Swamp Murder

Swamp Murder. 7

"Are you serious right now?" I hiss, wriggling away, but his arm is like iron around my shoulders. Black chuckles, a low rumble that seems to fill the car, and I feel him pull me even closer, his warmth radiating like a furnace against the cold leather seat.

"Relax," he mutters, almost lazily.

"Tell the driver to stop," Black calls out to the bodyguard in front. His voice is calm, but there's an edge that brook no argument. Within minutes, we pull up at a small, late-night diner glowing like a beacon on the street.

"No, it's fine, really," I start to protest, but Black's already out of the car, holding the door open for me, his hand extended in a way that's both chivalrous and demanding. There's no getting out of this now.

We walk into the diner, the warmth and smell of coffee and fried food hitting me instantly. It's cozy and dimly lit, with a few weary travelers hunched over steaming cups. Black leads me to a booth in the corner, settling in across from me with a smirk as if he owns the place.

"Order whatever you want," he says, nodding to the menu. "Consider it... my treat."

I roll my eyes, but my stomach's taken the reins. I order a sandwich and fries, grateful to have something filling. Black watches me eat with that same lazy, infuriating smile, his gaze never leaving my face.

"Do you enjoy being difficult?" I ask, after a few bites, finally meeting his gaze. There's a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly masked.

"Maybe. Do you enjoy pretending you're afraid of me?" He leans back, his gaze sharper now, his words probing.

"I'm afraid of you," I mutter, stuffing a fry in my mouth. "I just don't get why you... I don't know... act like this."

He shrugs, his eyes losing their playful glint for a moment. "Maybe I don't want to be that predictable person you can figure out. Where's the fun in that?"

I let his words sink in, silence settling between us like a challenge. There's a depth to Black I hadn't seen before, and maybe, just maybe, a loneliness. We finish our meal, and As we head back to the car, Black opens the door and pushes me into the back seat. His face is unreadable and heavy. "You guys can go grab something to eat," he says, addressing the bodyguards. They exchange looks but don't question him, simply nodding as they turn and walk away, leaving us alone. He climbs into the back seat with me.

"Take off your trousers," he commands, mirroring his own words with action.

"What? Here? Now?" I stammer, unsure, glancing around. "You're joking, right?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" His expression turns hard, eyes locked on mine.

He undoes his belt, his confidence unwavering. From the front seat, he pulls out a small bottle, hands moving swiftly and surely. The air is charged, and tense, each movement precise. He holds the lubricant, preparing.

Black pulls my trousers roughly to my knees as I was taking time and bends over me to take my cock in his mouth. At first, nothing happens, and Black tries and tries to make me hard. However, my cock remains limp.

Frustrated, he asked "What is wrong with you?" in an irritated tone.

I am not sure, maybe I am just afraid. I say.

Not satisfied with my response, Black takes matters into his hands and punches me in the mouth. "Are you still scared?" He asks. His tone is cold and emotionless. Instead of replying to his question, I simply look at him, unsure of what to say.