The dining table was a battlefield, and I was losing.
Your fingers dug into the soft flesh of my thighs as you forced another forkful of rich, buttery pasta between my lips. "Chew," you commanded, your voice low and dark. I tried—God, I tried—but my mouth was already full, my cheeks stretched obscenely. A trail of saliva escaped down my chin as I struggled to obey.
You tutted, gripping my jaw to hold me still. "Such a messy little pig. Can’t even eat properly without making a scene." Your thumb swiped through the drool on my chin before pushing it back into my mouth, forcing me to taste my own shame.
I whined, my stomach aching, my body torn between pleasure and pain.
"You wanted this," you reminded me, your free hand groping the swollen curve of my belly, pressing just hard enough to make me gasp. "You begged for me to ruin you. So take it. Every last bite."
And when I sobbed, overwhelmed, you leaned in, your breath hot against my ear. "Good. Cry for me. It’s prettier when you fight."
1 week
