Chapter 6 Cal
Cal
The pleasure is vicious enough to pull her from the dregs of unconsciousness, but that doesn't last long.
She comes, screaming and writhing, moaning and gripping my cock like she can crush it between her thighs.
There's no awareness to her... she doesn't realize she's cuffed to the St. Andrew's Cross, that she's in a different place from wherever she was when she was last awake, that I'm inside her, the source of all that beautiful fucking pleasure.
I watch her lips form around a scream and her head roll back as she convulses, the chains of the cuffs rattling.
She takes me hostage as she comes, her pussy clamping around me and the toy so tight that I grunt from the exertion.
My cock is sensitive as hell right now, but it's an exquisite sort of pleasure and pain that has me grunting, bracing myself against the top of the wood beams as she milks my cock in her unconscious state.
It's one hell of an orgasm, so intense that I wonder if it's possible to fuck someone to death. It may be my favorite way to sate the beast, if so. He’s been pretty quiet when my dick has been inside her.
When she goes limp, her head falls toward me, rolling onto my shoulder. I catch her there, petting her dirty hair and soaking in the smell of her sweat... and piss.
Now that my need for her has been sated, I realize how fucking filthy she is.
There's no telling how long she was in that box, so it's no surprise she pissed herself eventually.
But it seems to permeate her hair along with the smell of sweat.
There's no distant memory of shampoo, which makes me wonder when she had her last bath and how long she was in captivity before she came to me.
I ease the dildo out first, breathing heavily as it drags along my sensitive shaft to the point of overload. She moans when I slip it from between her legs, and I laugh.
“You love being stuffed, don't you, doll face?”
My fingers caress her cheek, appreciating the feel of her cool skin.
By the time I slip out of her, she's silent, whatever awareness she'd fleetingly shown gone entirely.
I step back to survey my masterpiece, taking in the bruises that were left by someone other than me and the blood that I didn't draw out of her.
My cum coats her thighs, but it's a hollow victory now that I've got some of the need out of me.
My cock is still hard and stiffening with my anger as I assess her.
She's beautiful, but she's not what I fucking wanted.
You can rewrite her abuse.
The thought comes unbidden.
It doesn't make it untrue, though.
I could reclaim every mark on her body, bend it, and break it. I could shatter her bones, probably as well as her spirit's been shattered from whatever happened to her before she became mine.
I wanted a fresh victim, something that felt authentic.
Killing her while she's unconscious suddenly doesn't have the appeal it did when I was getting everything set up for this moment. It feels like cheating, taking the easy way out. And I don't want the easy way out.
I'm a predator. I need to hunt, to prey.
I also need to not get caught killing random women off the street like hundreds of serial killers before me.
I have a luxury they don't, which is that I can afford my proclivities.
It's the reason I did it this way. The best thing to do is to get my knife and see if her heart bleeds red for me, maybe to carve my name on it with the scalpel.
Kill the bitch. She's worthless.
“No.”
She's mine, which makes her valuable on her own.
I rake my hands through my hair, torn between the compulsion to rip her apart and let her blood rain on me and the desire to fuck her again.
Or kill her while you fuck her.
Really, I don't have to choose. I've got time with her—as much time as I want. I can drug her again and again, keeping her as my living dead girl until it becomes too much for her broken body to handle.
But she'll need a shower if that's the plan, because I can't imagine letting this fester.
She seems lighter as I lift her into my arms this time, freeing her of the shackles and rope so I can take her up the steps with her slung across my arms, bridal style.
I regret putting the snakes in the shower, because she needs to be hosed off rather than to marinate in her filth, but the snakes are angry, and I have nowhere to move them right now.
Instead, I just have to drop her into the porcelain tub, where her head falls onto her chest.
I leave her to gather the things I'll need—shampoo and soap, a sponge and towels, and a pitcher to fill with water.
When I return to her, she's sunk deeper in the bathtub, so I adjust her a bit before turning the water on.
I wait for it to be warm enough before I fill the pitcher, pouring it over her filthy body so that it rinses some of the dirt clean.
I watch it swirl around the drain for a second, dark with dirt and blood and God knows what else.
Now that I've sated the beast, I'm feeling more like myself. The reality of my situation is dawning on me with violent acuity.
I bought a woman.
A person.
Somebody's daughter.
I can't even begin to imagine what horrors this woman faced before she met me... how she ended up being sold on the internet like a used car or secondhand clothing. I haven't let myself think about those things much, knowing it would have soured the experience when I unwrapped her.
But now, I can't not think of these things, especially as I wash away the grime from her hair.
Bits of straw rinse down the drain as I pluck them from her strands and begin soaping her hair, pulling it through my hands to ensure it's properly cleansed.
That's how I notice it's an uneven cut, clearly not professionally done.
I don't know anything about women's hair care, but even I can see that the way it hangs isn't normal.
I wash her twice, soaping her body with the sponge so that I can avoid waking the beast inside by touching her with my bare hands and feeling her soft body beneath my fingers.
The first pass, I work in sections, rinsing to check that I've not missed any spots. The second pass, I cover her entirely with suds, careful not to get soap up her nose.
As the grime rinses down the drain, I'm struck by how innocent she appears.
Her full lips are red and puffy, cut in places and cracking, but they turn up just a little at the corners, giving her the illusion that she's peaceful.
I suppose compared to whatever she experienced when she was awake, the abyss may be peaceful after all.
Her dark lashes don't so much as flutter when I pull her forward, holding her limp body up with a hand around the back of her neck so I can slip into the tub behind her.
I haven't taken a bath since I was a child, but the compulsion to hold her like this swells so great inside of me that I find myself easing her against my chest. The warm water spills over my toes as I situate her, sweeping her wet hair off her chest so I have unhampered access.
I can't say with any certainty that it's good for her, but something tells me to fill the silence, to speak to her.
I sigh. “I don't know what to call you.”
You don't name things you don't want to grow attached to; it's why my father called the family dog 'that fucking hound'.
That had been an important part of the process for me when I was buying her, but now it feels wrong.
This is a real person... a beautiful, perfect toy for me, but a person, nonetheless.
I cup water in my palm and drip it across her breast, warming the parts of her that the water hasn't yet submerged. I watch it run down her soft stomach, pooling in her belly button, and drip more water over her, letting it rain slowly, gently on her bruised body.
Her nipple pebbles beneath my touch as I run my thumb and forefinger over it, rolling it between them and watching as her other one rises too, seeking my touch.
I grant it, pulling her nipples beneath my fingers, savoring the stretch, the feel of her flesh, the way she doesn't try to bat me away.
I feel myself hardening as I manipulate her beneath my touch, drawing a little breath out of her that makes my balls draw tight with need.
I want to hear more of her sounds... It's what has me sitting up, taking her with me until we're sitting together, her knees open between mine.
To be so relaxed with her is a marvel. There’s no pressure to contain my beast, no pressure to balance her pleasure with mine or to fill the minutes with frivolous speech. No asking me about my hideous family or why I am the way that I am. There’s no expectation of a ring, a wedding, or a child.
We just exist together, with her completely at my whim as I stroke between her legs, familiarizing myself with her body. The short hairs there tickle my hand, and I like the way it feels.
I like the way she feels. I like everything about her—her soft shoulder that I press a kiss to, her taut stomach that I can’t wait to see my cum pooling on, and her warm pussy that invites me in so graciously.
I can't resist slipping a finger inside, sinking up to my second knuckle.
Her breath comes faster, and a glance out of the corner of my eyes assures me she's still not conscious.
Whatever they gave her was a fucking miracle drug, letting her feel the pleasure I'm so desperate to give her but keeping her in a dream state.
I wonder what's going on behind those eyelids, if she's imagining someone else.
Is she dreaming of another man doing these things to her?
Is she imagining she's weightless and insubstantial and that it is all in her head?
Is she trying to conjure up an idea of me, the way humans try to conjure up an idea of something greater than themselves?