Riding with the Beast (an MC Fairy Tale)

7 - Sonja

Sonja

His fingers lingered on my cheeks but he didn’t grab or direct me. I felt like I could’ve done anything—taken his full length into my mouth, just licked it, or even gotten up and walked away—and he would have let me. I think just touching my face was enough for him. I couldn’t imagine needing to touch someone that badly.

I looked up at him and took his balls in my mouth the way I was trained to.

“Sonja,” he whispered, brushing my damp hair behind my ears. His fingers traveled down the curve of my neck to my shoulders.

There was something fragile and sweet about the way he touched me, and something painfully intimate. I ran my tongue up from the base of his cock and circled his rim, tasting salty precum. Doing something like that should have seemed lewd, but it didn’t. Instead, it felt like were were kissing.

I pulled away. He dropped his hands so we were no longer touching and watched me with a guarded expression.

My lips were still warm from him. I wanted to wipe my mouth, but didn’t dare move. What are you waiting for, Sonja? Ride his cock. It’s not like you haven’t done it before, I silently chided.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked.

I shivered at the sound of his voice. How long had I sat there, thinking? “No.” I grabbed his shirt and yanked it up before I could change my mind.

He raised his arms. I had to stand to pull his shirt over his head. I couldn’t make out his tattoos in the dark. It was as if he’d been claimed by shadows. But his body was an intricate web of muscles and scars. Some I recognized, like gunshot and knife wounds. Others didn’t feel like human skin. Each one seemed to reveal a darkness that no person should ever be exposed to.

Once his shirt was off, his calloused hands moved down my sides.

I crawled onto his lap, knocking his cock forward as I straddled him. I could feel the head of it through the thin shirt of his I wore, pushing in between my breasts.

“Sonja.” Warm breath caressed my neck. His voice was soft, his tone reverent. I tilted my head up and looked into his ruined face.

Even this close in and the dark, it was ugly. Horrific. I kept focusing on individual features—the awkward, crooked nose, the deep scar running from his cheek to his forehead, the burned, twisted mass of flesh on his left side—as if my conscious mind refused to let me see him as a whole.

I wanted to look away. Something about him that stirred an elemental fear within me. It reminded me of the monsters I used to imagine hiding under my bed or in my closet. Monsters my father dutifully banished by flicking on the lights and smiling reassuringly. Monsters I’d believed I’d conquered by replacing them with real ones.

Normal-looking men who were willing to do anything for their own pleasure and profit. Evil men who hid behind a beautiful mask. My own father, who I’d loved so naively, thinking he could do no wrong…