The Dark Truth
~Lyra-
I held the photo tighter.
Tighter than I meant to.
My fingers were actually trembling, and not from the s*x. Not from the ache in my thighs or the c*m still dripping down my leg or the f*****g bruises on my hips. This was different. This was rage. This was realization. This was the sick, stupid silence that came with remembering something you should’ve
remembered but were too busy getting ruined to think about.
I let out a laugh.
Dry.
Sharp.
“Wow,” I muttered, still staring at the photo. “I actually forgot you had a wife.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
My head snapped up.
“No, really, Damon. I forgot. That’s how far gone I’ve been. That’s how deep in your c**k I’ve been. That’s how dumb you’ve made me. I mean–God–I’m here f*****g you like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do, like I don’t have a single brain cell left, and all this time you’ve got her-“I held up the frame like it was evidence in court “– sitting right here in a frame beside the goddamn mail. Not hidden. Not stored away. Here.”
I tossed it on the floor.
It landed with a thud.
“I mean, what the f**k, Damon? Are you married? Is she dead? Are you divorced? Is this like some psycho grieving widower thing or am I just your little side f**k while she’s in the other room doing yoga and drinking cucumber water?”
He opened his mouth.
I cut him off.
“No. Don’t talk yet. I’m not done.”
I stood there, half–naked in his shirt, trembling with leftover pleasure and now very fresh fury. “You keep calling me good girl, keep whispering all this possessive Daddy s**t in my ear, keep filling me up like you own me–but I’m sorry, was that her job first? Is that why you know how to do all this so well? Did she like being pinned down and choked too, Damon? Did she call you Daddy too? Or am I just the new model with less emotional damage and tighter p***y?”
He looked like he wanted to interrupt again.
I didn’t let him.
“Oh no, you don’t get to play silent right now. You don’t get to dominate and disappear when it’s convenient. You f****d me. On the floor. Against the wall. Folded me in half like a f*****g paper doll. You told me to take
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It. And I did. I gave you everything. And now I’m standing here looking at this woman–this woman in pearls and silk and grace–and I’m asking myself what the f**k I am to you. Because I don’t wear pearls. I wear pigtails and lip gloss and call you Daddy while you f**k the sanity out of me.”
My chest was heaving.
I didn’t even realize I was crying until I tasted salt.
“So tell me, Damon. Where is she? Where the f**k is your wife? Because this photo–this perfectly preserved, perfectly folded little photo–it wasn’t shoved away in a drawer. It was sitting right out in the open. Like a
goddamn shrine. Like a reminder. Like she still f*****g lives here.”
He said nothing.
I laughed again.
Louder this time.
“Holy s**t. Is she here? Is she f*****g here? Are you f*****g her too? Is that what this is? You f**k her in your bed like a husband and then you f**k me on the floor like a w***e? Do I get the marble and she gets the mattress? Or do you rotate us depending on your mood?”
I took a step toward him.
Then another.
Until I was right in front of him, right in his space, right where he’d just f****d me senseless and now stood there like I wasn’t tearing apart in front of him.
“Because if that’s what this is,” I whispered, “if I’m just the fucktoy to your actual wife…tell me now. Tell me before I sink even deeper. Tell me before I lose my whole f*****g mind over a man who was never mine to begin with.”
My throat felt like it was closing.
My knees were shaking.
My heart was pounding so hard I felt it in my ears.
“Say something,” I choked. “Say anything. Lie to me. Tell me she’s dead. Tell me you left her. Tell me I’m your only one. Just–just f*****g say something before I start screaming.”
And then I waited.
Staring at him. ̈ ̄ ̄
Hating him.
Needing him.
Shaking with the kind of emotional whiplash only an eighteen–year–old girl completely consumed by an older man could ever feel.
~~
The silence stretched.
And I swear to God, I was about to scream.
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+8 PROS
He was still standing there. Watching me. Breathing like a beast. Eyes burning through me like my words had cut him open – and maybe they had, maybe I wanted them to – but f**k, the way he just stood there made
something inside me snap.
“You’re not gonna say anything?” I flung my arms out. “You’re just gonna stare at me like I’m crazy when I’m literally trying to make sense of your entire f*****g life? You just f****d me so hard I can’t even walk straight, and now I find out there’s a wife involved and you suddenly turn into Mr. Silent and Mysterious like you didn’t just have your c**k so deep in me it knocked every goddamn thought out of my brain-”
I didn’t even get to finish.
Because the second those words left my mouth–he moved.
Fast.
So fast I couldn’t even scream.
His hand wrapped around my throat, not choking me, not yet, but firm enough to make me gasp and stumble backward as his other arm snatched me by the waist and slammed me against the wall. My back hit the concrete. My breath left my lungs. And his body was right there–hard, hot, radiating dominance like it was pouring out of his goddamn skin.
“Look at you,” he growled, voice like thunder, voice like s*x, voice like punishment wrapped in silk and sin.” Running your mouth like a f*****g tap.”
I tried to breathe.
I couldn’t.
Not with him that close.
Not with his hand still gripping my throat like it belonged there.
“You want to know the truth?” he hissed, lips brushing my ear, c**k hard again against my thigh like my little
thing about me,
tantrum had turned him on. “You want to throw accusations like you know a single f***** ?
about my past, about her?”
I opened my mouth.
He shoved two fingers in before I could speak.
Just like that.
Right between my lips, deep to the knuckle, stretching my mouth wide around his thick fingers as he growled low in my ear, “Do you want me to f**k this mouth again, little girl?”
My legs almost buckled.
I was shaking all over.
He pressed harder. His fingers curled against my tongue, soaking them in spit, rubbing slow and deep like he owned the inside of my mouth. And I couldn’t do anything–couldn’t breathe, couldn’t argue, couldn’t even think–because holy f**k it felt too good and too wrong and too him.
“That’s what you want, right?“/he snarled, pulling his fingers out slow, letting my spit trail from his hand to my lips like a string of f*****g surrender. “You don’t want the truth. You want me to shut you up with c**k and bruises until your only thoughts are yes, Daddy and f**k me harder.”
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I whimpered.
Actually f*****g whimpered.
Like the needy, shaking, ruined mess that I was.
“You’re eighteen,” he said darkly, his hand sliding down my throat, over the shirt that was still clinging to my sweat–slick skin, down to my bare thigh, “but you’ve got a mouth like a w***e and a cunt that screams to be
filled. You stand here demanding answers like you’re in charge, like you get a say, like this isn’t mine-” his
hand slid between my thighs so fast I gasped, “-this soaked little p***y, this dripping mess you keep handing to me like it’s all you’ve got.”
I moaned.
I didn’t mean to.
But f**k, my body betrayed me.
He shoved his thigh between mine and pressed up, grinding slow, making my clit scream through the thin fabric of his shirt as I bit my lip and whimpered into his chest.
“Talk all that s**t, Lyra,” he growled. “Go ahead. Ask me your little questions. Cry about the wife. Scream at the picture. But don’t f*****g pretend you don’t know what you are.”
I clawed at his arms.
He grabbed my face again.
“You’re mine,” he snapped. “Not hers. Not anyone else’s. Mine. You know it. I know it. Your p***y knows it.”
His hand slammed behind my thigh and yanked me up. I wrapped around him before I could stop myself, legs trembling around his waist as he carried me across the room again–this time to the nearest chair. A black leather throne that looked like it was made for punishment.
He dropped into it with me straddling him.
And he didn’t even hesitate.
He slapped my p***y through the shirt.
I screamed.
He did it again.
“You want to know where my wife is?” he hissed, rubbing me through the soaked silk. “You want to play detective while your p***y begs to be f****d again?”
“Yes,” I gasped. “Yes, I do, but–I can’t–I can’t think when you do that—”
“That’s the point, baby,” he growled. /Thinking’s not what you’re for. This little mouth and this little cunt- that’s what you’re for.”
His fingers pulled the shirt up. My thighs spread on instinct. My whole body arched like a drugged little sl begging to be used.
“Open your mouth again,” he said, voice low, voice deadly.
I obeyed.
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He shoved his fingers in again, deeper this time, f*****g them into my throat while his other hand slapped my p***y hard enough to make me cry.
And I did.
Tears sliding down my cheeks as I gagged on his fingers and rode his hand like I was losing my goddamn
mind.
I couldn’t think.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t stop moaning.
And through it all, I just kept hearing his voice–low, cruel, dominant.
“She was never you,” he snarled. “And you will never be her. You’re worse. Dirtier. Wilder. Filthier. And I f*****g
love it.”
His hand grabbed my throat again as he slammed me on the leather chair. f**k.
Not enough to choke.
Just enough to make my vision tilt, my brain fuzz, my breath stutter like it belonged to him.
He was under me–hard, huge, dangerous–his leather chair creaking beneath us like it knew what was coming. And his voice–oh my f*****g God–his voice was pure goddamn poison. Slow. Dark. So f*****g calm it made my stomach flip.
“Why don’t I f**k you again,” he said, voice low and venom–slick, “right here in this chair….and tell you who the f**k my wife is while I’m balls deep in this soaked little p***y you keep handing me like it’s a f*****g gift?”
“Would you like that kitten”
I gasped.
Like loud. f**k can he be more hotter!!!
Royalty Writes
Hey dear my dear readers. I know you would have been waiting for an update. I am sorry it came late okay. Enjoy
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