Page 45 of Z For Butterfly Man
“Look in the mirror,” he orders again. “Look at how fucking dirty-hot you are when you come. So slutty, so horny, begging for more.”
I shatter. It hits me harder than the first one. My moans choke under his grip. His throat bobs as he savors my convulsions. When he finally pulls away, I’m boneless. My brain is static and aftershocks.
He releases my throat and sets the toy aside, as if he knows beforehand I won’t be honest about answering his next question. “Now.” His voice drops. “Who is Shane Fletcher?”
The question pulls me back from the edge of oblivion. Back into the reality of what has just happened, of my debauched delusions, of my captivity. Back into the game.
I meet his gaze in the mirror. My reflection smirks even though my face feels too heavy to move. “Why don’t you go ask him yourself?”
Silence stretches for only a moment. Then, before I can process what’s happening, he’s straddling me. His hands move fast to his belt, his zipper…
“Open your mouth.”
“No—”
“I told you if you refused to answer, I’d come down your throat. You wanna be a smartass? It’s your choice.” He slides forward, positioning himself, and yanks my hair back. “Now, open your fucking mouth, and if you bite, I’ll pluck your fucking teeth.”
I clench my jaw. He pinches my nose to cut off my air. I hold out as long as I can, but my lungs are already suffering. When Ifinally gasp for breath, he pushes into my mouth, thick and hard and choking. I gag. There’s nowhere to go. No way to pull back. I can’t breathe. My eyes pin to the mirror. A masked monster towers over me, forcing his cock into my mouth, my throat, and I’m his little captive bitch.
“That’s right. Take it,” the distorted voice confirms. “This is what happens when you mock me.”
It’s fine, I tell myself. Nothing that hasn’t happened before. Just another one in a long list of violations. Just another story I’ll have to rewrite later to be able to live with.
If Butterfly Man thinks he’s the first to shove his cock down my throat, he’s wrong. Shane might have been gentle and patient at the beginning; he taught me how to take it, how to breathe through it, how to swallow without gagging, and I enjoyed being his little slut, reciprocating pleasure. But things change. Little girls grow. They understand the shit that has been done to them isn’t okay. They realize love isn’t predatory. They try to save themselves. But men like Shane don’t just let them.
Butterfly Man thrusts deeper. His metallic groans are gruesome. I choke, spit running down my chin, my vision darkening at the edges. Another one of Shane’s cock-sucking lessons fires in my muscles: how to make my throat relax even when my mind wants to shut down and die.
It doesn’t take long for the hot, salty cum to shoot down my throat. I contemplate spitting it in his face when he pulls out. It takes him forever to leave my mouth, though. Breath catching, he holds himself there, buried deep, until I’m certain I’m going to pass out.
My eyes roll back as I suffocate. That’s when he pulls back. I gasp and cough and retch. Nothing comes up but saliva and shame. He lets go of my hair and tucks himself back into his pants. I don’t get a chance to see his cock, to maybe identify it.
“Who was Shane Fletcher?” he asks again, calmly, like he didn’t just choke me with his cum.
My throat is raw. My voice comes out scratchy. The confession tastes like ash. “He was my first love, my first kiss, my first orgasm, my first everything.”
“But was he your first husband?”
“What kind of question is that?” He’s laying a trap. It implies a story I’ve never told anyone that still breathes.
“Just answer it.”
My mind races. It calculates the angles, the benefits of telling the truth, the costs. It circles back to the earlier question. Who is Mason Bloom?
Were you lying to me, Butterfly Man, when you gave me that reward for telling the truth about Mason? Are you tricking me? Do you know more than you’re letting on? Because my story with Shane can’t be honestly told without my story with Mason.
I’m not ready to tell. The price I’ve paid to bury that chapter for almost twenty years is way too high.
But if I lie—
If I lie, he fucks me.
“Yes.” I’d rather be fucked than excavate that grave. “He was my first husband.”
A chuckle hisses underneath the mask. “Reagan, Reagan, Reagan…” His body language shifts, triumphant. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He reaches for his belt again. “You know what that means.”
