me. They are a chocolaty brown hue, the irises ringed with a darker brown that makes them pop, framed by long, dark lashes. His glare, it’s like he wants to ruin me just by looking at me, but the longer I look, the more I realize there is something else. It’s pain. Maybe even vulnerability. It’s in there, I just have to reach for it. If I can access that part of him, maybe I can work my way out of this situation.

  I touch myself as I stare into his eyes, biting my lip, gyrating my hips against my hand. My nerves course with anxiety. Looking into someone’s eye
s while touching myself should be intimate, safe, but this is an invasion. It’s another way to break me down. I want to end the eye contact, I want to close my eyes and melt with him. I want to know he wants me back and this is not all just some act so he can torture me. Getting Tax to want me beyond this may be the key to getting some power back. Stubborn rebellion only fuels his cruelty.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks.

  I say my honest answer. “That I want to close my eyes. That I want to kiss you.”

  He doesn’t say no, he doesn’t flinch, but his eyes, the eyes I have so quickly learned to study, they become just a little bit softer. There might even be a hint of surprise in there. Keep reaching. I make my move. I have wanted to kiss those full lips since he broke into my house. I need to feel him wanting me back. And maybe if I can get him to put his guard down, just a little, I can get my life back.

  I suck on his bottom lip, tugging it gently. I do it again. He doesn’t stop me, and then I commit, kissing him passionately as I play with myself, feeling his hardness press against the backside of my hand. He doesn’t kiss back, his lips remain dead like his soul.

  Then for a second, maybe even a fraction of a second, he lunges his face forward, and sucks on my lip. The taste of his kiss makes goosebumps erupt all over my body. Their plump softness contrasts everything else about him.

  There is a moment of hope, of connection. But it is only a moment, and moments are fleeting.

  I reach my arms up to try and unbutton his shirt and he catches my wrists.

  “Knees.”

  That’s all he says, like someone commanding their pet. I hesitate, dazed by the almost-kiss from him.

  He grabs my hair forcefully and pushes me down to the floor. I gasp in fear, at the sudden change in his demeanor, which up until this point had been only slightly less than savage.

  I fall to my knees with a painful thud. Without releasing his tight grip on my hair, he says: “Pull out my cock, whore.”

  I unbuckle his pants as I take quivering breaths, and he pops out.

  A wave of heat rolls through my belly as I think about him being inside of me.

  “Suck it like you mean it. Suck it like a slut who hires men to rape her.” His comment stings at my heart, more than any other insult he’s ever said.

  But the sting dulls quickly, and there is a part of me that wants to make him weak with my mouth. It’s the only power I have.

  I pool saliva in my mouth, spitting it onto his tip as I push my lips over it and down the shaft, coating his cock with slickness. His grip on my hair tightens. His hips move back and forth as I take one hand and glide it over his wet balls, while the other slick hand glides over his shaft in accord with my mouth.

  Throaty moans escape his lips, but for once, he has nothing cruel to say. Maybe I found his Achilles heel. I look up at him as I pull my mouth away from his dick, and lightly roll the tip of my tongue on the slit of his head. His eyes look back down on me with a hooded gaze, full of lust and pleasure.

  I resume twisting my slippery hand up and down his shaft, sucking with my lips, and pressing his slick balls as I massage. He grows even more in my mouth. I listen for him to tell me to stop, to rip me up to my feet and bring me with him to ecstasy.

  But instead he says, “don’t bite down, or there will be hell,” in a low grumble.

  Before I can make sense of what he says, he pinches down on my nose and shoves himself deep into my throat. I cough around him, choking on his length, panicking as I try to gasp for air. My hands claw at his trousers, instinctively fighting back, like a drowning person flailing in the ocean.

  And then he shoves himself into my mouth, over and over, relentlessly, and I relax enough to let him choke me. He releases my nose just long enough for me to get a breath, and then he pinches it again, pounding into my face. His dark eyes stare down at me as he pumps and pumps, growing in hardness, my throat muscles squeezing around him as they clench for air.

  “You see what happens when you act like a little bitch...” he says to me. “Then you don’t get yours.”

  And he pumps and pumps and fills my mouth with his cum as I cough and choke on his pulsating cock.

  He pulls out and I jerk away, falling over onto my hip, tears trickling down my face from the gag reflex. My lips and chin are stained with his cream.

  “Lick your lips.”

  He hovers over me, enveloping me in his authority as I obey. Then he calmly kneels, and cups my chin in his hand, grazing his thumb against it, swiping off the trail of his release that escaped my mouth.

  He offers me his thumb. “Suck.”

  I purse my lips around it and clean it off for him.

  “Open your mouth,” he says, as I gasp for air.

  I comply hesitantly as he examines.

  “Good, every last drop,” he says with satisfaction. “I think you are getting the hang of how this works. And if you act how you are supposed to, then you’ll get yours too.”

  I remain seated on the floor, naked, used, and unrelieved. My pussy pulsates with heat that has no way of escaping. But I won’t beg, I won’t give him the satisfaction today. I know it’s pointless anyway. He’s making a point, just as I had feared.

  After tossing the box of tissues back on the table, he zips up his pants, straightens himself out, cracks his neck, and does a double take at my defeated posture on the floor. He keeps winning at a game that I don’t even know the rules of.

  I fucking hate him and I want him so bad.

  He sighs and shakes his head, like that teeny piece of humanity I thought I saw in him has come to the surface. Maybe he’ll take pity on me and show me a hint of kindness.

  Instead, he walks back over to me, so that his crotch stops right in front of my face and he grabs his package with his masculine grip. “If you want it, all you have to do is beg, Mia,” he says tauntingly. How cruel, to make me think he was about to show mercy, and instead use this moment to run up the score on me. I break my promise and the tears burst, because I am sitting naked on the floor of the company I run, and I have been reduced to nothing but a fucking cum receptacle by a man who hates me for reasons I don’t understand. And yet, I am terrified he might disappear one day as quickly as he appeared, like a ghost, and I may never understand why. And I am terrified because if he vanishes, I will feel more alone than I ever have.

  I have held it in for so long. Sure I have given him tears, but this time I lose it in front of him, the way I lost it when he left the last time. And I don’t even care. There is no shame in front of this man, not after the things we have done.

  He watches me quietly as I sob uncontrollably, my chest quivering, my breathing choppy. I thought I could stand toe to toe with him, but he doesn’t give a shit, and that leaves me with no weapons to use against him.

  I feel his shadow encase me. And then his deep voice.

  “Give me your hand.”

  I shake my head, looking down to the floor. I am angered by my weakness and I don’t want or need his fucking help to get me off the floor.

  “Come on.” This time his tone is gentler. “Just give me your hand.”

  I look up slowly, and he looks down on me with an unreadable face. But I obey, like he has so quickly trained me to do, and he brings me to my feet, and gently backs me up against the door, rubbing his massive body against mine.

  “You don’t have to beg today,” he whispers in my ear. I rest my face onto his chest, fully expecting he’ll push it away, but he doesn’t. And I sob into his white shirt, as he slides his fingers into me and rubs.

  His commanding fingers grip my g-spot, curling over and over again. I moan into his ear, my anger and hopelessness dissolving as he fucks me with his beautiful hand.

  His other hand reaches for my hair and pulls it back, but not as angrily as before, and he dives into my neck, biting and sucking fiercely, his mouth singeing the sensitive skin.

  I choke out weak mews, as I build closer and closer to climax.

  T
he hot, fully clothed man in front of my cold, naked body so clearly outlines the power dynamic between us. And yet, I have never felt more connected with him than after I just let him see me fall apart.

  “Say my name,” he says, as I moan louder and louder.

  “Tax...” I whimper between gasping breaths. As his name leaves my lips, there is a burst inside of me, my chest constricts, my body convulses as I recite it over and over. I clench my fists, so badly wanting to feel the warm skin of his chest, the stubble of his chin against my palm. But he won’t let me get that close.

  Because he hates me. Well, these days, I hate me too.

  Fuuuuuuuuck. I let her kiss me. It was only for a second, but I let her lips touch mine. Dreaming about those lips got me into this clusterfuck in the first place.

  Something is off. The way she crumbled today, she wasn’t supposed to break like that, she wasn’t supposed to be vulnerable. She was supposed to be cruel, like a delicious piece of fruit you cut open only to find a worm festering on the inside. Mia melts under my will, and even when she tries to be vicious, I don’t see any malice in her eyes. After all I have done since I showed up, she still doesn’t want to hurt me.

  In fact, all she wants so desperately is for me to kiss her, and for me to allow her to touch me.

  Despite her vulnerability, there is a subtle strength in how she has been able to handle Alea through what I imagine might be the most personally difficult time of her life. She shows up to work every day, puts on a smile, and keeps her tears private. That’s either a sign of great character or the ability to put on many different faces. I assume time will tell.

  Today, I broke again. I became weak and I gave her relief after I was so close to walking away without giving her satisfaction, after I had crippled her newfound will so artfully.