Cole liked it when I whimpered, when I cried for an end to his torture, when I begged for him to start, or to stop. And I loved it when he apologized for being unable to, because it meant I was special. It meant I had something he couldn’t resist. “It’s out of my hands, angel,” he’d say, as he fucked me into the bed, or the ground, or the wall. “This is what you do to me.”
