Chapter Text
You become the perfect girlfriend.
Out of pity and terrible love, you rush down the stairs and jump into his arms whenever he comes home. You drown him in kisses while wearing one of his black t-shirts, your feet dangling in the air as he holds you like a doll and kisses you back, swimming in your love. He can do nothing but stare at you with sparkles in his eyes when you tell him you made him his favourite dish. It’s a sure-shot way straight into his heart, which you occupied already, but only as his skittish cat.
Now, you’re relatively sure this man would do anything for you without a moment’s notice. If you told him to jump off a bridge, he would ask which one with devotion and trust in his eyes.
It’s scary to hold that kind of power over someone.
It’s equally as frightening to notice he holds the same kind of power over you.
And if you’re the perfect girlfriend, he’s the perfect boyfriend.
He’s the perfect man.
“Little angel is waking up to a new day,” he says in the mornings as he caresses your cheek. Gone are the days when he used to force his cock between your thighs first thing at dawn; now he’s the gentlest knight as he softly cuddles you awake, cooing questions into your ear about what his princess would like to do today.
He’s the wallet to your whimsy dinner plans and carries the groceries back to the house like a loyal servant; he’s your guy when you curse the grime attached in the seams of your bathroom tiles. You catch him scrubbing them clean before you can say Clorox, and he’s there when you need to vacuum under the sofa, when you need to change a tyre, when you need to get your pussy wrecked.
He licks you so sweet it makes your chest want to collapse in on itself: he’s slow, confident, and purposeful, a man who finally knows what he’s doing and therefore takes his sweet time with it.
“You look so pretty when I fuck you like this,” he breathes into your cunt with a smooth, low voice.
Then he licks you, sluggishly, filling the air with audible, slick sounds of a wet tongue sweeping past an even wetter slit.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Lick.
Lick.
Lick.
“I won’t let anyone else have you.”
Lick…
You tremble and swallow down the lump in your throat, your thighs stealing into a tremble.
You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me – who says things like this while eating a pussy? If anything, he happened to you. And you still don’t know if he’s the best or the worst thing…
“You understand me?”
“Yes,” you sob, wishing he would give you that last, fat lick that will send you to your freedom.
He’s been at your pussy for what seems like hours, and dares to act merciful and kind, even if he’s been mean to you for the better half of an afternoon. He always withdraws when you start to sound like you’re about to weep, but eventually, a hot, wet tongue is pressed flat against your folds as he laughs. It curls to find the sweet spot that leads within, and you scream, your thighs falling to each side as you spiral headfirst into bliss.
Afterwards, when he crawls next to you with his chin glazed with your wet, he takes you in his arms because you’re still sobbing. The love inside your chest is unbearable; the rush of good feelings in your body exquisitely painful. You know it’s just oxytocin and Mother Nature doing its thing, but you’re really beginning to feel like this man lives inside your rib cage nowadays, occupying it with an invincible army of one. He sighs as you weep against his chest and says that every time you cry, it makes him hard.
He’s still selfish, but not in a way that tries to get his needs met by suffocating you. He simply follows you around like a puppy, the bathroom being the only place you get to go to alone, and even that happens after a brief play fight and a chase. If you make dinner, he’s there; not to help but to sit and stare at you like some adoring, big kid. If you say you need to run to the store, he drives you there and looms over you while you pick the bread or try to decide which pasta brand has the best mouthfeel when cooked al dente.
There are some things that make you feel like you’re rehabilitating a criminal back to society, however. You have to teach him to put the bowls into the dishwashing machine instead of just rinsing them and setting them aside to dry. You have to teach him how to eat with a fork and a knife instead of a simple spoon. You teach him to take care of his poor, battered, atopic skin even if he mocks the “beauty products” you get him from the store. You bring him a simple lotion and he ridicules it, but doesn’t utter a single complaint when you apply it on his skin, and of course he doesn’t. He would give his right arm for attention, especially when the attention comes from you.
He’s a dilemma when it comes to rules and routines: he’s very strict on his personal hygiene and considers clothes dirty after wearing them for an hour, but at the same time, finds no shame in driving his nose up under your dress for a sniff at your panties. He can cum all over you and your sheets and doesn’t deem it nasty; he thinks it’s ok to use the same toothbrush he just scrubbed the floors with after disinfecting it with booze, but wearing the same t-shirt twice during one day is a no-go.
He won’t use the latest technology and blatantly refuses to wear clothes that would betray the wealth he’s got piled up in some foreign account. At the same time, he spoils you like it’s the only thing in life that matters. The attention you get is starting to resemble some type of worship: after you started to play nice, obedient and sweet, he’s had stars in his eyes 24/7. You sometimes notice that the man is staring at you when you wake up, and he always demands to be entwined with you when you go to bed. You know for a fact that he’s a killer, and yet he dotes on you like a lovesick dog who has finally found a worthy pack leader to adore and follow.
You don’t feel like a leader, though. You feel like an impostor and a prisoner at the same time.
One time, you recite some nonsense poem for kids while drawing circles on his palm, and give his every finger a pinch. It’s a silly, whimsical thing to do to a grown man, but that song was playing in your head nonstop and you wanted to get rid of it. König, however, looks at you like you’re the most miraculous, wondrous being he’s ever seen. He also looks at you like you’ve just gone crazy, and you realize from that look alone that no one ever did these things to him as a kid. He understands the concept but never had the experience, not until now.
You suspect that there is a part of him that’s still alive to recognize how fucked up this is. That there’s something majorly wrong here, that your relationship is not normal, only unbearably sick and cute.
He doesn’t give that part any air, though.
“Say that you love me,” he roughs at the other end of the phone one night, and the only thing you can do is sigh.
“König, it doesn’t work that way.”
There’s a brief silence, some brooding and an even rougher tone as he tries to get you to say those words as desperately as you said them the first time when he fucked you in the ass.
“Say it.”
It’s followed by a thick, quick “Please”, and you know that he’s not only itching but in fact, dying to hear it.
Your heart hurts, and your stomach wants to strangle itself, but it’s not fear that makes you say those words. It’s not even pity, or so you hope, because he’s just so helpless that you don’t even feel like you’re being controlled and manipulated over here. This man is just… hungry.
“I love you.”
There’s another pause as he lets it sink in. He swims in those words, washing away the pain. Or an ounce of it, at least…
Then, a voice comes, so soft and smooth you almost believe it belongs to a man instead of a biting, barking dog.
“I love you too.”
This is what your conversations are like when he’s out there: intimate and brief, soft-voiced and saccharine. Sometimes it seems like he calls you only to soothe the demons raging inside him.
“You love me?” he asks.
“Yes, I love you. Silly man,” you reply.
“You’re silly.”
He’s not joking here. He’s serious, dead serious. A bit insulted that you called him silly, but he lets it pass. And you let it pass that he’s the dumbest moron on earth. Dumbest, sexiest, most lovable moron…
The texts follow mainly the same pattern as your phone calls do. Mostly it’s just him initiating the conversation to see if you’re still real and if you still care about him.
Or then it’s something urgent, some horny business he wants you to help him with when the time between his missions grows too dull. He wants to play a game where you tell each other what you’ll do to one another when you meet again, and so it’s a lover’s conversation, a mutual teasing competition where everybody wants to win.
Sometimes, the conversation has to be continued with a call. It’s mostly him who masturbates to the sound of your voice and your hushed giggling. He loves it when you giggle... He adores it when you say nice things to him. He goes crazy if you get flustered, and when he goes crazy, he also cums hard. But then there are times such as these: when you get a little too soft with him, so much so that it nearly kills his erection.
“What things?” he rasps when you pick up the phone.
“Things like… You’re sweet,” you start with a gentle, shy smile. “And big. And cute…”
A tiny grunt reaches your ear, the surge of want gathering up his throat impossible to be stifled. This man’s praise kink is common knowledge to you these days, and you’ve started to use it filthily to your advantage. If there’s a way to disarm this man, it’s through sweet, succulent praise, a soft feminine voice that whispers him stories about how nice and big he is.
“And handsome… And silly. And big…”
There’s more grunting, accompanied by few weak whines now. You know he’s already stroking his cock, imagining it was your hand fapping him slowly, your teasing voice speaking soothing words into his ear.
“I’d tell you you have an amazing cock. And that I wanted to blow you the minute I saw you...”
You bite your lip when you hear a slick sound from the line: he’s already leaking precum all over his foreskin, making the wank slippery and sweet. You continue listing things you like about him, but just when you’re about to get to the part where he starts to pant in bursts, there comes a shaky, disrupted sigh. Usually, a nice, gentle “I love you” would have finished him off, but this time, he’s having obvious trouble with something.
“...König?”
He breathes through his nose and sniffles once. The sound of fapping has receded, and there’s only a sad, yearning man speaking on the other end.
“I don’t want to do it without you.”
“Oh, sweetie…”
You shut it completely after slipping the pet name off your tongue — what must he think of you? Then again, you should always expect the unexpected with König. He just might like it… And you kind of liked it that you just called him ‘sweetie’ after his dick apparently just broke.
No amount of frenzied fapping could ever replace what you two have, but this is still a situation that strokes your ego way more than is healthy. To you, it’s the highest compliment that he’s so obsessed with your cunt, so conditioned to it that his own calloused hand only makes him sad.
“Um. When will you be back…?”
“Next week.”
“Let’s do it then,” you propose. “Together.”
“Together,” he repeats like a lovelorn robot.
…
It’s like a honeymoon.
You do everything together: not just cooking and cooing and cuddling, not just insane, mind-blowing sex, but a few outside ventures too.
He takes you to a circus and shows off his shooting skills at the local summer fair, making a kid cry because he managed to win the biggest trophy. Some plushie that’s half the size of you, and König looks smug, downright amused when he passes the bawling boy while the big bear is stuffed under his armpit. Later on, he shoves it to you and says it’s a gift for his lady. When you tell him he should’ve let the kid have it because he wanted it so much, König only scoffs.
“Ja, gewiss... I know you’re gonna hug that thing when I’m away.”
That comment immediately shuts you up. It’s like he’s saying you need that huge plushie more than some poor, crying kid does, and everybody knows it. You only notice you’re squeezing the bear against your chest already when he asks if you want to ride the Ferris wheel with him since he never did that as a kid.
He also takes you to a local casino and makes you sit on his lap while he gambles. You get to be bounced on his knee while he waits for the other players to call or fold. You get to blow on his dice but the sad thing is, he’s terrible at gambling. Not exactly inexperienced, but armed with such a bad luck that it leaves him without the massive victories necessary for his ego. He loses a terrible amount of money in that place, and you receive a wave of disturbed looks for making out in a public place. He always was a bad kisser, what with trying to drive his tongue inside your mouth and thinking it’s hot when you try to fight him. Or making out with your whole face when he’s too eager.
Some woman who looks like she hasn’t been dicked down in ages says that there are children here, and people are trying to eat. You’ve tried your best to make him stop already, so it’s a bit annoying that the words are directed solely at you. As if it’s your fault that your man is foul and unhinged. Funnily enough, this lady has more in common with König than she would probably like to admit: both stay grounded in the opinion that you made your bed, so you should now lie in it.
Boys will be boys, and this big kid never grew up: you realize König only wanted to play out some fantasy, to show you around and show you how much money he has. Women don’t favour him, Lady Luck least of all, and you have to distract him when you get home so that he doesn’t take it out on you and destroy your guts for the umpteenth time this week. You’ve noticed that the more you kiss and hug and cuddle him, the least likely it is for you to get fucked nasty style. Or try to be coerced to swallow a putrid load… You’ve made mental notes every time you’ve managed to calm him down with pets and caresses, and so you get attached to his hip when he goes to grab a beer, and give him ample kisses until he sets the bottle aside. You end up straddling him when he’s lying on the sofa, and kiss his face all over to make him forget the loss — he laughs with his eyes squeezed shut and his nose all wrinkled up and tells you to stop, saying he gets goosebumps and feels too fucking funny in the head.
And the thing you never expected him to do is to take you to a grove.
He says that he wants you to see the birds and bees, and you think it’s a euphemism to imply he wants to bend you over at the ditch of some jogging route and destroy your pussy but instead, he insists you walk hand in hand and admire the trees. He points his finger at the golden light filtering through them, he points at the white dandelion seeds floating in the air, and runs his hand over tree bark as if it’s the most magical thing.
And it is.
He wants to lie down on the moss, and says it’s perfectly safe and dry when you tell him you’re scared of ants and whatnot. He says you can use him as a picnic blanket, and you’ve never seen him so soft: his walls are completely down as he reaches for a wood sorrel and plucks it for you. Says it’s perfectly safe to eat, and shakes it in front of your nose until you open your mouth like a good girl so that he can place the clover-like leaf on your tongue.
It tastes of sour salt and oxalate, but the crispy explosion on your palate is surprisingly nice. He laughs at the face you make and gives you another one, saying you look cute when you eat grass. You try to lightly smack him in the head but he catches your wrist, laughing even more as he brings both of your hands up above his head, forcing you down to his lips.
You wonder how you taste to his tongue – of sour sorrels and woodland fairies, maybe?
After a lazy little play wrestle, you settle there on top of him and lay your head on his chest. His heart beats fast but strong, and settles into a soft thump as he brings his hands to your hips. You only notice you’re about to nod off when he starts snoring, stirring you from your sleep with a soft, half-snorting rumble. You smile while attending to his nap, and listen to the birds in the trees, some odd cricket or two chirping in the hay, a few bees occasionally buzzing by.
It’s the first moment in a long, long time that you’ve felt happy.
Veritably, truly happy, down to the bones and to your very core. Safe and good and loved, mouth full of summer crisp and your heart pressed against a sleeping giant, your thrumming body too small a blanket to his form.
For whatever odd reason, you still find it difficult to say these things right to his face. To wake him up and confess that he makes you happy. But you don’t need to tell him: he sees the happiness written on your face when he wakes up. Something about the way his lips draw into a thin line, so bittersweet and bare, tells you that he’s been waiting for this day even more than the day you told him you love him.
He gives you a soft squeeze, brushes away a lock of hair, but doesn’t say a thing. For the first time ever, he keeps his mouth shut about I told you so’s.
…
You swallow one night.
You almost puke too, and there are a few tears on your lashline by the time he takes you in his arms.
“Da sind Sie ja… You were so brave. Didn’t spill a drop.”
His abrasive praise should not make you feel so accomplished, and yet you look at him like the most people-pleasing student who just got an A in a class. He makes it sound like you just did some heroic deed, or better yet, took your medicine without complaining, and you go through a strenuous mental exercise to force your body to keep the load in your stomach where it belongs.
“Oh, you are pouting. Was it so horrible?”
You realise that there’s indeed a slightly repulsed expression on your face, and so the only option is to nod. The salty treat is trying to creep back up your throat so you have to keep your mouth tightly shut — you really ought to feed this man pineapple or something to cut down the bitter taste. Maybe a Thai-style stir fry chicken would do the trick… Some watermelon slices left on the kitchen table where he could easily find them and eat them without permission…
“But you swallowed it still. Such a good, good girl…”
“Stop calling me that.”
He raises an eyebrow at you and your attitude. Haven’t you ever heard of positive reinforcement?
“I need to praise you so you will do it again,” he explains the situation to you like you’re a total simpleton.
Then he carries you to bed because apparently, you can’t walk there yourself. Or maybe he deems it necessary to give you the princess treatment after what you just did; you can have a little white knight action as a treat. It’s just that his concept of princess treatment is taking your clothes off and folding you like a lawn chair.
“You’re unbelievable,” you whisper as he starts to undress you.
He takes off your jeans, your shirt, and your socks like the most valiant knight indeed, then robs you of your panties and bra as if it’s just a coincidence that his cock is swelling back to its full glory as you speak. And because he knows you a little too well by now, he can guess that you’re already wet after giving him the most pathetic blowjob of his life. Only a man like König would find it hot that a girl gags and pouts at the taste of his cum.
“What you just did was unbelievable,” he rumbles with smug delight. “I’m a lucky, lucky man...”
You let out a shy whimper as he collects your legs and hikes them up for mating press: a position he loves to do when he’s in a particularly nasty mood and wants to see his woman utterly, completely weak. There is a tremendous vulnerability in this position, something inescapably lewd about the way you’re so exposed, your poor, puffed-up pussy simply on display for him. Your hole clenches already at the prospect of what’s about to come, and he gives you a little tsk at the sight — as if you’re the pervert here for throbbing from the prospect of getting plowed like a hentai girl.
“Tight pussy, tight ass, and swallows too… You’re every man’s dream,” he says approvingly while hovering above you with that terribly long cock twitching between his legs.
You want to slap and kiss him for the things he just said, but as always, his dick steals the show. When the tight head of it meets your clit, you swallow; when it drops back along your slit and gets caught on your fluttering entrance, you mewl and squirm. It’s throbbing, probing, slowly stealing its way in, and the helpless sounds you make only guide his sadistic stare back to your eyes, now concentrating solely on your weak angel gaze.
“Is… that… all it takes…?”
You barely get to breathe out the words before his cock sinks inside your hole, all the way until he bottoms out.
“König–”
“Shh. You think too much, Liebling.”
Your heart always panics when he settles inside you, his long, thick cock buried deep into your depths. You’re always afraid it won’t fit, and yet, it somehow always fits. The stretch, the pressure, the tightness gathering at the pit of your stomach is always present when he makes himself at home in your pussy, his loose balls coming to rest on your plump, upturned ass like it’s only a supportive rack for them.
Your heart tries to escape your chest every time he feeds himself all the way in, and yet you never hurt or tear. You never split in half. You just swallow every inch of him and grip him like it’s just another hungry mouth down there, wanting to suck and milk him dry.
And you kind of want to hate yourself for turning into a brainless mess every time he treats you like this. The sight of him looking so damn pleased with you for simply taking it every single time shouldn’t make you feel so good. But your pussy only wants him to move, to thrust, to use you any way he likes.
It takes him an eternity to pull out, and another one to thrust back in, but you sigh from relief when he does that. The soft slapping of flesh against flesh rises like a heavenly crescendo as you let him do all the work, but you realise it’s not just you who’s training him here. He’s conditioning you too, but for what, you don’t know. Maybe to become his obedient wife or something; you’re far too blissed out to care.
And then, just when you think this is the first relatively normal fuck you’ve had, he starts to babble about how cute it would be to put you in a basement. He owns one, you know. There’s a cage your size down there. It’s not too dirty, he has kept it clean for his dream girl, his angel…
He could bring you food, fuck you through the bars if you try to pull some foolish shit again. Sleep with you if you’ve been nice; put a little bell around your neck so that he can hear you if you try to escape.
…Would you like that?
Your pussy gives him a slow, adoring pull, and he hisses, throws his head back.
Ja, you would like that…
His Muschi would love that.
Pretty little cage with a pretty little bowl, a cute little bell and a nice pink collar, that’s what you would love to have…
“I don’t want to go into a dark basement,” you peep under him, a bit too into this silly little fantasy he wants to share.
“It’s not dark. There’s a small window.”
The dopey smile dies on your lips as you realize you were not playing along with his fantasies; you were not talking about kinky shit in theory.
There’s an actual basement somewhere.
With a cage your size…
“König…”
If you only wanted, he would put that collar on you, watch how you eat from a bowl. Open the cage only when he brings you food or wants to fuck you or wash you. Or then he could always force you to suck his cock through the bars…
You swallow and stare at him with wide eyes while he looks back down at you with the most gentle, enamored stare. He’s looking at you softly, trusting that his princess would only squee from happiness when she gets to skitter into some nasty, ugly cellar. Yes, he’s probably thinking how that little bell around your neck would jingle with every thrust he gives you…
“I… I really don’t want to.”
“Why not? It would be cute…”
“No. Please don’t put me there.”
“Ok,” he says a bit sadly to your ear.
The slow pace of his cock sinking into you cannot suppress the sudden jealousy about to arise. It’s searing its way through your insides, the image of him fucking some “dream girl” he drugged and dragged into his basement–wherever the fuck that is–scalding you like burning oil. The knowledge of him having a human-sized cage stuffed inside some cold, damp cellar will never leave you alone now. No: it will drive you mad in only a matter of days.
Of course he has a cage for women, of course he wants to put little bells around their necks…
You think about him sinking into a crouch and sliding a bowl of food between the bars to some poor, shaking creature; you think about him tucking their hair behind their ears as he watches them eat. You think about him carrying them to a bathtub for a wash, you think about him scrubbing their tits and pussies and buttholes clean, making them cry with slow, supple glides of his dick. He has probably soothed them afterwards with dumb words and tender hugs, just like he always did to you.
You know you’re being petty again, but the envy is so all-encompassing that you almost wail that you want him to take you there after all. And not just that, but chain you to the wall as well… Maybe fuck your brains out and give you a good wash. Maybe that would stop the hellish overthinking, once and for all.
Stupid man with his stupid basement and his stupid cages for poor, innocent women…
The steady plap plap plap is about to drive you crazy too, it makes your vision go bleak before you’ve even closed your eyes. The building pleasure is so relentless you wish you could dig your nails into his flesh: to spur him on so that you could get your release — and with that, a moment of peace from your thoughts.
“Just like that, angel,” he pants on your face, thrilled to see your broken, defenceless stare. “Pretend it’s your wedding night. Pretend that I’m your… h-ah…”
He’s drowning in his own delusions while you’re about to cry from frustration. You can’t even reach his ass, so you have to settle for prying at his thighs, your arms neatly trapped under yours while your toes point straight into the air. The anguish in your eyes must be visible because he turns even softer while he’s plowing you: the more you look like you’re about to lose it because of him, the more he looks like he’s about to confess his undying love for you.
“I’ll give it to you,” he huffs promises on your skin, “I’ll give it to you angel… Don’t you worry…”
He continues to drill into you with quick, steady pumps until your whimpers die a natural death. There’s nothing left of you but a wretched puddle, a shivering mouth, eyes that gaze into nothingness. A fluttering and clenching hole, a heart that beats so alive and free and yet, so irreversibly shackled to him.
You eventually cum with gritted teeth and a painful moan, your eyes rolling back into your head because you can’t bear to see that adoring stare in his eyes. He must be thinking that his stupid wedding night talk was the thing that drove you over the edge, and, to top it off, he dares to open his mouth again when you’re at your weakest.
“There we go... Always have to fuck you dumb…”
The sound of his balls slapping against your arse is a crude backdrop to what he just said, as is the squelching noise that comes from your sopping, fucked out cunt. Weak mewls are punched out of you with every spearing of his cock, and you can’t seem to get enough oxygen in your lungs, not with the way he’s pushing your legs against your chest with every thrust. Some shrill voice inside your head screams you to shut your mouth before he thinks he actually fucked your brains out this time. It’s the last parcel of your dignity that warns you he’ll pat himself on the back forever if you don’t shut it and shut it now.
And then…
“I used to dream of a girl like you. Ever since I was a kid.”
There are wolf eyes greeting you when you finally come back for air, and they’re startlingly affectionate.
Curious…
Reverent.
Domestic.
“Are you a dream?”
Just when you get a hold of your breath, he steals it away. You used to hate it when he searched for your eyes during sex, you used to loathe him for being so needy and pathetic. Now you’re the one who’s in over her head, your heart melting all over the place like a pool in summer rain.
“Oh, sweetie…” you blurt without thinking, and it's like winning a jackpot at a slot machine.
“Hah.. Hah…Fuck–...”
His back arches, he buries himself as deep as he can, causing you to wince. The head of his cock is prodding at your cervix, making you nauseous, and it doesn’t really help that you know there’s a flood coming up. You can’t really feel the actual spurts, but the knowledge of them is enough: he’s shooting thick loads of cum with every roll of his hips, with every jagged moan passing through his lips. He used to look so droopy and insane when he came, but nowadays, he just looks like a man, beautifully in pain. The intensity has switched to reveling, all the sensations of the orgasm relished to the full, as they should.
He crumbles on top of you like any other male would after a nice, fat orgasm, but the panting never stops.
“Sweetie’, eh…?”
He chuckles happily after calming down a bit, and you bite yourself in the cheek from embarrassment. You’ve been promoted from pussy to princess and now, ‘angel’, but that doesn’t mean you have to start using tacky pet names for him in return... You have to pay the price for it now because he doesn’t seem to deem it necessary to move and therefore, let you out of this fucked up yoga position. Even when you allow yourself a tiny little sob, his balls sit tight against your ass for a moment or two, his cock steals another throb before he finally decides to grant you mercy and pull out.
You know how your pussy must look right now: the usually thin slit now gaping open like a round, thoroughly used hole after his visit. He only admires his good work like it’s some sort of an accomplishment to wreck innocent ladies with his dick. A torture tool, it should be called, that massive thing between his legs…
Later on, when you lie there in each other’s arms for some cuddling and nesting behavior, you finally gather your strength to ask the first question about his past. There are at least a thousand about to roll off your tongue, but you start with the most important, frightening one.
“König–uh, Kurt…?”
“Mm.”
“How many women have you had?”
There’s a long silence as he plays with your hair. The heart beneath your cheek beats nice and strong, all his trembles and panic now gone. His voice is surprisingly steady and proud when he answers.
“Just one.”
Your mind tries to grasp what he just said: what he’s telling you right now.
Just one—
But that would mean…
That would…
“You mean…”
“You were my first,” he says.
He shifts a little to the side, leaning on his elbow as he strokes your cheek. The smile on his face is saint-like and drowsy.
“...and you are my last.”
There’s nothing wrong with your ears, and still, you’re doubting if you heard him right.
You fast forward all the things this man has said or done: you replay every single detail that should’ve given you the cue to the impossible.
“Clean as can be,” he said when you grilled him about STIs.
“Never heard a girl cum like that,” he told you when you said you didn’t know if you liked him to be a nasty, dominating asshole in bed.
Turns out he’s never heard a girl cum at all… Not off a porn tape, at least.
But he couldn’t be a virgin.
Or could he?
How?
“But I thought… The way you talked…”
“You think too much, that’s what I always say.”
The truth is so jaw-dropping, heart-stopping, that you can only lie there in stillness and silence.
All his high talk of other women, his mad obsession with sex… The cage, the bragging, the happy teasing whenever he saw you were acting jealous…
And now he’s telling you he was a virgin when he…
You flinch as he suddenly jumps from the bed and goes to his clothes. You continue to stare at him and try to comprehend how the man who just fucked you like a pornstar is actually loudly inexperienced compared to most of the guys his age.
Isn’t he, like, pushing 40? From what you can tell, the guy’s at least 35, if not older…
And now he’s telling you that everything was a first time for him. The incredible, horrible first night, the anal sex, the time he went down on you and came all over your rug, the time when you woke him up with a blowjob… His first blowjob ever, and you initiated it while he was still sleeping. God…
You thought he had a body count three miles high, that he’d bought women just to fuck them, that he’d had his fun with anyone kind enough to look past all the red flags.
How is it even possible for a virgin to prey upon you like that?
You’re still trying to gather your thoughts as he rummages through his clothes, searching for something. You can barely even move as you try to think about the way with which he always fucked you like a horny teenage boy. It brings to mind porn and what it does to people — if his experiences with women and sexuality is based on porn, it would perhaps explain why he did what he did. Why he needed you so helpless that night, why he needed himself to be cruel and dominating.
Maybe that’s why your first time together was so gruesome: perhaps he tried to recreate a porn scene, an act of love that, on screen, is just that: an act. You always found most of the professional, even some of the amateur porn a bit off-putting. The woman was always too scared and the man too sweaty with the need to prove himself, all those people trying to fake intimacy by getting overstimulated, using each other as a way to masturbate.
Maybe he thought that this is how it’s done… If a girl looks at him in a certain way, extremely helpless and scared while they’re wet downstairs, then he’s doing it right. That this is what two people who love each other do.
You’re still staring off into space when he comes back with a faint blush on his cheeks. You notice there’s a shiny, tiny object between his long, agile fingers — it must be the wedding ring his mother used to wear, and your stomach just won’t stop dropping.
“Are you ready?”
“No. No, I’m not ready.”
He drops to one knee without ever even acknowledging your words, and presents the ring to you with a shy little smile — he doesn’t seem to think it odd at all to be in this situation again, butt naked and his cock still swinging between his legs.
“My love. Will you be my wife?”
You stare at the tiny white pearl fitted into a thin silver ring and feel the insides of your cheeks slowly suck towards your teeth. It looks old and pretty, antique of some sort perchance. Not the kind of extravagant rock some women would expect, maybe even demand from a guy of his wealth. The fact that he even has his mother’s old wedding ring in his possession forms a tight knot inside your stomach, and when you refuse to throw your hands around his neck and bawl your eyes out with a thousand yes’s shrieked into his ear, he slowly furrows his brows.
“I promised I would take care of you,” he reminds you as you try to shield yourself with a crumpled sheet.
“...Why do we even have to get married?”
“To tell everyone you’re mine,” he replies right away, then corrects his answer when he notices it was a little too honest a reason to give to the love of his life. “There’s tons of reasons why.”
You’re still getting bad vibes from this, more and more when you see how eagerly he wants to put that unpolished silver ring on your finger. You don’t even dare ask where his mother is and why she isn't wearing her wedding ring anymore. It’s like you’re a doe again, some prey animal who can smell danger, the fur and drool of a prowling wolf nearby. The said wolf gets more frustrated by the minute, probably upset about the situation; a proud man like him forced to stay on one knee for so long. Good girls should dangle from a man’s neck and cry tears of joy when a devoted, decent man is proposing to them, so what the hell is wrong with you?
“Look,” he raises the ring an inch or two. “A pearl. You like pearls, right?”
You almost expect him to shake it a little like a toy is shaken to draw a cat’s attention. As pretty as it is, it now looks like a piece of junk he fished from some kid’s candy machine. You know it’s his mother’s wedding ring, and yet it looks like he scoured it from a bin somewhere down the alley, brought it here between his teeth and now expects a reward.
“König… I don’t even know your name.”
“Fritz Andreas.”
You stare back at him in thick, gathering silence.
“...Fritz?”
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.”
The mystery is gone, the veil lifted, and you can only stare in stupefied silence as you let it sink in that your lover and tormentor has the most boyish, generic German name imaginable.
It doesn’t suit him at all, to be honest: a man of his stature and size, a towering mass of muscle and piercing stares simply shouldn’t be called Fritz. He must think so too because he does his everything to not look put out about it. You’ve tapped into another one of his insecurities, and swear to yourself you will not make him feel like a loser again, even if it’s the last thing you do.
“What does your name mean…?”
“Peaceful man. Or something like that.”
You raise a hand to your mouth to cover up the smile that’s creeping up your lips. He must’ve had an issue with it, the name adding to his multiple trials, and peaceful is the last thing anyone who knows him would call him… Perhaps he has battled to prove that name wrong his whole life — maybe the cute, innocent name is to blame for this man’s cruelty.
“You are laughing,” he points out with poorly veiled hurt. You straighten your face immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
It doesn’t escape you that he chose not to reveal his surname; another red flag to add to the long list of his toxic traits, but you let it pass for now. It would be nice to know it someday, considering that he’s trying to tempt you to take it along with his mother’s old ring. You never assumed you’d get to keep your maiden name were you ever to be wed to this guy. He seems extremely traditional when it comes to these things.
“What do I have to do to get you?”
His question is innocent and honest, if also a bit annoyed. Had he asked that question with those hurt puppy eyes when he arrived at your door the first time, you would have probably been too disarmed to respond. Now, you slowly lower the sheet from in front of your chest, and look at him with compassion.
“Nothing. You already have me.”
He looks down to the floor, then to the knotted threads of your rug.
“Are you still punishing me,” he asks. “For what I did.”
“What? No…”
You realise you’re sounding like a rusty old door. Or the worst liar on earth… But the truth is, the question caught you wholly off guard. His moments of self-awareness always come out of left field, and you can’t tell if he’s being genuine or manipulative. Is he actually feeling remorse, or is he just peeved that you’re denying him access to you simply because “he got a little crazy” one night?
“Just… Give me some time. Ok? Marriage is a big thing.”
He swallows and turns to look up at you, his big puppy eyes swallowed with love as the Adam’s apple on his throat gives a cute little blob.
“I want to do big things with you.”
God, this man…
You’re confronted with a well of bottomless want, those normally glacial eyes now black pools of endless hunger. At the same time, he manages to look innocent and sweet, like a boy who never did anyone any harm. Who only asks to be loved. Are you a bad person for not giving him this one thing that he wants? Or are you just being guilt-tripped by an abusive man who’ll never change?
He’s laying siege on you with new weapons and it’s not fair.
You slowly climb from the bed, and approach his ring with hesitant steps. He still looks at you like you’re some sort of holy vision which is partly why you take the ring from him and slide the thin bond of pearl on the ring finger of your right hand.
“Let’s put it here for now. What do you say?”
He looks at the ring with heart-wrenching sadness, then shrugs.
“It looks like it was made for you.”
Your dog accepts every crumb he can get, and you can feel your heart bleed dry, drop by drop inside your chest. The silver piece of jewelry feels like a shackle, even on your right hand, but you ignore the cold grip of it by cupping your lover’s face.
“Sometimes you say the sweetest things,” you say as you brush a thumb over his blossoming cheek.
Your blushing knight is still naked and a bit sweaty from your recent activities, and wobbles a little as he rises to his feet. The cock between his thighs looks relatively harmless now, and his hands don’t shake as much as they used to. He looks a bit lost there with his junk just hanging there between his legs, and you want to praise him for being so good to you lately. You can’t thank a man for giving you the bare minimum, you remind yourself as you rise on your toes instead and wrap your hands around his neck.
It’s just that his words and touch don’t feel like the bare minimum…
They feel like an endless tidal wave of love, especially when he hugs you back with soft sadness.
“They say I’ve become soft,” he mutters in your neck while slouching just to get closer to you.
“Who…?”
“At work. Ever since I met you I have become soft. That’s what they say.”
You can’t see his face when you’re embracing each other like this, but you can feel the heartbeat on his throat. It’s a tad fluttery, a bit more agitated than it used to be, a rapid pulse of Will I ever be enough.
“Is that so bad…?”
“They’re just jealous,” he shrugs off with a stiff jerk. “They said you’re out of my league…”
His words sound like they’re coming from underwater, and you realise that the man might be two seconds shy from crying. His shoulder blades pull themselves back together, his back stiffens as he tries to gather his composure. Big boys don’t cry, and so on and so forth, but it just might be that women are not the only creatures who feel a bit emotional after good sex.
“I just want to kill them all,” he declares, now sounding like he’s on the verge of starting a ten year war.
You keep petting him while he goes through whatever mood swing this is. Some petty part of you would pay good money to watch this guy go to a therapist and tell all the reasons why he’s such a mess. But the woman in you, the girlfriend in you, just wants to make him feel better no matter what. The tiny pearl on your right hand stares at you accusingly every time you bring your hand to the back of his neck; it seems to slip off your finger every time you give him a caress.
“Sorry,” he mutters next, trying to bury his face deeper into your shoulder even when it’s basically impossible to do that.
“For what?”
“For crying on your shoulder.”
“König, you… haven’t even cried,” you gently point out as you release the hold around his neck.
You hear him immediately swallow against your chin, and when you pull back to take a good look at him, he avoids your stare.
He’s embarrassed…
So embarrassed, and at the same time, so so desperate to share these things with you. It’s not much, maybe, to normal people. But to you, it’s an entire breakthrough.
“This is normal,” you tell him. “To share your thoughts and fears and dreams. It’s normal.”
His lip twitches, his eyes deceive nothing except the usual hawk-like emptiness. Then his mouth tugs upwards a bit, just before he drops his stare to the floor.
“The head of the command is impressed.”
You watch him share another detail of his life you know practically nothing about. He’s so shy when it comes to telling you what he wants in his heart of hearts: to further his career and get a nice girl, even if she’s out of his league.
“What do you mean…?”
“They said I’m even more effective when I have a clear head,” he mutters, still too ashamed to look you in the eye. “That I could lead some day.”
“Baby. I’m proud of you.”
It only occurs to you after his nostrils flare that he might not like to be called a baby. He’s so conscious about his size and getting compliments on that, it’s perhaps not the best idea to refer to him as a child.
“Don’t get mad. It’s just a pet name–”
He shoots an exhilarated glare at you from under his brows, an excited, shy smile playing on his lips. Then, as gracefully as a rhino, he closes the gap between you and kisses you until you float off your feet.
He kisses and kisses and kisses you until it’s made clear that he fucking loves it when you call him that.