Abandoned World: The Awakening

Peyton could only barely answer, "Yes," without lifting his head, and then moaned in pleasure, anticipating an orgasm. She'd learned to ask those questions herself, too. How capable of a student, already doing everything herself. Just say yes to her. Already only pick the fruit from her…

But it did not come to this right away. In the beginning it was necessary to tell her for a long time about the weight of respect, about the necessity of understanding, about the system-forming importance of hierarchy in society. And how she did not fully understand all these things then, trying to say something of her own. Not to mention the very beginning of their relationship, when she

looked at him with her eyes still bulging, trying to perceive, as she then said "heresy" from his lips. She told him about his age, about the inadmissibility of such an attitude towards her. And yet, after a couple of weeks, first she let him give her gifts, then she let him touch her, then she let him manage her time, then she let him not work like everyone else, then she let him work only for her, and finally she let him do only what he wanted to do with her.

It's all a long road, and Peyton knew all the right and wrong steps in it. Especially the wrong ones. He'd told himself several times that he shouldn't be in a hurry, that he should be more patient and smarter. And it was only the desire to possess her that drove him to his goal. These constant training in the morning, persuasive speeches in front of the mirror, which each time became more and more concise and reasoned. Until he reached the ideal. The ideal that convinced her of the inevitability of her defeat in front of him. And it was better sooner than later, and voluntarily than forcibly… Of course, he also told her about it separately, long before it was necessary to reconcile his various arguments with this state of affairs in the world.

And now this. She's giving him a blowjob. With pleasure. Just the way he wants it. And she's also guessing what he wants correctly. What do you call that? Perfection. And this is the perfection to which he had brought her… Well, something, but we should take care of it now, since it all came to him so hard.

His right hand slapped the girl with a wide swing. The palm of his hand clattered against her cheek, and she fell on her side. Peyton felt the pain in his right palm, and realized that his hand had now done it. He did. Just hit with all his might his own woman who was kneeling in front of him and fondling his cock. He did it because he saw that it was possible. And that it would be the most vivid thing he could do in this situation. Those thoughts were racing from side to side in his head.

What does it mean to be the brightest? Is it the most impossible? Is it infinite power, to do the most impossible at the most inopportune moment? Or is it madness? And where are the boundaries of insanity and achieving the impossible? Yes, I hit her. Because I could. I could have done it without hindrance. And in a situation that wasn't suitable for it… She'd almost brought him to orgasm. He almost came the way he wanted. He should be pleased with her, grateful, feeling her closer to him… Why suddenly treat her like this? Why suddenly hit her? And at a time like this? What was the point of that action in the first place?

Just because it seemed impossible. Unreal. But he did it. He could do the impossible. And now, as she stood up slightly, leaning on one arm and holding her bruised cheek with the other, staring at him with frantic eyes and unable to even utter a word, he began to realize how well he was right. How much more right than he'd ever been in his life he'd done now. And how lucky, too — his right hand against her left cheek. The world literally flooded with color in Peyton's eyes. He felt as if the stars themselves were now lighting his way, the stars themselves showing him how to live. How to act. How to be the best for himself first of all.

Delaney's nose began to bleed, and she began to sniff her nose. Now she looked like a victim. She had just been so vibrant and full of color, but now she was starting to become insignificant and unnecessary. Though her figure was still perfectly fine, and her breasts still protruded from her blouse in beautiful curves, Delaney herself, her face and eyes, were beginning to fade. First of all, in Peyton's gaze.

It seemed to him that he had perfected her, and then he was cleaning her up from that perfection as well. There was no need to lose her — she wanted to be discarded. After all, he himself had just now, just fifteen minutes ago, been thinking that if she happened to refuse him, he might not be able to resist and go along with her. He'd go along with her! That's what it looked like. The perfection he had created with his own mind, with his own strength. This perfection would not serve him, but would drive him around like a mutt… Did she want to control him herself? That's what she