Chapter 14 #3
He stops in front of me, and for a second, I think he might hit me right here in front of everyone.
Instead, his hand shoots out and closes around my throat.
His grip isn’t crushing, but it’s firm, possessive, a brand of ownership.
His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling the rabbit-fast beat there.
He uses that hold to steer me, walking me backward out of the shattered doorway and onto the sidewalk.
A long, black car is idling at the curb, its engine a quiet purr.
The afternoon street is weirdly normal. A couple across the street pauses, staring at the destroyed shop front, at the suited men, at Suha manhandling me.
One of Suha’s other men takes a single step in their direction, and they quickly hurry away, heads down.
Suha yanks open the car’s rear door.
“You didn’t have to destroy the store,” I say, my voice slightly constricted by his grip on my throat. It comes out more sullen than defiant.
He leans in close then, his face inches from mine. I can smell his cologne, and beneath it, the clean, sharp scent of his skin. His eyes are dark pits, full of a promise that makes my stomach do a slow, unwilling flip.
“Then come when you’re called,” he says, his voice a low, intimate rumble that feels like it’s vibrating in my own chest. “Like a good dog.”
I curl my lip.
“Now,” he says, the word crisp and clear in the quiet. “Let’s go have a conversation about consequences.”
He shoves me inside.
The bedroom is quiet now, the only sound is the faint, wet click I make when I try to swallow around the thick metal ring stretching my mouth wide open.
My jaw has been screaming at me for what feels like days.
The ache has settled deep into the hinges, a dull, persistent throb that radiates up into my temples.
The ring gag is buckled tight behind my head, forcing my mouth into a permanent, humiliating ‘O’.
Drool is a constant problem. A thin, warm trickle of it has been sliding down my chin for hours, dripping steadily onto my bare chest. My throat is dry and scratchy, but I can’t close my mouth to wet it properly.
I’m on my knees on the plush carpet beside the bed, my hands cuffed behind my back with cold metal.
My face is a sticky, disgusting mess. Come has dried in flaky streaks across my cheekbones and the bridge of my nose.
More of it is caked in my eyelashes, making my vision slightly gummy.
The worst of it is pooled in the hollow of my throat and crusted along my jawline.
I can smell it, a sour, salty scent that’s become as familiar as my own sweat.
Every other part of me hurts, too. My cock and balls are trapped in a tight silicone ring that’s been on so long the skin underneath feels numb and hot at the same time.
I’m painfully hard, have been for hours, but the ring makes any kind of relief impossible.
It’s just a constant, aching pressure that makes my stomach clench.
My ass is plugged with something thick and hard, keeping me stretched and uncomfortably full.
It’s not moving, just sitting there, a solid, alien presence.
But the real agony is my thighs. Whip marks and cane welts stripe the backs of my legs in angry, raised lines.
They’ve turned a vicious shade of red-purple, each one a precise, burning memory.
Sitting back on my heels like this is torture.
Every time my weight settles, the welts press into my calves and the pain flares, sharp and bright, forcing me to shift minutely to find a slightly less awful position. There isn’t one.
Then there are my nipples. The pain there is a different animal—a sharp, focused, throbbing ache.
The silver bars he put through them a few hours ago are still there, the metal cold against the fever-hot, swollen flesh around the fresh piercings.
Every slight movement of my chest, every shuddering breath, sends a fresh jolt through them.
They feel huge and tender, like two raw, exposed nerve endings.
I’ve lost track of how long he left me here.
Long enough for the sunlight through the tall windows to fade into the deep blue of evening, then into the flat black of night.
Long enough for my knees to go from sore to numb to a pins-and-needles nightmare.
Long enough for the initial burn of humiliation to settle into a weary, gritty acceptance.
The door opens.
I don’t look up. I keep my eyes on the carpet between my knees. I know the sound of his footsteps.
He stops in front of me. I can see the perfect crease of his suit pants.
“Look at me.”
His voice is calm. He doesn’t have to speak loudly for me to get the command.
I lift my head. The movement pulls at the muscles in my sore neck and makes the drool on my chin stretch into a new, shiny string. My eyes travel up the immaculate lines of his suit, past the silver tie clip, to his face.
Suha looks down at me, his expression unreadable.
He’s just come back from somewhere—his hair is perfectly in place, his suit jacket is still on.
He surveys the scene: me on my knees, covered in filth, marked and bound.
He gives a single, slow nod. A satisfied acknowledgement.
I am where he left me. I have not moved.
“Good,” he says, the word simple and final.
Then he steps closer. “Open wider.”
I can’t. The ring gag is already stretching my jaw to its limit. A pathetic, wet sound escapes me.
He doesn’t wait. His hands come up, fingers tangling brutally in the hair at the back of my head, gripping so tight my scalp stings. He uses that hold to tilt my head back further, arching my throat. With his other hand, he makes quick work of his belt and zipper.
He doesn’t take his cock out gently. He frees himself, already half-hard, and without any preamble, he shoves the head past the ring and into my mouth.
I choke instantly. The intrusion is too big, too sudden. My body tries to convulse, to gag him out, but the ring gag holds my mouth wide open, preventing any resistance. I can’t close my lips around him. I can’t suck. I can’t do anything but be still and take it.
He sets a punishing pace immediately, fucking into my throat with short, brutal thrusts.
Each one rams the back of my mouth, hitting the sensitive spot that triggers my gag reflex over and over.
Tears flood my eyes, blurring his face above me into a dark, swimming shape.
Drool spills out around the sides of the gag, mixing with the older, dried mess on my face.
My nose runs. The sounds I’m making are awful—wet, choking gurgles, desperate attempts to drag air through my nose around the obstruction in my throat.
His grip on my hair is merciless, holding me perfectly in place for his use.
I’m just a thing to him right now, a warm, wet hole for him to fuck.
The pain in my jaw is sharp, combining with the suffocating pressure in my throat.
My body shakes with the effort not to vomit, my stomach muscles clenching violently.
He doesn’t speak. He just uses me, his breathing becoming slightly heavier, his thrusts losing their initial sharp rhythm and turning more frantic, more demanding. I can feel him swelling in my mouth.
He pulls back suddenly, just enough that the head of his cock is resting on my tongue, still inside the ring. He lets out a low, strained groan, and I feel the hot, sudden splash of his release hitting my tongue, filling the confined space of my mouth.
It’s too much. I can’t swallow. The gag holds my mouth open, and the come just pools on my tongue before overflowing. It spills out over my lower lip, warm and thick, joining the slick mess of drool already coating my chin. It drips in heavy drops onto my chest.
He pulls out of my throat with a slick, wet sound. I gasp, sucking air through my nose in desperate pulls. My throat burns. Tears blur my vision, mixing with the sticky filth on my face.
Suha’s hand doesn’t leave my hair. His fingers are still tangled tight in the strands, holding my head tilted back at an awkward angle. He looks down at me, his dark eyes scanning my face with a kind of cold, appraising interest. He’s studying the mess he made.
With his free hand, he reaches down and tilts my chin up further, forcing me to look directly at him. His thumb brushes over my lower lip, smearing the mix of spit and come that’s pooled there.
I am open. The ring gag ensures it. But I understand what he wants. I let my tongue loll forward slightly, pushing past the metal ring to show him.
His come is a thick, pearlescent pool on my tongue, stark against the pink. More of it drips over the edge, sliding in a warm, heavy drop down my chin to join the mess on my skin.
A slow, satisfied smile touches his lips. It’s not a warm expression. It’s the look of an artist stepping back from a finished canvas. “Good,” he murmurs. “That should leave a lasting impression.”
Then his gaze drops to my chest. To the two silver bars piercing my nipples. The flesh around them is swollen and angry red.
He reaches out with his index finger. He doesn’t grab the bar. He just flicks it. A quick, sharp tap against the metal.
The vibration shoots through the inflamed tissue like a live wire.
A wounded sound tears out of me, mangled by the gag in my mouth.
My whole body jerks, a violent, involuntary spasm that makes the welts on my thighs scream and the plug in my ass shift uncomfortably.
Fresh tears well up and spill over, cutting clean tracks through the grime on my cheeks.
He watches my reaction, his head tilted slightly. He seems to be memorizing the exact shade of pain on my face, the way my muscles tense and tremble. After a moment, he gives a single, slow nod.