Chapter 6 #2
Every Dom knows the brain is the most complicated sex organ in the human body. No person on earth can explain the things they crave. There’s no right and no wrong, as long as everyone in the game has given full consent.
So I tear off Kate’s panties, stripping them down her scarred thighs. They’re soaked, which doesn’t surprise me. She starts to cry, though, which does.
“What’s your color?” I snap, climbing off the mattress, giving her space to reply.
She sniffs before she answers, and then she swallows, hard. But her eyes meet mine, unwavering. Her voice is louder than I expect when she says, “Green.”
I nod, but I wait a moment, giving her a chance to change her mind.
She raises her chin and licks her lips. “You did all this for me,” she says. And then: “Green.” This time I believe her.
It only takes me a moment to wrestle her out of her bra.
She starts to swear again, a constant stream in English and in Irish.
A range of gags waits in the oaken armoire, from simple strips of cloth to suffocating rubber balls.
Under other circumstances, I’d shut her mouth, but with her cheeks still wet, I need to leave her an absolutely clear option to end our play.
She calls me a cocksucker, and I catch her jaw between my index finger and thumb, squeezing hard enough to force her mouth open.
“You’ll be the one sucking cock tonight,” I warn, shaking twice before I set her free.
“But only if you’re a good little sub. One more word out of you, and I lock you in that cage and head upstairs alone. ”
She eyes the iron bars and proves what I’ve known all along: Kate Lynch is smart. She closes her jaws with an audible snap. But the murderous look she gives me would melt the hard-on of a lesser man.
Pressing my victory, I wrap her bra around her wrists, lashing the fabric tight.
The restraint makes it easier to manhandle her to the center of the room, but she doesn’t give in without a fight.
She’s still thrashing when I force her arms overhead, snagging the twisted bra over a hook that hangs from the ceiling.
Kate freezes.
“Yellow,” she says, her voice very soft, the word very clear.
Slow down. That’s the rule I gave her the first time I tied her up. Green, we go; red, we stop; yellow, we slow to give her a chance to adjust.
And she doesn’t have to explain why she needs time.
She hung Pyotr Tarasov from a hook.
This is a different hook over a different drain. No matter what games Kate and I play, she knows I won’t leave her here for days. She understands she won’t die in this room.
Still, I knew the hook would be hard for her—excruciating, even. It forces her to think about everything that animal did to her and everything she did to him, for revenge.
I need her to face that. She needs it too. We can’t leave this dungeon tonight until we’ve both reached peace with what happened.
Her chin dips to her chest. Her arms stretch overhead, the muscles perfectly sculpted as her hands clench into fists. I’ve calculated the distance perfectly; she’s balanced on the balls of her feet.
The only sound in the room is her breathing, heavy and fast. I wonder if her pulse is pounding in her ears, if she’s hearing Tarasov beg for freedom.
I could lift her off the hook. I could carry her to the bed. I could find other ways to test her—tools in the armoire or my fingers, my mouth, my cock.
But the hook is what she has to face. So we wait, both of us, until her breathing slows. Her fingers stretch, released from their fists. She raises her chin.
“All right, then,” she says. “Green.”
She says it. And she means it, even though tears are drying on her cheeks. So I reward her for being brave.
The dildo I take from the armoire is massive, molded to look like a real cock, heavy and veined. I make a show of lubing it up, turning the silicon to catch the golden light. Hanging captive, she gulps.
I move to stand behind her, folding my arm across her belly and pulling her close to my still-clad chest. My cock twitches hard at the contact, and she gasps at the pressure against the small of her back.
Taking advantage of her parted lips, I slip my thumb inside. I fuck her mouth slowly, letting her circle me with her tongue. She leans forward, eager, whining for more pressure.
I answer by guiding the dildo between her legs.
Her whine changes pitch, her lips growing tight around my thumb as I stretch her folds below. She shakes her head, as if the sensation is too intense, but she arches her back, forcing her ass against my still-clothed cock.
My thumb fills her mouth. The dildo fills her pussy. The bulge behind my zipper presses into her crack. Her toes point and her thighs turn to iron and she groans as I start to move, pumping past both pairs of lips, the ones around my thumb and the ones around the slick molded dick.
“Yes,” she says around my thumb, the word vibrating deep in her throat. “Harder. More. Yes, yes, y—”
I pull away mere seconds before she comes. One more stroke, above or below, one more twitch of my desperate, aching cock, and she’d break.
Mouth empty, she howls. She presses her thighs together, fighting to keep the dildo inside. Maybe she thinks she can grind against it, squeeze it tight and reach the escape she craves.
But she’s too hot and the silicon is too slick and even though it’s mammoth, it slips free to the floor.
“You motherfucking shitehawk!” she shouts, loud enough to be heard in the security command center in the garage, if this room weren’t sound-proofed with the finest acoustic control system on the market.
I’ve primed her in every way I know. She continues to swear as I make my way back to the armoire.
I slide open a drawer at the bottom to retrieve my newest purchase.
It only arrived yesterday. It’s the reason I’ve brought Kate here tonight.
It’s the final thing she needs to see in this newly rebuilt dungeon, the last thing she has to accept.
“Goddamn it,” Kate says, as I straighten and close the drawer. “Let me down or finish me off, you fucking sadistic arsehole.”
“Sadistic,” I say, my back still toward her. “What a perfect word to choose.”
Something about my tone warns her, or maybe she reads the angle of my arm. Perhaps she sees some reflection in the polished armoire door, or else her brain finally makes the inevitable connection, closing up a link she opened when she strung up Tarasov five long weeks ago.
Whatever the cause, she falls silent. Every atom of air in the room is suddenly charged with electricity. A single spark could ignite the dungeon around us, could level every building on this block.
I turn to face her, holding out the item in my hand.
It’s a spreader, made of iron, burnished the same gold-washed brass as all the metal in the room. It has two cruel loops for her feet. She’ll barely be able to touch the ground once I have her locked in.
Brandishing the device, I cross to her suspended body. I kneel before her and capture her right foot with my firmest grasp. I tug her leg toward the outer limit of my metal bar, positioning her ankle for the loop. I’m ready to close her in, to exorcise the past.
But I’m frozen before the metal touches her flesh because Kate sobs, “Red.”