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Broken China and Earl Grey Tea

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The cup of tea rattles ever so gently over the naked, tacky skin across your spine. If you hadn’t been sweating - the perspiration holding the porcelain to you like a glue - you’d have broken the set within the first minute and a half. You haven’t felt the hot drizzle or splash of Earl Grey yet which means so far your chances of living, at this moment, so long as not a drop is spilled, are decent to fair.

Beside you, sitting in your Grandmother's rose- upholstered chair, Rire bounces a well-oiled heel. He rolls those putrid, yellowish eyes downward, smirking at you while the black, sticky mass of his undulating tentacle wedges another inch inside your abused cunt. The way the coiling spires move, shrinking and stretching and expanding ever forward, never stops making your guts writhe.

Sometimes, you think it feels like an earthworm dragging its muscles against encompassing earth… but the sickening revulsion that visual brings is too much to bear while his tentacles inch inside you; thrusting and expanding and finding your limits just before your body shreds like fine tissue. It’s a torn line between pain and pleasure and yet he never fails to further humiliate you with orgasm after sordid… tightening, orgasm.

“This little game of ours is better than the last, wouldn’t you agree?” a rhetorical question as usual, “You’ve been quite diligent so far… although the sound of your breathing is laborious and I could do without listening to it. Very bothersome.”

Because it’s your shitty disposition that has gotten you this far, you think nothing of curling your lips back and tells him to eloquently, “Go fuck yourself.”

The worst thing Rire could do to you at this point is impale you, let you suffer as the lazy, extensile tentacles delve through organ meat and out your mouth. That would last… what? - eight hours? Let’s call it ten hours, and even then, it wouldn’t be as terrible as the past eighteen days have been. You’ve been mentally tormented, fucked inside and out and humiliated only to be cleansed squeaky clean for another day of the same. Instead of killing you, he’s taking great pleasure in prolonging your existence… it’s come to the point that you wonder if fighting him is the wrong way to go. It’s not in your nature to give up, but at what point are you complicit in your own torment when you’re confident that playing the broken victim will end things so much faster?

It’s because a part of you enjoys this, a traitorous insidious voice reminds you. There’s a disgusting, abhorrent part of your wicked soul - the same kind that brought him home for a one-night stand, intent on seeing how far the well-dressed man would let you go - that wants to be used and abused like this. You want something to fight and something to overpower you, and Rire does that all too well. He’ll have his fun chasing you around your labyrinthian home where the outside world never seems to change, and he’ll relish half-killing you, and you’ll sit there and pretend you don’t enjoy getting face fucked with tentacles writhing in and out your cunt and ass… and that smug look of his watching you crumble.

It’s all a fucking farce, but there are times - like now - where you’re trembling… about to break, and wondering what the point of any of this really is. Just let him kill you, you think. Let the journey to hell begin and end here. You’re not sure how much more of him your body can take.

Rire bears his white, shark-like teeth at you as you glare upwards, refusing to balk as the sodden tentacles slips out for a moment to lather your folds and clit - a burst of pleasure - before driving back inside. He picks up his teacup from the saucer resting over your tacky spine, takes a sip and licks a drop of Earl Grey off his lower lip. There’s hundreds of long dead playthings screaming from those eyes that burrow into yours but you clench your muscles and pray that your elbows don’t buckle.

Cold, offensive eyes widen a fraction as you suck down a sound of pained euphoria, feeling a new, sloppy tentacle flick and tease your raw ass. The word ‘no’ is on the tip of your tongue. You’d have broken and begged him not to had he not be so greedy and impatient, digging past the tight ring of your puckered hole to a depth that’s sickening. It feels like he’s in your bowels… in your intestines… in your fucking soul...

Any second now, your elbows are gonna go, and the saucer will tip, shatter and he’ll crush your skull flat under the same shoe you’d refused to shine for him that morning. Merciful, you think, ignoring the tears that fall traitorously down your cheeks. His dark husky laughter bounces off the walls while his wet, sticky tentacles double team you. Fire burns in your arms and thighs, bracing with every sicken thrust and jostle and hot, deep penetrating… fuck… why does it feel so good despite the-

“... god,” you sob and hang your head; wading off an orgasm.

“We’ve been over this, my pet… I’m your god now. When you feel the desire to scream out, call my name.”

You grunt and withhold the unwanted desire to blurt out his name. Instead of ‘Rire’ a louder, drastic sound wheezes out as he finishes his cup of tea and sets it back down on the saucer. Porcelain rattles against your jerking body as it continues being roughly fucked.

Rire ignores the sound. He turns the page on one of your favorite books - Bram Stoker’s Dracula - the bored candor of someone who can’t enjoy anything anymore. Even if you survive this game of his, you’ll never be able to read that book again… or enjoy another innocent pleasure ever again. Soon you’ll be like Rire in the sense that nothing will satisfy you.

Fuck, if you live past his fun, you’ll set your house on fire, peel your skin off and maybe move across State. You’ll get a brain transplant if possible and scorch him from your memories. You’ll… you…

“Rire!” It’s a bellow and it’s unstoppable and beside you, sitting in the rose-print chair, the demon destroying your body groans with pleasure.

An expansive, warm orgasm comes upon you suddenly despite how hard you’ve tried pushing it down. A bulging tentacle taps your cervix and the nerves along the roof of your cunt, and in seconds your elbows buckle, the teacup and saucer slip. Your Grandmother's porcelain cracks open into wet chunks and thin slivers on the floor as Rire continues fucking his mossy-wet tentacles into you as you cum and curl into a tight ball on the soaked, cold and lonely floor.

Worn book paper crinkles, reminding you that there was a time before him where you’d been content to fulfill a bookcase of knowledge and perhaps… start a garden...

Rire bookmarks his place in the book as black tendrils rest inside your body; warming within swollen, bruised tissue. Another muscle-bound tentacle slips around your waist, coiling under an arm and around your throat - it hugs you almost softly and pulls you out of a weak fetal position.

His golden eyes glow behind black bangs. Geometric-teeth part, “What a very bad girl you’ve been. Look at this mess.”

Now that you’ve failed your ‘purpose’ this evening, the rest of your night is pure punishment - in theory - but by the third time you’re forced to swallow a mouthful of demon jizz, your glare is a bit less stiff than it was that morning. Something about actually tasting his cock and not a hellish tentacle is refreshing. With your eyes closed, it’s easy to forget he’s a bored minion from wherever he came from with the bulbous knot of his cockhead popping through your lips and… it’s one of those few times he sounds human.

You’re not done fighting him yet. There are more things you can try before he tires of you - before he ends your suffering. There’s more he wants from you despite all the threats and near impalements.

After your fourth meal of cum and another tentacle fuck that leaves you spitting curses and leaking blood, slime, and arousal, Rire leaves you laid over your mattress and retires for the evening. Like usual, you’ll awaken refreshed in the ‘morning’ with no physical memory of the atrocities he’s committed in your skin the day before.

Maybe you failed to make a good end table, you think, staring up at the rotating ceiling fan… but you’re alive, and that counts for something. Tomorrow, you’ll figure something else out - tomorrow, you’ll beat this game of cat and mouse and Rire will be sorry for ever having fucked with a human like you.

“Just wait, Rire,” you whisper, “tomorrow… you’ll beg me for mercy.”