Chapter 17 #2
trap me in a cage with ghosts of my past:
Hunter, who wanted to keep me forever, and
Connor, who always ignored the safeword.
Which is the point of Ben, and of right now.
Ben isn’t comfort. He’s consequence.
He isn't here to coddle me, but to crush me.
To knock out what Andrew woke up in me.
To fuck Andrew out of my bloodstream.
To slam the door on the part of me stupid enough to want more.
To bring me back to how it was before the Baby Contract—
to Hunter, to Connor—
when the addiction gripped me by the throat,
held me under, drowned me slow.
And Ben’s going to remind me
why the rules, the contract, the system exists.
But if I’m going to let him fuck me into my trauma,
it’s going to come from this scene I built.
Where I picked the scent, the man, the hour.
So I can hurt on my fucking terms.
So it’s my hands causing it.
I press my forehead to the mattress.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I force myself to breathe through it.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He’s not Raymond.
He’s not Cooper.
He’s not Hunter.
But right now, he gets to be whoever it takes to put me back in my place.
Yeah—
another inhale—
I’m this desperate.
Ben moves behind me,
his fingers wrapping around my ankle.
The cold leather presses against my skin,
and the buckle clicks.
“You know what fuckin’ excites me, Baby?”
His voice drips down my spine.
“You.
“On all fours for me.
“Nowhere to fuckin' run.”
He tightens the brace around my ankle.
“Watch it,” I mumble,
acting tough and choking on it.
The second strap locks around my other ankle.
He grabs the inside of my thighs
and guides my knees apart,
wider,
wider,
until thirty inches of cold steel locks in place.
“Been thinkin’ ‘bout this for months, Baby.”
His hand drags up my spine.
“Every time you fuckin’ insult me…”
His palm presses down between my shoulder blades until I'm chest to mattress, spine curved, breath crushed against silk.
He grabs my wrist and clips it to my ankle.
The metal bites down.
Then he moves to the other.
I’m stretched open,
everything exposed, lined up,
angled for his convenience.
He trails his fingers over the curve of my ass.
In my head, Allison and Baby are shoved into a room together. Baby's sitting on the floor, watching Allison pace, waiting to see if she’ll stay, take a seat next to her, shut up and enjoy the show, or bolt for the door.
I bite down on my lip hard enough to wince,
to keep me here to face it.
“Fuck,” he pants. “You’d never admit it, but you need me and my fuckin’ mouth on that pussy or you ain’t makin’ it to noon.”
I want to call him a liar.
I want to tear the words out of the air before it sticks.
But he’s not wrong.
Big bad Baby can’t even fuck herself right.
I need hands.
A mouth.
Anyone willing to empty me out.
I’ll always need someone.
Ben.
The next Boy.
The next warm body.
Anybody but me.
“All that fight for what?” he mutters.
“Still ended up right here, Baby.”
He bites his bottom lip, full of himself.
“Still ended up mine.”
No sense in saying I’m not.
Could spit the words back in his face.
Could scream the words until my throat splits.
Could make a speech while on all fours,
wrists tied,
legs spread,
waiting to see what he'll do to me.
Yeah, real powerful.
So in control.
I test the cuffs.
It helps feeling the limits,
knowing I chose them.
“You think you’re runnin’ shit,” he says,
squeezing the back of my neck.
“But when my tongue’s fuckin’ you,
“I’m the one cashin’ in.”
My stomach’s turning inside out.
His grip at my neck tightens.
“Say it,” he growls. “Say you’re mine.”
Say you’re mine.
Say you need me.
Say the thing that makes me feel bigger than you.
I laugh the kind of laugh women save to cut men in half. But it’s only to keep me from crying in front of him.
He can have the moment,
the hour,
but never the girl.
“Fuck you,” I say instead.
Two words dropping like two tears.
I’ll never be anyone’s again.
A growl rolls out of his chest.
“That’s how you wanna be?”
I pull against the cuffs again to test the bite,
to remind myself how much I’ve given away.
But the only thing I have left to hold is my breath.
He grabs my ass with both hands—
a full, greedy grip,
his fingers digging into my flesh.
His thumbs slide down, then spread me open.
A strangled sound slips from my throat.
“Already fuckin’ wet,” he mutters, cocky.
My body’s just doing what it’s supposed to, what it craves. Sometimes it’s easier to stop fighting and hope my mind and heart are strong enough to survive the fallout, and I can still look myself in the mirror afterward.
He stands over me,
his shadow falling across my back,
and I'm disgusted with myself
for letting him make me feel small.
Then he presses my face deeper into the mattress.
Because standing over me isn’t enough,
now I have to be held down, too.
“Need me bad, huh?” he mutters,
fingers teasing my clit, cruel and lazy.
He grabs my hair and tips my head back,
exposing my neck,
while his other hand smacks my pussy.
A jolt surges through me,
and a sound breaks in my throat.
I bite down on my lip. “Don’t.”
The word rips out of me,
and he loves it,
grinning into the top of my head
while his fingers slide up the length of my pussy.
They they push inside me.
One thrust.
I hold my breath,
squeezing my eyes shut.
Until he slides out to circle my clit,
spreading heat through me.
My pussy begs
even when my heart’s half-dead.
It doesn’t care who’s hand it is,
it still lights up under it,
my body—
my stupid, disloyal body—
is thirsty for it,
craves it,
needs it.
“Don’t come, Baby.”
His breath slides down my spine,
hot enough to char bone.
“If you come, I’ll skip your favorite part.
“Just bury my cock in you and call it a day.”
My breath stutters,
my lungs confused from the whiplash,
hating his voice,
his words,
but still chasing his hand.
When his palm cracks down across my pussy again,
another quake tears through me,
my body clenching, trying to escape itself.
“You really gonna fuck this up 'cause you caught feelings?” His voice isn’t angry, it’s worse. It’s calm. “That what got you weak, huh? Who would’ve fuckin’ thought?
“Fairy tale pussy
“chasin’ happily-ever-after dick.”
His laugh’s wicked as his hand moves faster,
forcing the orgasm out of me
like he’s wringing out a rag.
“You think he’s gonna handle you like I do?”
He leans in,
his breath smearing heat down my neck.
“Let you run shit the way you need?”
Andrew.
He’s talking about Andrew.
This isn’t about Ben getting off or feeding his urges. He’s still scared Andrew will take everything away from him.
“Who's still standin' right fuckin' here?”
His fingers push inside me again, as if to change the locks so Andrew can’t get in.
“You start catchin’ feelings? You’re not just losin’ him. You’re losin’ all of it.”
A whine tears free before I can shove it down.
I should stop this, open my fucking mouth.
But I’m right there, on the edge of climax.
“You want the fantasy?” he growls.
“You think pretty boy's in it for your personality? C'mon. He's in it 'cause you're a challenge. Once he fucks you, he's out.”
He pushes his mouth up against my ear,
thrusting his fingers faster.
“The mystery's keepin' him hooked, Baby."
His other hand circles my clit,
rough and punishing.
“And you?
“You’ll bleed yourself dry tryin’ to keep him,
“burn the kingdom down for him.
“Then when he leaves?
“There ain’t gonna be nothin’ left standin’.”
And then I come, hard and vicious.
Ben rubs faster,
setting everything on fire,
pulling the pleasure into pain,
spinning out past the edge where my body should’ve let go.
The fire keeps spreading.
White-hot.
Teeth-bared.
Skin-splitting.
I shove my face into the mattress,
my cry ripping out from a hollow place.
My body jerks, twitches, fights,
tries to pull away from the intensity.
But I can’t move.
The cuffs hold.
The spreader bar holds.
I struggle,
twist,
try to peel myself out of my own fucking skin.
But there’s no getting away.
He won’t stop.
The safeword’s there,
climbing the walls of my throat,
scratching to get out.
One second more and I’ll say it.
One second more—
Hours—
bent over the table,
wrists cuffed to steel,
back screaming,
silence haunting.
He left me here and called it training,
discipline,
saying I’ll thank him later.
My legs shake,
locked in this position for hours alone.
Every second drills deeper,
past patience and pain,
straight into rage.
Then the door creaks,
footsteps on wood.
His breath is steady
and stalking from behind.
“Connor.”
My voice cracks in half.
Then louder: “Red.”
But all that replies is silence.
It’s like he doesn’t hear me.
He keeps circling,
eyes sliding over me
like I’m not speaking at all.
“Red,” I choke out again,
fear strangling my throat.
And he smiles,
keeps moving closer,
my safeword becoming
his favorite joke.
“Red,” I beg. “Please—let me go.”
He laughs,
slapping the whip against his palm,
and laughs again.
—CRACK.
Ben’s palm slams down across my ass,
knocking me back into my body,
the past,
present,
and future collapsing into one moment.
Everything rushes back in—
my breath,
the cold sweat chilling my skin.
I fall forward, crashing into the mattress.
I don’t feel good. I don’t feel bad.
I just don’t feel me anymore.
But I feel him
still behind me.
“So red, so sore, so swollen.”
His hand appears in front of me,
his finger dripping crimson.
He smears it across my lips.
“So fuckin’ bloody for me now.”
Then his cock slaps against my ass,
but I barely feel it.
Once the condom snaps,
I feel myself leave,
going someplace else.
His dick’s nudging against my opening,
but I'm not even here.
One second of breath,
and he slams inside me.
“Goddamn,” he groans, thighs locking up.
“You squeezin’ me,
“grippin’ me so fuckin’ good.”
My eyes close as he moves inside me slowly.
The pace says it all:
he's watching every thrust,
obsessed with the view.
“Tight fuckin’ pussy actin’ like it forgot me.
“But you feel me now, huh?
“Remember who the fuck owns you. Shit.”
A groan breaks out of him.
“Ain’t no pretty boy gonna fill you like this, Baby. Only me. Always me.”
Then the rhythm changes.
Faster. Harder. Rougher.
His grip locks around two hips to mount himself.
He’s done watching his cock thrust into the hole,
now he’s just using what’s left.
And I feel nothing.
I'm not crying or shaking, I'm gone—
a door quietly closing behind me,
an absence, and he doesn’t notice.
He keeps going anyway,
like all that’s left behind is my corpse,
and he’s still using it.
After some time goes by, he slips out,
and the room fills back in.
I hear his breathing, loud and human.
I hear metal screaming through the speakers.
I hear the shrieking electric guitars,
the walls rattling.
Room 613 knows what just happened.
It’s over.
Over. Over. Over.
I should feel something.
Relief. Release. Rage.
But I’m a closed door,
locked from the inside—
the slam of a lid over a scream.
He unbuckles the cuffs.
One, and then the other.
The spreader bar slips off the mattress
and clatters against the marble.
I’m free.
Air floods my lungs.
Thoughts run into each other.
My name jumps back into my mouth.
Everything comes back at once.
I push off the bed,
my legs threatening to buckle,
my bones like sludge, forgetting I live here.
I grab my robe from the floor
and pull it on fast,
wrapping it around me tight
as if it can protect me.
I avoid his gaze.
Get away. Hide. Bathroom.
Shut the door. Lock it. Turn fast.
My knees hit tile,
my hands scrambling for the toilet seat,
and I vomit,
violent,
purging from the marrow.
My whole-body trembles,
heaves, as I try to get rid of it all—
his hands, his breath,
his dick,
his tongue,
my own skin if possible.
Nothing’s left inside me,
but I keep gagging anyway.
Shame tastes like acid at the back of the throat
and never leaves easy.
I twist the shower knob and step inside
without waiting for it to heat,
without checking the temperature.
The water hails down,
hammers my scalp, my shoulders, my spine,
trying to beat me clean.
I listen to the water pound against marble
while staring at the tile in front of me,
at the crack in the grout,
at the drop racing down the wall.
I watch it
like it’s the only thing left alive in my world.
My vision blurs.
I don’t move.
I stand there.
Blinking.
Blurring.