chapter 3:the wet dream

​ Please... ahh, slow, I gasped. My voice was barely steady, trembling under the overwhelming flood of sensations crashing through my body. Every nerve ending screamed as waves of pleasure built up inside me, making my limbs weak and my breath hitch uncontrollably. My skin felt like it was on fire, each shiver an echo of the intensity that held me captive.

​He didn’t slow down gently. No, his movements were deliberately languid, teasing me mercilessly as if savoring every moment of my helplessness. It wasn't kind; it wasn't tender. It was slow, like a predator toying with his prey. His calm, measured rhythm was maddening.

​ Shh, he whispered low, his voice a quiet growl that sent another shudder down my spine. It was as if he was enjoying my torment just as much as I was enduring it.

​Damn him. The way his dark eyes locked onto mine was hypnotic, filled with a dangerous mix of control and desire. His curly hair, damp and disheveled, clung to his forehead, making him look like some reckless God from a fever dream. My breath hitched again, deeper and ragged, the pressure mounting unbearably between us. I barely had the strength to speak, but I forced the words out a desperate plea escaping my lips like a fragile prayer.

​ Please... I whispered, my voice shaking and almost inaudible.

​He froze inside me, stiff and taut, a silent demand for obedience. Then, as if coaxing a secret from my trembling soul, he said, Beg for it, sweetheart. Beg.

​That word burned with both humiliation and need. I hated myself for the craving that surged through me, for the vulnerability that clung to every whispered syllable. But the truth was, right now, I needed to beg not because I wanted to, but because I had no other choice. I needed him to make me come.

​Please... please make me come, I breathed out, my lips parting in surrender.

​Before I could think, he bit into my neck, leaving a fiery mark a hickey that would scream to the world that I belonged to him, if only for this fleeting night. The sharp sting mingled with the pleasure, heightening the madness swirling inside me. Then, his hand closed tightly around my nipple, squeezing with just the right amount of cruel pressure to make a scream tear through the air.

​Not yet, baby, he said, his voice low and dark, savoring his control like a prize. His cruel game was unrelenting.

​Please... I begged again, this time my voice cracking with desperation. Please... I can’t take it anymore.

​My eyes locked with those intense, molten brown eyes that held a thousand secrets and a dangerous promise. He watched me like a hunter studying his prey, and beneath that fierce gaze, I saw something else: a flicker of pleasure, maybe even hunger.

​aYou need to beg like a good girl, sweetheart, he murmured, every word a command wrapped in silk and steel.

​Swallowing the lump in my throat and swallowing my pride along with it I obeyed.

​Please... please let me... ahhh, let me come I begged, louder now, desperation breaking through the last of my restraint.

​His slow nod was all the permission I needed. Then, without warning, he picked up the pace. My entire body cried out under the relentless storm of sensation. His hand shot up, grabbing my throat in a firm choke that blurred the lines between pain and pressure, making every nerve sing louder than before.

​Oh God! I screamed, my voice raw and ragged. I'm coming... I'm coming!

​Come for me. On my cock, he commanded fiercely.

​With a final surge, my body betrayed me. I arched wildly, my legs trembling like leaves caught in a violent wind.

​I woke with a start.

​I sat up, my heart hammering against my ribs, unable to believe myself. A wet dream. A wet dream about the guy from the bar yesterday.

The sweat from the dream was still cooling on my skin, turning into a chilling dampness that made me shiver. I stared at the ceiling of my small room, my heart still trying to find its rhythm. The ghost of his touch the biker with the molten eyes still lingered like a burn. But as the morning light filtered through the thin curtains, the fantasy evaporated, replaced by the grey, suffocating weight of my reality.

​I dressed slowly, every movement heavy. I pulled on a modest, high collared shirt, making sure to cover every inch of skin. My hands trembled as I buttoned the cuffs. I had to face them.

​I walked into the kitchen, the smell of burnt toast and old floor wax hitting me. My parents were already there, seated like statues at the small wooden table. My father didn't look up from his coffee, and my mother was meticulously smoothing out a lace tablecloth that had seen better days.

​"Sit," my father commanded. His voice was like dry gravel.

​I obeyed, sliding into the chair across from them. I kept my eyes on my lap, my fingers twisting together in the fabric of my skirt.

​We spoke with Pastor Thomas this morning, my mother said, her voice high and tight, filled with a forced kind of piety. The arrangements are being finalized. You should be honored. To be chosen to fill the void left by his late wife... it is a blessing from God.

​A blessing. I felt a surge of nausea. Pastor Thomas was nearly three times my age, a man who smelled of mothballs and stale incense. He had buried his wife seven years ago, and now, he wanted a pure replacement.

​ I don't want this, I whispered, the words feeling like shards of glass in my throat.

​My father’s hand slammed onto the table, making the spoons rattle. What you want is irrelevant. You are a daughter of this house, and you will bring honor to this family. You will enter that marriage as a virgin, as a servant of the church.

​I looked up then, my gaze flickering to the door, remembering the terror of a year ago. And what about his son? What about Marcus?

​The silence that followed was deafening. My mother’s face hardened into a mask of disgust.​We told you never to speak that lie again, she snapped, her eyes narrowing. Marcus is a godly young man. To accuse the Pastor’s firstborn of such a... such a filthiness is a sin in itself. You were looking for attention, or perhaps your own heart was straying toward temptation.

​The memory flashed behind my eyes Marcus pinning me against the church basement wall, his breath hot and smelling of sour wine, his hands tearing at my dress. I had escaped by the grace of a broken latch, running home with my heart in my mouth, only to be told I was a liar. They had chosen the Pastor's reputation over their own daughter's safety.

​He tried to take me, I said, my voice cracking, a final, desperate plea for them to see me.

​Enough! my father roared, standing up. He leaned over the table, his shadow swallowing me whole. You will go to work. You will keep your head down. And you will prepare yourself for your wedding. You are lucky the Pastor still wants you after the rumors you tried to spread."

​I stood up abruptly, the legs of my chair screeching against the floor. I couldn't breathe in this room. The walls felt like they were closing in, painted with the lies of holy men and the silence of parents who didn't love me enough to protect me.

​I grabbed my bag and headed for the door without a word. As I stepped out into the humid morning air, my mind drifted back to the bar. Back to the violence, the gun, and the man who looked at me like he saw exactly who I was.

​In my dream, he was a predator. But in this house, the real predators wore Sunday suits and carried Bibles.