He could feel my disgust, my contempt, for what he was doing and so instead of sticking his cock inside of me, he sat me on the table and shoved the knife handle into me instead. I have no idea how he didn’t end up shredding his hands open, but he violently shoved the handle in and out of me commanding me to finish. I can’t even get started and he’s demanding that I cum all over the handle. He tells me that he wants me to taste myself because I’m his favorite taste in the world. He says that I need to experience at least once before he opens my throat wide open [...] And while he’s telling me all of these vulgar things, while he’s hurting me with this fucking handle, all I can think of is how desperately I want to help him. “Come on, Min. It never took this long when you were little,” he grunts, pressing his forehead against mine. I forget completely in this moment that this is my flesh and blood doing this to me again; stealing the rain away from me, and I decide to oblige. Not for myself. I can take a little pain, I’ve built an empire on it coated in blood. But for him. He needs this moment of power, he needs to feel as if he’s doing the right thing, and I don’t have it inside of me to rob him of it. I would feel cruel in a way, and I didn’t want to let him down. I didn’t want [him] going through the rest of his life feeling as though he’s a disappointment when he’s not. So I do the only thing that makes the most sense. I lean back on one hand, and use the fingers of my free hand to start rubbing my clit.