...that doth mock the flesh it feasts upon." - Orthello, Shakespeare.

He had never been so mean before, large hands gripping the soft plush of your thighs tightly, not allowing you any room to seek refuge against the relentless onslaught of his mouth.

You can do nothing but thrash and babble out pleas and apologies under him, begging him for the smallest ounce of mercy.

You're not sure how many times you've come already, how many times his dexterous tongue had expertly driven you over the edge and refused to stop its movements for even a second.

Except that is - to spit out venomous words at you.

"Why are you crying? I thought you liked attention." He's obviously still bitter, jealousy and possessiveness revealing a side of your boyfriend that you've never seen before.

"H-he's just a f-friend!" You hiccup out, tears rolling down your blotchy cheeks.

"You let all your friends touch you like that? I didn't know you were a whore, princess." He hisses.