Chapter 12
Nash
I know that death would be better than this.
Even years facing the same torture Pirro has so eagerly handed out since being brought here would be better. If given the option, it’s what I’d choose.
I look toward Pirro, the smug bastard grinning at me, taking as much joy in watching me struggle with this as he did using a fucking scalpel to carve up my body.
It took more than one threat to even inch closer to her. His last words hurt her a little or I’ll hurt her a lot, is what finally got me moving.
The look in her eyes told me she was willing to die, possibly begging for it, but of course Pirro could see it as well. Her death wouldn’t be quick, and as much as I know she’s going to hate this, I have to consider how much she’d really hate the other option.
Pirro tilts his head toward the screen. I drag my eyes in that direction, hating the urge to press closer to her if only for the warmth her skin provides.
STOP AND SHE DIES.
The sick bastard even managed to make the letters red as if mimicking the blood we’ll both shed.
“I fucking hate you,” she seethes, and I wish there was a way to make her understand that no one can hate me more than I hate myself.
If I thought for a second that Pirro would put a bullet in my head before killing her, I might take the chance, but I know the sick bastard will make me watch if not make me participate in her demise. I’m just not strong enough to do it.
I’m so sorry, I mouth, not giving a shit if the fucking customer sees or not.
Tears are a steady stream from her eyes, and the quiver in her chin is enough to break me.
Fuck her real hard and she’ll come on your cock.
Pirro said that to me as I walked toward her, and at the time, it disgusted me. I’m torn between giving her body something, even knowing how much it will fuck with her mind, but maybe it’s better than just being another assailant on her list of many.
I don’t want to be just one more person haunting her dreams, but I see no way to avoid it.
She gives me the slightest, almost unnoticeable nod of her head, and I know it’s the only permission I’ll get. It’s more about accepting our fates than anything else.
I brush my fingers up the center of her once again, now somehow understanding exactly what it is.
The woman isn’t aroused. She doesn’t want any part of this. What she’s done is accepted her fate because the alternative must be unimaginable. That’s why she’s used artificial lube. She knows her body wouldn’t slicken to make this easier on her.
It makes me hate Pirro and whoever the fuck he’s working for even more.
She pulls her eyes from me when I slide two fingers inside of her, and I’m thankful for the reprieve.
“Used up fucking cunt,” the guy paying for this depravity spits. “Probably too fucking loose to get me off.”
The man couldn’t be any further from the truth, and I hate the way my body responds to the grip of her pussy on my fingers.
She jerks her head in my direction when I brush my thumb over her clit. I imagine the zing of pleasure she felt is just as fucking nauseating as the one I felt the last time we were together.
I have to wonder, as I circle my thumb again, if it’s the manipulation of doing something that was once pleasurable at such a fucking awful time that angers her the most like it did me.
“Make sure you scream, bitch.”
I try my best to drown out the fucking voice filling the room as I pull my fingers from her body, the shake in my muscles even more pronounced as I spread my thighs a few inches wider in order to line myself up.
I have to look away when I swipe the tip of myself against the slickness coating her skin. It feels better than it should, considering what I’m fucking doing, but maybe that’s my penance, the guilt I’ll feel later.
“Get the fuck off me,” she screams, no lies in her tone as she struggles against her restraints. Red coats her wrists where the ropes have rubbed her to the point of bleeding.
Her knees lift, her feet planting on the bed in an effort to move her hips so I can’t penetrate her. I can’t help but focus on the wounds, hating that she’s hurting herself. I want all the blame to be on me. I don’t want her to suffer at all, but hurting herself this way enrages me.
I lean forward, my palm flat against her throat, my grip tightening in warning when she continues to fight.
Her eyes snap to mine, and I fucking hope she can see just how fucking sorry I am for being forced to do this.
“Calm the fuck down.”
Those words are mine, not the man paying for the perversion he’s living out through my actions.
She swallows, the flex of her throat right under my palm.
Money being made; the sound of Cortez’s coffers being filled, reverberates around the room, and I hate that it forms some sort of bond between the sick fuck paying for this and myself. He likes how I acted. His tipping means I’m doing exactly what he wants to do.
It makes me fucking sick, a literal wave of queasiness making its way through my body.
She must hate it too, because she continues her attempt to get away from me, despite knowing she’d never be able to.
“Stop!” I hiss, leaning in even closer. “It’s my fucking job to hurt you. Stop hurting yourself.”
She freezes under my touch, her eyes locking on mine. I feel some of the tension leave her body. I hate to think she sees me as an animal, but I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her from drawing more blood to the surface of her wrists.
I shift, my cock more than a little skilled at finding the right spot with very little help.
I clench my jaw the second my tip slips inside of her, my fingers at her throat tightening of their own volition.
When she coughs, I have to remind myself that the pressure there is now for show rather than being the need for a constant warning.
I fight the urge to puke as I press forward, burying myself inside her. I hate myself for the pleasure I feel, knowing it has nothing to do with the warning Pirro gave me.
Make it look like you like it or there will be consequences. Don’t just get in and get out. The customer will know if you don’t come. He’s going to ask for proof. Don’t say a word. The client is the one fucking her. Not you.
Seems I broke that last rule, but the amount of tips that came through tells me that he wasn’t exactly angry about it.
“Gonna fuck you so hard you bleed.”
I snap my hips forward, moving my hand to her shoulder to hold her in place. If I have to take her the way it’s implied in order to protect her, I will. What I don’t want is to fuck her up the bed and cause more pressure on the wounds on her wrists.
“You sick bitch,” the client growls, the sickening sound of his hands working his own cock filling the room. “I bet you fucking like it. You like getting fucked like the whore you are, don’t you?”
Our eyes are locked. She’s not willing to let me look away, to imagine that this is consensual. I have no way to tell her that I wouldn’t even if I could. We’ll both have to suffer. I refuse to let her do it alone.
I can’t believe I let myself think she was a willing participant in all of this. She’s as much a prisoner as I am.
But then she lifts her legs, knees pressing into my sides in a way that doesn’t exactly translate as wanting me to stop.
I shake my head, thinking that I’m allowing my mind to create scenarios that make what I’m doing okay.
It doesn’t matter that I’m hitting her right in that spot that will make her come.
She still doesn’t want this, and I need to never forget that.
I release her throat, gripping her breast when the command echoes through the room. I do the same, obeying, when the client mentions spreading her so wide her legs must ache.
“Please stop,” she begs, her words accompanying the warning clench her pussy gives me.
I wanted this. I wanted to make her come, but now it feels like the most sick and sadistic consolation prize I could ever offer someone.
I back off, shifting my hips to reposition my cock.
“Don’t,” she snaps, and I can’t tell if she means for me to make her come or if she’s fucking begging me not to.
I lift my eyes from where we’re joined to hers, and the slightest nod of her head answers the question, her mouth dropping open when I press forward into that same spot. She squeezes her eyes closed, no doubt fighting that very same urge I tried to fight when she was on top of me.
I can’t count how many times I’ve pulled a trigger, how many times I’ve used a blade to get my point across. I’ve used my hands to choke the life out of someone. Never hesitated to stomp my boot into someone’s face, but I’ve never used my cock as the weapon it’s being used as today.
“Take it bitch.”
The voice makes my hips shudder, the pure ire in the man’s voice making my skin crawl. I have no doubt the man has hurt many women in his life. I bet he feels more powerful now, being able to command someone else to do it, than he ever has.
“Please stop,” she begs, her words drowning in the sobs she can’t seem to control.
I know she really wants me to stop. She doesn’t want to feel what she does.
This isn’t going to end with her coming and thanking me for making it happen.
I know she’s not in physical pain. The slippery wetness from the lube she used has transformed into the thick slickness of genuine arousal, and I know all about the hate she feels for herself because of it.
I’m suffering the same, teetering on the edge of self-loathing, for just how fucking amazing her body feels as I slam into her over and over.
I hate knowing that Pirro was right. That fucking her hard will make her come.
I hate that the man probably knows from firsthand experience.
It makes me want to slit his fucking throat more now than ever.
As if a switch has been flipped, she settles, her sobs too quiet to hear over my own heavy breathing.
Her chest is still heaving, tears are still rolling down her face, but I’ve just witnessed the moment she has given up, and I hate her a little for it.
She’s supposed to keep fighting. She’s not supposed to let them witness breaking her.
When she turns her head to the side, I’m moving before the client can even spit disapproval for her looking away.
I clamp her jaw, forcing her eyes in my direction.
She pleads without words, but I just can’t give her what she’s asking.
I don’t think she knows what the outcome for both of us would be if I listened to her and stopped.
Maybe she knows exactly what would happen, and that’s exactly why she has surrendered to her fate.
“I’ll slit your fucking throat if you don’t watch.”
The threat, even knowing that the client is probably hundreds if not thousands of miles away, makes me grip the back of her neck, angling her head so she can see me pistoning inside of her.
“Gonna fill this fucking pussy with my cum.”
Her neck is angled so she can watch us, but she lifts her eyes to mine. I’ll live in the guilt at the way it ignites a spark inside of me, at the way it makes my balls tighten.
Her jaw loosens, her mouth hanging open an inch wider.
“I fucking hate you!” she screams. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”
I hate myself. I pray she does get the chance to fucking kill me, but neither her words nor her threats prevent her pussy from clamping, rippling along my cock as she comes.
Her roar is more of a scream than marked with pleasure, and it’s tinted with hatred for her inability to control her body.
I fuck her through it, the clench of my jaw a real threat to cracking my back molars, but I can’t grunt my own pleasure. It would be taking things a step too far if that’s even fucking possible.
She looks more broken than I thought she could when she comes down from her release.
“You’re the dirtiest fucking whore I’ve ever seen,” the voice says, and I pray since he hasn’t mentioned it that he didn’t notice her orgasm. He doesn’t need that shit feeding his fucking perverse fantasies.
My nuts seize, and I know I’m going to come. I hate myself for it, but I can’t stop it any more than she could. Instead of staying inside of her, I pull free, sitting back on my calves.
I came in her last time, but I’d never do something like that while I’m in control.
I know what the client wanted, but he can put a fucking bullet in my head for the change in plans.
His groan of pleasure echoing around the room just as the first rope of cum splashes across her body impedes my own orgasm. It’s akin to pouring a bucket of cold water over my head. I consider it a blessing because I was already hating myself for being able to get that far in the first place.
My chin quivers, the threat of vomiting making my eyes sting as the audio in the room explodes with the sounds of money rolling in.
The client fucking enjoyed it and is paying extra for the experience.
My skin crawls at the look of betrayal in her eyes, and I don’t know if that energy is pointed in my direction or if she’s internalizing what just happened. Maybe it’s a little of both.
I swallow twice more as I look into her red-rimmed eyes, seeing pity more than anything there.
“I’m Nash,” I whisper. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
I barely shift to the left before puking.