The Night John Tyler Met the Huntress
Warning: VILLAIN SMUT. No minors.
No, seriously: This concerns a very dark character (even if he’s played by the lovely Hamish Linklater), so pls do not engage if mentions of sexual violence is a trigger.
For the rest of you filthy JT flirts: This takes the cake as the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever written. Alas, the heart wants what it wants.
Summery: A botched scheme, a mountain motel. Fuckery ensues.
“You dirty whore!” he growls and tries to spit in your face.
It’s the worst thing he’s called you yet. His desperation is starting to show.
You tilt your head slightly, easily avoiding the drops, and calmly keep stroking his hardening cock.
After another five seconds or so, you squeeze your hand around it, and there’s a sharp intake of breath.
He tears at his bonds again.
It’s no good. He can hardly move.
You did a good job, making sure he wouldn’t be able to kick his legs free either.
There are more hateful words coming, you can tell by the myriad of raging emotions crossing his face that he’s trying to gather his wits about him.
Unfortunately for him, his efforts are quite obviously, hilariously futile as long your hand is on the gearshift.
He can’t fight against his body’s treacherous response to your ministrations.
And you’re only just getting started.
The thought makes you smirk, and his wild eyes shoot daggers at you although he’s panting hard.
“I think you like this, John”, you say, as even toned as you can. “I think you like me punishing you for being a bad boy.”
He doesn’t respond, of course, so you pump your hand faster up and down his shaft, rubbing the head every time you reach the top, and his actual head lolls back on the madras, eyes fluttering shut.
He’s biting his bottom lip, but knowing it will devastate him to admit defeat, you want to hear him say it out loud:
“’Well, John? Do you like being my little fucktoy, to do with as I please?”
A not-quite stifled moan escapes his lips. He’s still resisting.
Not to worry.
He’ll break soon enough.
Conveniently, you can’t wait any longer.
Your panties are soaked, your core throbbing with twisted desire at the sight of the monster tied down and hard in front of you.
He eyes snap open, and he looks at you with crazed disbelief when you stand from the bed and begin to slowly strip down.
First though, you pull your hair free of the ponytail he no doubt imagined he was going to wrap around his big hand as he fucked you on this very bed.
Your long, lustrous tresses fall around your pretty face and as infinitely brief as it is, something new flashes in his eyes as he looks at you.
It’s gone in a blink, and he’s back to scowling, lips twisted in a foul grimace now that your hand has left his cock and some of the blood is returning to his brain.
“What the hell are you doing?!” he asks through gritted teeth, but instead of answering you take in the way the muscles in his strong arms and thighs flex, a light sheen of sweat already illuminating his limbs and face in the warm light from the bedside lamps.
He has a nice body that he obviously takes care of, better than you would have initially thought.
He likes to look good naked.
Of course, he does.
It’s not just about the victims being attractive, it’s about him perversely fashioning himself part of a desirable duo.
You unbutton your green summer dress in front him, revealing sun-kissed skin and black lingerie.
When you unhook your bra and slide the straps off your arms, his grimace falters as he ogles your breasts – only for him to gasp when you wriggle out of your panties, exposing yourself completely to him.
Yes, he’s murderous and utterly confused, but there’s no mistaking the way he now drinks in the sight of you, from the curve of your neck to the mound of dark curls between your legs.
His still very much erect cock twitches.
You get back on the bed, straddling his hips.
For the umpteenth time he tries to pull arms free, and you laugh at him and shake your head like a patient teacher to an unruly child.
“What is this?! What do you want?!” There’s an edge of hysteria to his barks, even as his resolve to fight the proceedings is clearly wavering confronted with your naked body.
It’s difficult to take him seriously when his mouth is practically watering.
“Now, John, you will lie there and accept what I give you. In fact…”
Another loud gasp as you take hold of his cock again and guide it to your entrance.
You rub the head, glistening with pre-cum, against your folds, and the sensation is so good, you throw your head back and moan to the ceiling before finishing the sentence.
“…in fact, you will soon be begging me for more.”
“There’s no way I’ll – gah!” John’s retort is cut comically short when you lower yourself onto his cock, allowing the head to penetrate you.
His entire body is shaking from attempting to thrust up into you, definitively betraying his defiance.
His gorgeous, big eyes are ablaze with black fire, giving you a dizzying rush of adrenaline.
He would tear you apart if he could.
Tear you apart and fuck whatever piece of you was left.
But the wolf is chained and at your mercy.
Oh, you will delight in making him squirm and beg for his release.
When you lift yourself up again ever so slightly and he slips out of you, he groans in frustration.
For someone so sickeningly obsessed with dominance, being reduced to a helpless tool has got to be eating him alive.
Before this night is over, you’ll have rendered him a whimpering mess, anxious to please you if only you’ll let him out of his misery and just come.
Except you won’t.
You will use him, tease him relentlessly, but you will not let him climax (you have every intention of doing so yourself, however).
And you’ll continue not letting him do so for as long as you can keep your eyes open.
Will he cry, at last, stripped of all pride and blind with unfulfilled lust? Will you finally get to see the real man behind all the masks?
God, what sweet reward.
Then you’ll sleep. Right here in this bed, next to him.
Naked and spent for him to stare at.
Tomorrow you’ll make sure that that obnoxious but financially generous woman, Mary, gets her money’s worth.
Tracking him down took work, but you knew you’d get there with patience.
Everybody leaves footprints, even the most cunning creatures of the night.
And John was a wounded one at that.
“I have a gift for this sort of thing,” is what you told Mary, and she had levelled you a semi-repulsed look and not asked you any further questions.
You couldn’t care less about her opinion of you, as long as she honours her end of the deal.
And catching John’s eye in the rundown motel bar? Oh-so easy.
Easy switching the glasses after he’d drugged yours (you predictable little monster, you).
Easy getting a nice, sympathetic couple to help you get your heavily inebriated ‘husband’ back to your room, him slurring incoherent protests on the way while the man in the other couple shook his head, and the wife whispered to you that you deserved better (you had nodded glumly, giggling on the inside).
Easy undressing him and tying him down to the bed.
Easy pouring yourself a drink from the minibar and waiting for him to come around.
John, the self-proclaimed bogeyman, walked straight into the huntress’ arms. And now, after beating him at his own game, you’re going to skin him alive.
Admittedly, this part is where you’ve spontaneously, scandalously spiced up your methods somewhat.
Because what you could never in a lifetime have anticipated when you accepted the job from Mary, was just how damn attractive you’d found John when you came face to face with him.
Those irresistible eyes with their troubling pools of murky secrets had winked at you from across the room and, later, when his hand brushed against yours on the counter of the bar, you had felt the heat gathering between your legs.
Yes, he had the whole accidental seduction bit down to a tee, spinning you a tale about being on a business trip (“Two of my colleagues are staying here at the motel too, guess they went to bed early”), and offering to buy you a drink if you’d grace him with your company – perhaps even play a round of pool (“I’m terrible at it though, please be gentle with me, haha”).
He was going through the motions as he had with others before, giving you puppy dog eyes so you wouldn’t notice his wolf teeth.
Not a very original schtick, but the man was genuinely funny once he turned down the volume of the performance and his charisma undeniably alluring.
For once you didn’t have to fake an ounce of your attraction to him, like you have on jobs in the past.
The more you laughed at his jokes, twirled your ponytail around your fingers, and wet your lip when you looked into his eyes, the more he had to fight to keep the smugness from showing all over his handsome visage.
What an easy, pretty, little kill you were, and how he wanted to sink his fangs into you.
Somewhere between him ‘casually’ placing a hand at the small of your back when you walked to the pool table, and you ‘spilling’ some of your drink on his pants and then patting them dry with a napkin while he put up the world’s least convincing protest, and you innocently bat your lashes up at him like Marilyn and pretended to ignore his bulge, you had made the decision.
And now you’ve allowed yourself to go with it, ultimately satiating an appalling, very secret desire that you’ve carried around always, yet never dared articulate.
Damn every villain thirsty tv series you ever watched as a teen.
Your employer will get what she wants in due time.
But right this moment, you want John like you haven’t wanted anyone ever before.
The hunger is all-consuming, making you feel high and dirty and quite possibly beyond any kind of moral saving.
Then again, in this line of ‘work’ you’ve engaged in over the past few years, you reason, you’ve already crossed so many lines, what’s one more?
Ultimately, you’re fucking him for a good cause.
Hell, why not call it community service? John is long overdue a dose of vigilante justice.
Speaking of …
“You will release me, or I swear…”, the man hisses under his breath. Reaching for menace and not quite getting there as you lower yourself onto his cock again mid-sentence.
You’re dripping wet but the mass of his length still stretches you, and the way your walls clench around him finally forces a lustful sigh from him.
You seize the moment to lower yourself down to take all of him in, and now you both gasp as he fills you completely.
After adjusting to his size (something he would never have given you time to, had he been in control), you steady your hands on his sculpted chest and begin to roll your hips, seeking friction and feeling your orgasm slowly build.
Normally it takes you a lot longer than this, but fuck, he’s perfect inside you, and the danger and role reversal of it all is making your head swim.
Time to make him sing for you.
Your hips pick up the pace, and John moans again, louder this time. Above his head, his hands are balled into tight fists and there is creaking of leather as he applies all his strength to pulling at the ties you’ve secured to the headboard.
They don’t budge and he cries out in frustration.
You only ride him harder, and his cock begins to throb inside you while his head thrashes from side to side, unable to escape the inevitable.
“You fucking bitch”, he gasps. “If you think this-“
You stop moving.
His eyes find yours immediately, pupils still blown impossibly wide.
“Now, John, you will speak nicely to me”, you say, wagging a finger at him for good measure. “Do you not like what I’m doing to you? Do you not enjoy your punishment?”
“Fuck off!” he spits.
In reply you reach a hand behind your ass to lightly caress his balls.
He nearly mewls, his cock twitching dangerously.
Whether he intends to or not, his hips are trying to get you to move, but instead you lift yourself almost all the way off him so only the tip of his cock is still swathed in your heat.
He whines pathetically.
“So?” You raise an eyebrow at your prey. “Do you like being punished, John?”
He holds out.
Slowly, you move up and down over the head of his cock (your thighs are getting a real workout), never taking more of him inside, and John’s sounds turn into angry wails.
“Say it, John”. You’re panting too. “Admit that you enjoy being my fucktoy and I may just reward you for good behaviour.”
And there it is.
A strangled plea.
“Yes what, John?” You stop moving again and his look is one of sheer desperation.
“I like it,” he gasps.
“You like being my fucktoy?”
“Yes, god dammit, yes”, he all but shouts.
“Mmm, there’s a good boy,” you praise him and slide all the way down his shaft, making him throw his head back in ecstasy.
He’s going to come, but of course you can’t have that. You’ve already worked him too close, but you just couldn’t help yourself.
So, you lift yourself off him.
And here comes the begging.
John’s craning his neck up as far as he can, all arrogance melting away.
“Please, don’t stop!”
The puppy is all lost.
And very, very horny.
Sweat is gleaming on his brow and quivering upper lip.
“No, darling” you say, and lie down on his chest, pressing your breasts against him.
You grasp his chin, forcing him to look directly at you. “I’m not done with you, John,” you whisper, and try not to drown in those deep forest lakes staring back at you.
You didn’t mean to, but suddenly it seems absurd not to kiss him when you’re this close, his fast breath mixing with yours between mouths half open, waiting.
His body tenses and there’s another strangled sound when you capture his mouth, but he doesn’t try to turn his face away, nor does he bite.
No, he kisses you back.
Hesitantly at first, then eagerly, his tongue seeking yours.
You let go of his chin and instead run your hands through his thick, wavy salt’n’pepper hair.
He still tastes of the cocktail you had, and a bit of mint, and ugh it’s difficult to keep in mind that he’s a monster when he’s sighing into your mouth like that, like he’s never been kissed before in his life.
You grind against his cock, rubbing your clit over it and chasing your orgasm while your tongues are still entwined, and when the swells overtake you, you break the kiss and gasp into John’s neck as your body bucks in pleasure.
When you push yourself up on your elbows again, he’s staring at you with a look that naïve little lambs might interpret as wonder, if they didn’t know the beast within.
“I don’t think I’ve ever made a woman come before,” he says with startling frankness.
He’s a little out of breath.
“Don’t flatter yourself, John. Technically, I made myself come,” you reply. Your voice is shakier than you’d like it to be.
His cock is still hard under you.
You sit up on your knees and smooth your damp hair out of your face, inhaling deeply.
John’s looking up at you expectantly. It appears he’s no longer scared that you’ll hurt him. You need to work him back to the edge, stoke that anger a bit more.
You reposition yourself on the bed so you’re kneeling next to him and start stroking his cock again. You don’t have to implore him to ask nicely:
“Please, please…,” he gasps, putting on his Sweet John mask and swallowing like he’s on the verge of being overcome with emotions.
If he tries to fake-sob his way to earning an orgasm, you’ll laugh your head off.
“Do you want me to take it in my mouth, John?” you ask sweetly.
He nods so eagerly you have to bite your tongue from cackling diabolically.
Whatever he thinks you’re doing, he’s not quite on to you yet.
Holding his cock at the base, you bend down and lightly lick the underside of the head.
John gasps with satisfaction, and when you close your mouth around him, he says your name, turning the moment into something dangerously intimate.
You abruptly sit up and his cock flops back onto his stomach.
“Wh-hat?” The prisoner’s eyes are so hazy with desire he looks like he’s drunk.
“Let’s watch some tv.”
You prop yourself up against the headboard and grab the remote from the bedside table. With your other hand, you ruffle John’s hair, freeing his curls.
He looks a lot younger when his hair’s a mess.
“What do you want to watch, John? I’ll flip the channels and you tell me when to stop, okay?” you say cheerfully.
He’s looking up at you like you’re speaking in code.
“Um, why, no, why would you do that? Why did you…?” Words failing him, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s trying to concentrate.
“Please,” he says, eyes still closed, a hoarse strain in his voice. “Please. I’ll… I’ll be good. I’ll do anything you say.”
He grinds his jaw at the last part, like it physically pains him to speak the words.
You turn on the tv, then scooch down on the bed so you can snuggle up to his side, placing your head on his chest.
“Here’s the thing, John,” you say, tracing his ribs with the tip of a finger and relishing the way he shivers.
“I’ve given it some thought, and I’m afraid you’re not deserving true pleasure tonight after all. Or any night, for that matter. You’ve just done too much bad.”
You can feel his breathing change.
“What are you talking about?” His voice has turned to ice.
“Oh, darling, let’s not. It’s too tiresome,” you say, sighing. “Let’s just watch tv.”
He doesn’t reply.
You try to follow what’s happening on the screen. You can’t. Instead, you’re listening to his heartbeat, and wondering what look he’s wearing. If he has dropped his disguise.
You reach for his cock, and he starts. It’s gone flaccid, but a few deft strokes and you’re working him back.
He’s still not saying anything, but when you alternate between pumping his length and caressing his balls, you soon have him gasping again.
His sounds make your own desire build too, so after a bit you sit up, straddle him once more, and slip his cock into your wet core while he growls under you.
You only ride him briefly before leaning back, spreading your thighs wide, and touching yourself until you come with a shudder while John can only gape at you, slack-jawed at the display.
After that, he starts cursing at you again, telling you what he’ll do to you when he gets free.
That you have no idea who you’re dealing with.
That he’ll destroy you in the most horrible ways imaginable.
“Oh, but I do know what you are, John,” you say, kissing him hard on the lips so he’ll have to shut up.
He doesn’t kiss you back this time.
“I know exactly what you are.”
You go to the bathroom to get a glass of water and find your legs rather wobbly.
No wonder. John should appreciate how he’s receiving his punishment lying comfortably on his back.
The cold water from the tap in the sink is not nearly cool enough to quench your thirst, and you consider popping into the hallway to the ice dispenser.
Immediately, you get an image of giving John a surprise blowjob with your mouth full of ice, and you grin at your own reflection in the mirror.
He might be too into it though.
And what more is, you’re way too into this, acting like a first year at a dorm party.
You straighten up. You’ve had your fun and two healthy orgasms in the unhealthiest of ways.
Now you need to get rough with him.
You know how the fairy-tale must end when the sun comes up.
You step out of the bathroom.
The bed is empty.
You don’t even get to look around the room before John, who must have been waiting right next to the door, is on you.
Wrapping his arms around you so tight it feels like he’ll crush your bones, he effectively traps you with your back against his naked chest, pinning your arms to the side of your body.
One of his hands shoot up to wrap around your throat.
And then he squeezes.
“My turn,” he snarls into your ear, predatory fingers digging into your soft skin with a fierceness that sends shockwaves of fear blasting through your veins.
He’s going to kill me.
You try to kick him in the shin, step on his feet, twist out of his grip, but it’s almost impossible to focus your energy when you’re struggling for air.
“Time to play a different game,” John rasps, an ugly, unhinged tone creeping into his voice, and when he tightens his grip on you, your vision blurs at the edges.
He pushes you forward towards the bed, and your toes drag over the leather bonds you tied his arms and legs with. Why didn’t you just use the handcuffs instead of going vintage S/M?!
John tosses you onto the madras face first, but wastes no time in flipping you over, and now suddenly everything’s the wrong way around – he’s the one straddling you, pulling your arms over your head to tie you up.
His entire weight is holding you down, but this lamb will not go gently to slaughter.
You thrash under him, managing to free one of your arms as he’s trying to pin your wrists down with one hand while readying a leather strap with the other.
You aim for his eyes but can’t quite reach, instead leaving bloody scratch marks on his cheek before he can jerk his head to the side. He swears angrily and slaps you so hard across the face, you nearly black out, allowing him the time he needs to secure the bonds around your wrists, and then tie your ankles down as well.
When your focus returns, head now pounding, he’s got you in the exact same position you put him in before:
Spreadeagle on your back, naked and vulnerable. You can taste iron on your tongue. John is standing at the end of the bed, rubbing his cheek and glaring greedily down at you, fingers bloodstained.
He’ stroking himself with the other hand, and his fully erect cock and ravenous expression leaves little doubt as to what he intends to do to you.
“Now, little lady, I’m sure you can appreciate that I have to show you some manners.”
The vicious glee in his voice makes your blood run cold. Even if, simultaneously, you feel your walls clench in anticipation for what’s to come.
If he’s eventually going to kill you, you hope he has the curtesy to fuck you out of your mind first.
Even now, like this, he turns you on.
John gets on the bed and settles between your legs, lowering himself down and reaching between your bodies to guide his cock to your entrance.
No – unceremoniously shove.
You cry out as he buries himself in you with so much force, your head is knocked back against the headboard.
“You should have checked that right knot an extra time, darling,” he mocks you, biting into your neck as he pulls all the way out of you, only to slam his hips against yours again.
You scream, both from the bite and brutal onslaught of his thrust, and he places a hand over your mouth and shushes you.
“You really are a dirty little whore, aren’t you?” he muses. “Disgustingly wet from wanting me to fuck you properly. Don’t worry…” he pounds into you again, his cock going so deep you feel like he’s impaling you. It makes your eyes water.
Even after two orgasms, this time he feels bigger, wider. Or fear is making you clamp up.
“….I will”. He kisses your forehead in a weirdly affectionate gesture, before proceeding to fuck you so violently, you can feel the bruising forming both inside and out.
Tiny droplets of sweat land on your face as he channels all his rage into nailing you to the bed, and he doesn’t remove his hand from your mouth when tears start spilling out of your eyes, instead planting kisses on your cheeks and eyelids, and assuring you that “you’re being such a good, tight little slut.”
You whimper against his palm, and it only spurs him on, his thrusts becoming more erratic until he spills himself inside you, groaning loudly into your neck in a freakish mirror image of when you came before.
His teeth worry over the imprints he’s sure to have left on your throat.
For a while, he just lies on top of you, his body like a tonne of bricks squashing your lungs.
Then he rolls off with a satisfied sigh, spooning you and propping himself up on one elbow.
“Did you come?”
“What?” You look up at him, blinking tears away. You feel like you’ve been torn in half.
His face is a new mask. One of perfect serenity.
“I asked you if you came,” he repeats patiently, matter of fact.
You stare into his eyes, summoning a bit of defiance.
“No? You didn’t enjoy yourself this time?”
“No, John, I didn’t ‘enjoy’ myself,” you sneer. “Getting hit in the face and then fucked badly by someone with no idea what they’re doing is not my idea of a good time.”
Except for the hitting, it’s not 100 percent true.
But you won’t give him another win by admitting that you got a debauched kick out of him ravaging your body, even as he did cause you pain.
His upper lip twitches in disdain and his features turn to stone again.
“No idea what I’m doing, huh?” His voice is cold, but you can easily sense the temper flaring underneath.
“None.” You look to the ceiling.
He sighs and for a chilling second you have an image of him smothering you with a pillow and calling it a night.
Instead, he licks his fingers and, before you register his intentions, his hand is between your spread legs, slick fingers caressing your sensitive folds.
You gasp in surprise before you can stop yourself, and John chuckles.
“Let’s make a deal, shall we?” he purrs, one finger tracing your entrance in a lazy circle.
“I’ll see if I can make you enjoy our time together, and in turn you’re going to tell me why you put on that whole show before, hmm? I have a feeling you have a fascinating tale for me.”
You squirm under his touch, but you can’t escape his fingers. And even though you’re so sore it burns, you feel that other kind of warmth still glowing right under your bruised skin, lighting up every little promiscuous nerve ending in your body.
Why are you so ridiculously horny for this monster of a man?!
He carefully dips two fingers into you while leaning in and kissing your throat, your jawline, humming into your hair. “Oh, you smell so good. I wanted to take you right there on that pool table in the bar, you know. Such a little tease in that dress…”
He’s slowly pumping his fingers in and out of you, and you try to keep from arching your back, or making any appreciative sounds.
It feels good, especially combined with the kissing that’s sending shivers down your spine, yet you’re pretty sure he doesn’t have a lot of experience handling women like this.
There’s a touch of boy scout field expedition to his approach that would be endearing if he was anyone else and you weren’t tied up.
He curls his fingers inside you, searching for a spot he knows is there somewhere, and you moan against your will.
No, this is definitely not endearing.
But it’s hot.
You can feel him smile into the crook of your neck.
“That’s it, you just tell me when I’m getting warm…” he whispers. “I’m a very fast learner, you’ll see.”
When his thumb finds your clit and experimentally teases it with little circular motions, there’s no more keeping up appearances, and you mewl and squirm as he gets into a rhythm of working you, his touch growing more confident with every gasp he elicits from your mouth.
“Look at you, so responsive to me…” he sniggers, smugness radiating from every pore. Then, turning suddenly serious, his fingers slow, just as your orgasm is building.
You look up at him, expecting him to be imitating your own little ‘game’ from before, but as his eyes search yours, you swallow at the change in his expression.
“Why do you want me?” he asks bluntly.
You consider lying.
No lies come.
At least none he won’t see right through.
So, tied to a bed in a mountain motel and with a wanted criminal fingering you, you tell said criminal the truth.
From what Mary’s told you of John’s volatile nature, it might as well be the ugly vérité as the sweeter lie that keeps you alive till dawn.
You’ve already seen so many wildly different sides of him, you have no idea who the real John is.
At this point, you very much doubt he knows himself.
“Mary hired me to find you,” you say, not breaking eye contact.
A shadow falls over the man’s face. Absurdly, his fingers are still inside you, soaked in your juices and his own cum.
“I see. To do what? To kill me?” he asks in a disturbingly detached voice.
You try to breathe normally.
“To retrieve something of hers, and…” you steady yourself, “to make sure you don’t hurt any more people.”
He blinks twice in too-fast succession, like someone who’s been reminded of something unwanted.
You look into each other’s eyes for a long moment in which you give up trying to read him. It’s impossible.
“But why do you want me?” he asks again, more quietly.
You feel your cheeks turn even redder than they already were from two hours of fucking and fighting.
You just told him you’ve been sent to castrate him or kill him or possibly both, and he’s skating right past it, choosing instead to focus on why you couldn’t keep your mittens off his naked body.
You take a deep breath and close your eyes. By now, you might as well tell him, but that doesn’t mean you want to see his self-satisfied smirk when you do.
“I was attracted to you when we met at the bar, okay? I didn’t plan for this.”
There’s a silence. You still refuse to look at him.
“Have you done this before?” he asks, voice not betraying any emotion.
You sigh and open your eyes.
“Have I stripped down other fugitives from the law and had my wicked way with them? No, John, I haven’t.”
He withdraws his fingers from inside you, and you flinch a little as cooler air brushes against your most intimate parts.
“Was that it? Did you want me because Mary told you what I did?” he asks, sounding gruff. “Even from my perspective that seems a little fucked up.”
You burst out laughing. It’s too grotesque.
“Really, John Tyler? Wow, thank you for that unique perspective.”
He’s staring at you, looking mildly upset, and something stirs in you that’s not quite fear, not just lust either.
You know what he wants to hear.
And for reasons known only to the deepest, darkest parts of your heart, you decide to give it to him.
Also, it’s still the truth.
You soften your expression and tilt your face up a little more (your neck is starting to hurt, and so are your arms).
“I probably would have made a move on you either way.”
Oh, the man really wants it spelled out.
The lost puppy appearance is slowly making a comeback, but this time it doesn’t feel like an act as much as cracks in the façade.
When was the last time anyone wanted him? Not his services, but him?
How many years?
You will not feel for this man who has deliberately hurt so many.
You will not.
“Because the first time you looked at me from across the room, I wondered what it would be like if you held me in your arms.”
That’s more honesty than you’ve dumped on anyone in a very long time. With or without being in mortal danger.
John appears to have stopped blinking. The effect is a little unnerving.
Then he kisses you very softly on the mouth and you reciprocate because there’s nothing else to do.
“I’m not a very nice person to be held by,” he whispers.
Whether it’s the blend of madness and melancholia in his voice that’s making you tremble, or his hand slowly moving up your inner thigh, you can’t say.
“I know,” is all you whisper back.
“So, what do we do now, you needy little thing?” His mouth is still hovering over yours.
You bite at his lower lip.
“Fuck me, John Tyler.”
He narrows his eyes and smirks down at you.
“I thought you didn’t enjoy me fucking you?”
It feels daring to smirk back.
“I’ll give you a chance to make it up to me. But…”
You tug at the bonds holding your wrists.
“Can you do something about this? My arms are asleep.”
John raises an eyebrow.
You don’t know what to expect. If he’ll laugh in your face or strike you again.
“Ah, yes, I’m so sorry I didn’t ensure your comfort,” he drawls theatrically, “seeing as you were so considerate to me.”
He plants a chaste kiss on your cheek. The one he slapped. You wince.
“Having had some personal experience being employed by our dear friend Mary, I don’t trust that you won’t…carry out your mission, so to speak.”
Even if you didn’t believe he would let you go, you make a show of grimacing in despair.
John shakes his head.
“I guess we could change it up a bit, but…” He grips your jaw in a painfully tight hold and looks you over.
“If you try anything stupid, I will not hesitate to make you so very, very sorry, do you understand me?”
You know he’s not kidding.
You nod silently.
John moves to the end of the bed and unties first your left, then your right ankle, and you resist the impulse to kick him the face that will get you killed.
Then he unties your wrists, but only so he can flip you over on your stomach and then re-tie you to the headboard. At least now you can almost get up on your elbows.
And bite at the knots John has tied.
That is if he wasn’t actually right there behind you, spreading your legs and pulling you up on your knees.
Your eyes flash to your bag on the floor in a corner of the room. The bag with handcuffs, pepper spray and more useful stuff in it.
Then John’s cock is pressing against your entrance, and your attention is back on the bed, hands gripping the wooden headboard for support when he pushes into you.
You’re not holding back your moans this time as he invades you over and over, especially not when he finds your little bundle of nerves again and slides his fingers over it, making your knees shake and your core spasm around his cock.
“Tell me,” John demands in between thrusts, voice sliding into a dark growl, “tell me how much you enjoy being my little fucktoy now.”
There’s no reason not to give in.
You’re so wet the sounds of him slamming into you are downright obscene, and most probably audible all the way out in the hallway, should anyone be so unfortunate to pass by.
“I love it,” you gasp, half-expecting to be struck down by some divine entity obliterating your soul for sinking to this level of incomprehensible moral depravity.
You don’t care.
You just want to come undone under this man.
“Good,” he praises you. “Good girl.”
He suddenly leaves your clit alone and you’re about to whine in protest, you were getting so close, when he pushes a finger into your ass instead, causing you to cry out in surprise.
He responds by roughly shoving your face into the madras.
“Shh, darling, you have to keep it down,” he says, voice thick with lust.
When he inserts another finger into your tight hole, all the while continuing to bury his cock in you, you’re overwhelmed by sensations, writhing under him and pulling senselessly at your bonds.
It’s too much, yet at the same time you want him to fill you up even more.
You say his name.
“I knew you’d like that,” comes the pleased reaction. “Next time, darling, I’ll have to fuck that tight ass of yours. I promise, you’ll love it.”
His breathing is becoming ragged.
“And if not, I might just have to tie you down again until you do…”
He pushes his fingers into you deeper still, and you can’t keep it together anymore. You come so hard it feels like you’re going to pass out, and he’s right behind you, grunting heavily.
This time, he pulls out and collapses onto the madras next to you, but you’re so out of it you barely notice it when he cuddles up next to your bound, sweaty form and leaves sloppy kisses on your shoulder and neck.
“What a strange thing you are,” he’s saying, now nibbling on your earlobe, a hand caressing your ass, squeezing your butt cheek. “I wish I had found you before Mary did…”
You can hardly keep your eyes open, much less find the energy to say anything back.
Will he try to take you again if you lose consciousness?
Probably. That would be up his alley, wouldn’t it?
The last thing you hear before sleep descends are the springs of the madras squeaking as John pulls the blankets over you both.
The morning sun is filtering through the gaps in the curtains when you open your eyes, and it takes you a few disoriented seconds to get your head around where you are and what the hell happened.
You can smell coffee somewhere near.
Your scramble to a sitting position among the crumbled sheets. Your wrists are free, the large bed empty save for a neatly folded pile of clothes at the foot end.
Your clothes from last night with a sweater on top that you don’t recognize.
You look around the room but it’s all quiet.
He’s gone. Along with your bag. And your car keys.
There’s a mug filled with steaming coffee on the bedside table next to you.
It has the logo of the motel and a sun with a smiley face on it.
You stare at it dumbly for a very long time.
Then you crawl out of bed and stagger to the bathroom. You’ll need painkillers for the sharp ache between your legs, but first and foremost you need to get the hell out of here.
No, actually, you decide in the bathroom as you feel a thick liquid running down the inside of your thigh:
More than anything, you need to shower.
You need to wash John off you, out of you, and hopefully a bit of the shame too.
Scrub off this sullied skin and rediscover the more sensible person underneath.
The one who doesn’t get off on tying up criminals and playing with their cocks until they turn the tables and fuck her stupid instead.
You should get a morning after pill.
Now he’s out there again, on the prowl.
And you’ll have to deal with the wrath of Mary and not getting paid.
I fucked a sex offender and all I got was this lousy sweater.
You turn on the shower in the glass cubicle and let the water run as a hot as you can possibly manage while you clean yourself with the motel soap and shampoo.
They smell of those pine scented air fresheners you keep in your car. Apt.
There are bruises all over your hips and wrists.
“Why do you want me…?
No, you will not go down this road. Absolutely not.
You stand under the shower resting your forehead against the glass until the water starts to cool again.
Then you dry yourself with one of the oversized bath towels and wrap it around your body, trying to avoid the mirror for now.
You caught a glimpse of the shiner he gave you when you got in the shower, but you’re not ready to face it yet.
So to speak.
When you open the bathroom door, there’s a brief moment when you think you’re having a déjà vu from the night before.
Only the scene’s a little different.
Instead of the bed being empty and John hiding somewhere, ready to pounce on you, he’s in fact sitting on the edge of the bed, looking not at you but into space.
He’s wearing the bright red jacket from last night.
It’s an oddly brash sartorial choice for someone wanting to blend in, and you idly recall wondering if John picked it out as a satirical statement of sorts.
An in-joke known only to him.
You’re too stunned by his presence to feel afraid.
“John? What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t answer, nor does he turn his head.
You should grab that heavy-looking glass ashtray from the shelf on the wall next you.
You should try to run.
You should, at the very least, fear the man in front of you.
But you don’t.
Feeling like you’re having an out of body experience, you go to sit next to him.
“You came back?”
There is something incredibly surreal about engaging in small-talk with someone who, only mere hours ago, almost choked the life out of you, slapped you around and then finger-fucked your ass while you confessed to loving it.
Is he here because he regretted not cleaning up?
Like you were supposed to do, Mary’s voice chides you. It sounds even more sour than last you heard from her in real life.
There’s a long silence in which you go through serval unpleasant outcomes of a potential fight with him right here and now with a towel as your only armour.
The coffee cup is within reach though …
Then John lets out a sigh, like he’s been holding his breath, and your heart skips a beat.
“I don’t know how to leave,” he says quietly and looks to the floor.
You know you must have lost your mind, because the real you, the person who pursued a career in hunting monsters, would never get up only to settle down in this man’s lap, making him look up in surprise.
She would never take that man’s face in her hands and allow herself to slip under the surface of those deep forest lakes, leaving her sanity on the shore.
She would never kiss his lips gently, slowly rocking her hips against him.
She would never let him tentatively wrap his arms around her, like he’d never done so before without intending violence (no, she would definitely never be insane enough to believe that this time would be any different for him).
And most certainly, most importantly, she would never ever in a million years say this:
“Then stay, wolf.”
He closes his eyes.
The towel slides.
“I can’t promise I won’t hurt you.”
The woman who is not you runs her fingers through John’s delicious hair.
“Neither can I.”