Page 22 of Brutal

He doesn’t seem surprised. “C’mon.” To my surprise, he doesn’t demand that I crawl, so I walk behind him. We go back to his kitchen, and he pauses, staring at me. “I don’t need your input while I cook. You decide to play backseat chef again, and I won’t feed you at all. Got it?”

I nod, although I’m secretly glad that my needling got under his skin.

He thinks he’s a big, strong man, but all of that bravado is hiding an insecure little boy.

To think, I discovered all of that just because of some cooking advice.

Brutal continues to stare hard at me, as though to drive his point home, then he nods. He heads to the fridge, coming out with enough supplies for an omelet—or ten. He hums to himself as he starts to put things together, and I notice him preheating the oven to 425. He starts to cut up a few potatoes, using a seasoned salt instead of just salt and pepper.

I wouldn’t have chosen potatoes for breakfast, but the brief glance I have into the fridge shows a distinct lack of green. The clear vegetables drawer only has stacked cold cuts in it.

I bite my tongue to prevent making a snide comment about his heavy diet. I have to start earning his trust if I’m going to work my way out of this.

He heats up a pan on the stove, adding eggs, ham, and onions, this time only with salt and pepper. He doesn’t speak to me as he cooks, concentrating on his task.

“There you go, Mimi,” Brutal says as he plates the food. I get on a stool by the kitchen island, but he scoffs. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Sitting down?” I say, although I can already tell where this is going.

Brutal sets the plate down on the floor next to the kitchen island. “You eat there. The chairs are for the owners.”

He really wants a reaction out of me for that. I meet his eyes and, not breaking contact, get off the stool and sink onto the floor.

He nods, taking the seat I’d just gotten out of for himself, and he picks at his food. I’d noticed the night before he didn’t have much of an appetite, but he’d prepared much more food than he’d needed to. Whether that had been on purpose or not, I can’t tell, but it puts the idea of drug abuse more strongly in my mind. I know some of them work as appetite suppressants. He’s not a small man by any means, and there’s nothing to indicate he’s a dainty eater, though. Maybe that means his habit isn’t that bad.

When we’re both done eating, he puts the plates in the dishwasher. “Go to the bedroom,” he orders, checking his watch. “Lie down on the bed on your back. Spread your legs. We’re going to play a little game.”

Sounds fun, I think sarcastically.

I go back to the bedroom and position myself as he’d ordered.

Now’s a good time to disassociate, the way I’d often done at Ntimacy. I remember some of the other women there would cry and sob about what they were going through, but I just let myself get numb to it all.

Crying never did much for me anyway.

He ambles in after me, taking his time, and he sheds his own clothes on the way, dropping them carelessly on the floor. He gets up on the bed with me, and I think he’s just going to fuck me.

“Here’s the game,” he tells me with that same wolfish smile. “I’m going to eat you out. If you come, I fuck you. If you don’t… I leave you alone until the evening.”

Is that meant to be some sort of lose-lose situation for me?

I’m mostly surprised he’s willing to eat me out at all. I remember some of the frat guys at my university laughing about how disgusting it was to eat pussy, as if their unwashed dicks were somehow more appetizing.

I think I’d gotten into an argument with them. I probably hadn’t changed their minds in the slightest, but I’d felt better for pushing back against their sexist ideas.

“Okay,” I answer meekly.

Brutal studies me, his eyes bright. He laughs, shaking his head after a moment, then he gets between my legs. He spreads them a little wider, running his finger along my slit.

He gets his hands under my ass and raises me up a little, then his tongue flicks out, finding my clit right away.

I guess last time hadn’t been a fluke. He’s actually trying to get me off. I keep my breathing as steady as I can and try to pretend it doesn’t feel good.

I think it is worse, actually, that my body likes the sensation of his tongue against my clit. I’d rather be able to disconnect entirely and let my mind drift while all of this happens.

I’m not going to show him any of that.

He’s insistent, though; I have to give him that. He uses his tongue with certainty, with skill, and that’s as much of a surprise as the rest of this. He obviously thinks he’s going to humiliate me by making me come, but that makes me even more determined not to let him win this “game,” as he’d put it.