Does It Hurt?

by H.D. Carlton

I could always use a little therapy in the form of a reckless—and slightly manic—decision.

tebori?”

“It’s a traditional Japanese method. People call ’em stick and poke tattoos,” he explains.

Could ruin my life with just the tip? Check.

“Stop trying to knock me up, Enzo. We're not even friends.”

“I promise not to do anything you don’t beg me for.”

I’ve never begged for dick in my life. Never had to, when men are so fucking simple.

Sorry for his manners. He got bullied in school and hasn’t seen a therapist yet.

I attempt to keep myself covered as much as possible as if Enzo hasn't seen me naked and spread open in ways that Jesus will surely crucify me for later.

There's an entire ocean before me that deserves my reverence, yet all I want to do is give it to her.

“Maybe his penis curves to the side.”

“As pretty as that mouth is, I'm going to need you to fucking shut it.”

With my breathing silenced, the only thing that can be heard above the rough timbre of his voice is his fingers pumping into my soaking pussy. “Do you hear how pretty it sings for me? Why don’t you sing me a lullaby, bella? Let me hear it.”

“Would you scream this time?” he questions darkly. “You always do when you create your own little ocean all over me.”

“That’s another lie, Sawyer. I can smell your pussy from here. That’s not nothing.”

His cock juts straight out, curving upward just the slightest bit. That’s the secret to him hitting all those perfect spots inside me.

“You’re going to come for me, bella, and you’re going to fucking paint me in it. If I’m not covered, then I will make you do it again until there’s nothing left of you.”

She’s walking lightning. Both beautiful and fucking destructive.

“If worshiping you is what you ask, I’d be happy to spend the rest of my life on my knees,”

Quickly, I hook both arms around each thigh and force her back down on my face, opening my mouth wide and drinking from her like a man who’s been lost at sea for months.

He’s not the first man to go down on me and bring me to orgasm, but I feel like fucking Pavlov’s dog, and somehow, he’s managed to train my pussy to drool for him on command.

“Mostrami come amarti,”

“Show me how to love you.”

“There’s a place in the ocean, so deep, where not a single point of light penetrates through it. And for so long, I’ve been trapped there, unable to breathe. When I met you, you lifted me out of that darkness, and it was the first time I came up for air. You’ve become my oxygen, bella ladra, and I can no longer breathe without you.”

I’m sitting on my bed, sifting through a thriller novel. I don't even know what it's about anymore; I lost track fifty pages ago and I’m on page fifty-four.

You can only betray someone if they trusted you.

It feels like love, but even that seems so colorless when my entire being feels vibrant beneath his touch.

Love is funny that way. It persists even when you’ve done everything in your power to banish it. It demands its own voice and refuses to be a slave to anyone but its own desires. And despite the power of it, those selfish desires are what make love so weak.

“My vagina has literally never been this sore in my entire life.”