The Mistress ✓

21

Onika

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Follow me>3 melaninispower

This is one of those rare times where I looked at the word count because I've been writing since five lmaooo. This chapter is long. So get a snack :)

There's also a little bit of secks in this chapter, just a lil 🌚

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When I wake the next morning, I bolt up in bed, my head swiveling from side to side. It's the same way I wake up every time in this damn room. Never knowing if I'm going to be alone, or who has been here during the night. Based on the spinning fireplace in the library that I saw the first time I was delivered to Fenty, I know this place is riddled with secret passageways and hidden entrances. That's assuming, I suppose, that the room I'm being kept in is even in the same building as the library. Honestly, I don't know where the hell I am.

This morning, I see no one, and it's a relief. I shift, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and out from under the covers. Muscles I don't recall having twinge in protest. I try focusing on my sore hand instead, but fail miserably because all I can think about is the ache between my legs. I still feel her pounding into me.

I've only had one sexual encounter in my life that remotely approached what happened last night, and that was the first time Meek and I were together. It was never that good again. Probably because I married him within twenty-four hours, and he didn't feel the need to expend the effort.

I push that thought aside, but the one that follows doesn't make me feel much better.

I don't know how last night happened. As I stumble into the massive bathroom, I feel taken. Owned. Used. But not in a bad way. Or maybe just not the bad way I expected.

I move toward the shower and reach inside to flip the handle to hot. I spent a half hour in there last night determinined to scrub her touch from my body, but it didn't work.

I still feel her on every inch of me.

While I wait for the water to heat, I brush out my tangled mass of hair. I'm beginning to get used to my nakedness, something I've never been comfortable with before. i suppose it's because I have no clothes and therefore, no other option.

I put that item on my agenda for today. This one-outfit-at-a-time bullshit has to end.

When I lower the brush to the countertop, I catch a glimpse of something in my reflection. My hip. And around the sides of my ass. I spin, craning my neck over my shoulder to look behind me, and I see Or rather them. light bruises in the shape of fingerprints.

That bastard marked me. I wait for the expected fury to burn in my gut, and it does, right on schedule. In my head, I'm already calling her every foul name I can come up with as I step into the shower.

I can't scrub these off, and I can't block out the memories either.

I hate that they pummel me like the hot spray.

My anger drains away and shame replaces it when I realize I can't even stay pissed about the marks, because under no circumstances can I say I was unwilling last night. I urged her on as she gripped my hips and fucked me harder.