Rage is so great in me, that I feel like the flames are really consuming me, and not precisely the ones of pleasure. I stare at it while still lying on the couch, thinking about the thousand ways to kill him for what he did. But the same rage mixes with the morbid pleasure of imagining that he was behind that door, hearing my moans, my gasps, and I just can't find a way to reply except going off on a tangent.
Cedric closes the door, walks calmly, looking at the destroyed box on the floor, the bottle of champagne on the table, and the open box of chocolates that I already tasted. With calmness and slowness, without losing detail of his movements, he goes under my legs and closes them with the damn dildo still inside.
He bends down to pick up the box and with great interest, begins to read
