Page 7 of Psycho Obsession
“Eat shit, you fucking pig,” I rasp, a jagged, psychotic laugh tearing through my chest.
For a heartbeat, the room goes silent. The only sound is the hum of the predatory lights. Then, Miller’s face transforms. The lust doesn’t leave, but it’s joined by a black, murderous streak of violence that makes his eyes go flat.
“You bitch,” he whispers, the words vibrating with a feral promise.
He doesn’t use his hand this time. He draws back and swings, a closed-fist blow that catches me square in the mouth.
Crack.
The sound of his knuckles hitting my teeth is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. My head rebounds off the padded mattress, my vision fracturing into a million shards of white-hot glass. I can feel my lip split, the warm, iron-rich flow of blood instantly coating my chin, dripping down onto my chest, and pooling in the hollow of my throat.
“Again,” I spit, the blood spraying from my mouth, decorating his white orderly shirt in a spray of crimson stars. “Is that all you’ve got? You hit like a fucking coward.”
He growls, a sound that isn’t human, and grabs my hair, yankingmy head back until my neck feels like it’s going to snap.
He hits me again—a sharp, stinging slap that makes my ear ring—and then another, until my face is a map of heat and pain. I’m bleeding, the red staining the white sheets beneath me, and the sight of it seems to push him over the edge of sanity.
He drops back down between my legs, his movements frantic and clumsy now. He’s feral. He’s gone. He grabs my thighs so hard his fingers sink into the muscle, and he buries his face back into my pussy.
The taste of my own blood is in the air, mixing with the scent of my arousal, and the combination is a goddamn aphrodisiac for the monster he’s become.
He licks me with a punishing, aggressive force, his tongue deep and rough, dragging over my clit with a friction that feels like it’s going to peel the skin away.
I’m screaming now, but it’s not for help. It’s a raw, animalistic sound of pure, unadulterated sensation. The pain in my face is a sharp, grounding wire that makes the pleasure in my pussy a thousand times more intense.
Every time he hits me, every time he yanks my hair, my walls clench harder around his fingers, my clit throbbing so violently it feels like it’s going to explode.
“You like the blood, don’t you?” Miller pants, pulling back, his mouth smeared with a cocktail of my blood and my wet nectar. He looks like a demon. “You like being ruined.”
He plunges four fingers back into me, hitting me so hard the bed frame rattles against the wall. He’s not teasing anymore. He’s fucking me with his hand, a brutal,rhythmic pounding that sends shockwaves of electricity through my spine.
I’m right there, the orgasm a towering wave of fire that’s about to consume me, but he’s holding me at the crest, his thumb digging into my clit until I’m sobbing, my body a live wire of psychotic, agonising need.
“Beg,” he snarls, his fingers stretching me to the breaking point. “Beg me to let you cum, Hallow. Beg me before I break your fucking jaw.”
I look at him through eyes that are swelling shut, my face a mess of blood and bruises, and I give him the only thing I have left. I laugh. A wet, bubbly, terrifying sound that echoes the madness in my soul.
“Do it,” I whisper, the blood leaking from the corner of my mouth. “Break me. But you’ll never… ever… own me.”
Miller’s eyes snap. The laughter—the bloody, defiant sound of it—is the final trigger. He doesn’t want words anymore; he wants to drown the defiance out of me with pure, unadulterated filth.
He lunges downward, his chest crushing my knees toward my shoulders as he buries his face back into the soaking, ruined mess of my pussy. The taste of my blood on his lips mixes with the salt of my skin, and he licks me with a frantic, rhythmic desperation. His tongue is a muscle, thick and hot, and it’s everywhere.
He’s not just teasing the surface anymore; he’s lapping at me like a starving dog, his tongue curling deep inside the opening of my pussy before dragging all the way up, over the swollen, throbbing nub of my clit.
“Fuck,” he grunts against my skin, the vibration ofhis voice sending a new wave of electric fire through my thighs.
He takes my clit between his teeth—just a graze, a terrifyingly sharp nip—and then he starts to suck. Hard. The vacuum of his mouth is a localised storm, pulling every drop of blood and every frayed nerve to the surface. I’m thrashing now, my wrists raw as the leather restraints bite into the meat of my arms, my head snapping back as I scream into the white, humming silence of the room.
I’m so fucking wet. I can hear the squelching, wet slap of his tongue against me, the sound of a man drowning in a woman’s undoing. He’s using his hands to keep me open, his fingers digging into my hips, bruising the bone, while his tongue darts in and out of my slit in a frantic, stabbing motion.
The world is dissolving. The doctor, the asylum, the ninety-six days of white walls—it’s all burning away in a furnace of sensation. I’m right on the edge, the orgasm a towering, jagged cliff of ice and fire, and Miller knows it. He increases the pace, his head bobbing between my legs, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts that burn against my sensitive skin.
“Come on,” he growls, his voice muffled by my flesh. “Give it to me. Give me all of it.”
He reaches up and pinches my nipples again, yanking them with a brutal force that sends a final, deciding shockwave straight to my core. It’s the breaking point. The chemical haze of the Thorazine snaps like a dry twig.
The climax doesn’t just hit; it detonates.
