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Summary
“Look at you.” He whispered, his grip on your throat releasing and going down to grope your chest over your bra. His other hand, that was holding the knife, came back up to your throat. “I bet you like this, don’t you?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. How could you humiliate yourself like that? Your mind, your morals—the ones you had left, anyway—were telling you how wrong this was, how fucked you must be in the head to really be getting off to this somehow.
Nonetheless, you were.