Wendy #5
The sound is final. He cinches it tight—too tight—cutting into my wrists. He does the same to my ankles, stretching me out until I’m a taut, vulnerable X across the bed.
He steps back, looking at his handiwork, and takes a slow sip of his bourbon.
“There,” he murmurs, his eyes roaming over my bleeding, bound, and broken form. “Now you can’t run. You can’t hide. And you definitely can’t smash any more of my property.”
He crawls onto the bed, hovering over me like a shadow.
“The night is still young, Wendy. And I haven’t even started on the parts of you that still feel like they belong to you.”
The zip-ties bite into the bone of my wrists, a sharp, plastic reminder that my body isn’t a temple anymore—it’s a crime scene. I’m stretched so tight across the mattress that every breath feels like a struggle, my chest heaving, my ribs standing out like white bars against my skin.
Peter doesn’t say a word. He just sets his glass down on the nightstand and crawls over me, his weight settling between my pinned thighs. He looks down at the thin, red lines where the glass carved into my skin, and his eyes darken with a look that makes my blood turn to liquid lead.
“You’re a mess, Wendy,” he whispers, his voice a low, vibrating hum. “Bleeding for me. Crying for me. Breaking for me.”
He leans down, and I flinch, expecting a slap or a bite. Instead, I feel the wet, hot slide of his tongue against the base of my throat. I let out a jagged, broken whimper, my head thrashing against the pillow.
“Don’t move,” he growls against my skin. “I’m cleaning you up. You wanted to play in the glass? Now you have to deal with the consequences.”
He moves his mouth down to my shoulder, finding a small nick where the mirror bit me.
He doesn’t just lick it; he lingers. I can feel the rough texture of his tongue as it laps at the blood, tasting me with a slow, methodical hunger.
The sensation is sickeningly intimate, a terrifying blend of care and absolute desecration.
“Fuck, you taste like everything I’ve ever wanted to destroy,” he mutters, his breath hot against my wet skin.
He moves lower, his tongue trailing a path of fire down the centre of my chest, swirling around my nipples until they’re aching and raw. I’m sobbing, my body shaking with a mix of terror and a need so deep it’s humiliating.
“You like this, don’t you?” he mocks, looking up at me, his mouth smeared with a faint ghost of my blood. “You like being my little wounded bird. You like the way I’m tasting your pain.”
He reaches the deep scratch on my thigh—the one from the driveway that’s still weeping. He spreads my legs wider, his hands digging into my hips to keep me still, and buries his face between my legs.
I scream, a raw, guttural sound, as his tongue finds the wound.
He’s not gentle. He’s thorough. He licks the blood off my skin with long, firm strokes, his tongue heavy and insistent.
It hurts, the friction of his tongue against the raw skin making me hiss, but beneath the pain is that same, pulsing heat that’s been driving me insane all night.
“I could just leave you like this,” he whispers, his voice muffled by my skin. “Bound and bleeding. Let the city forget you ever existed while I keep you in the dark. Would you like that, Wendy? Would you like being the secret I never tell?”
“No… please,” I gasp, my hips bucking against his face.
He ignores my plea. He moves his tongue higher, away from the blood and toward the centre of my ache. He doesn’t touch my clit—not yet. He just licks around it, teasing the edges of my pussy, tasting the salt and the slick and the come he left inside me.
“You’re so fucking responsive,” he murmurs, his eyes meeting mine as he flicks his tongue over the very top of my entrance. “Look at how your skin jumps. Look at how much you’re begging for the monster to finish what he started.”
I’m losing my mind. The zip-ties are cutting off my circulation, my skin is on fire from his tongue, and the shame is so thick I can taste it. I’m a mess of blood and fluids, pinned to a bed by a man who treats my body like a playground for his darkest impulses.
“Tell me you belong to the dark, Wendy,” he commands, his fingers sliding into my pussy while his tongue stays locked on my clit. “Tell me you’re never going back to the light.”
“I… I belong to you,” I sob, the words a final, crushing surrender. “Please, Peter… just finish me.”
He grins, a slow, predatory baring of teeth. “Finish you? Darling, I’m just getting started. I have all night to find every place you’re still hiding from me.”
He leans in, biting my inner thigh hard enough to leave a permanent mark, his hand tightening around my throat.
“You’re not a girl anymore,” he hisses. “You’re a mark. And I’m going to make sure you never forget who made it.”
The zip-ties are screaming against my skin, my pulse thrumming against the plastic as Peter looks up at me from between my knees.
He looks like a king sitting on a throne of my wreckage.
He’s got my blood on his lips and my slick on his chin, and he looks at me like I’m the most delicious thing he’s ever had the pleasure of breaking.
“You’re shaking, Wendy,” he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that travels straight to my core. “Is it the cold? Or are you just realising that I’m the only thing in this world that can make you feel this fucking alive?”
“Peter… please,” I whimper, my head thrashing on the pillow. “I can’t… I’m going to snap.”
“Then snap,” he growls.
He doesn’t go slow anymore. He dives back in, his tongue flat and heavy as he licks me from the bottom of my pussy all the way up to my clit in one long, soaking stroke. I let out a jagged, broken shriek, my hips bucking violently, the zip-ties digging deep into my wrists as I try to reach for him.
“You like that, don’t you? You like the way I taste like you and the mess I made?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He sucks my clit into his mouth, his lips creating a vacuum that feels like it’s pulling my soul through my skin.
I’m losing my goddamn mind. My vision is blurring, the room dissolving into nothing but the sensation of his tongue and the raw, stinging heat of the scratches on my thighs.
He’s being brutal, his tongue flicking fast and hard against the most sensitive part of me, while his fingers—those thick, tattooed fingers—slide back inside me, stretching me wide, reminding me how empty I am without him.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he pants against my skin, the words vibrating through my entire body. “You’re flooding the bed, Wendy. You’re drowning in it. Look at me. Look at me while I take it from you.”
I force my eyes open, my breath coming in short, pathetic hitches. He’s looking up at me, his eyes dark with a possessive, terrifying hunger. He’s watching the way my face contorts, the way my chest heaves, the way I’m completely and utterly destroyed by his mouth.
“That’s it,” he whispers, his voice a dark lullaby. “Give it to me. Give me every fucking drop of your shame.”
He speeds up. His tongue is a blur of heat and friction, his fingers thrusting deep and rhythmic inside me, mimicking the way he fucked me on the hood of the car. I’m right there—at the edge of the cliff—teetering over a void of pure, white-hot ecstasy.
“Please! Peter! Now! Fuck, now!”
“Take it,” he roars, his hand flying up to catch my throat again, squeezing just enough to make the world go hazy at the exact moment the explosion hits.
The orgasm doesn’t just happen; it detonates.
It’s a violent, bone-shattering convulsion that rips a sound out of my throat I didn’t know I could make—a high, keening wail of pure surrender.
My pussy clamps down on his fingers in desperate, rhythmic pulses, milking him as I sob his name over and over again.
My vision goes white, my body arching so hard my back leaves the mattress, the zip-ties the only thing keeping me from flying apart.
I’m crying—real, ugly, hot tears of relief and ruin—as the waves wash over me, leaving me limp and breathless against the sheets.
Peter doesn’t move. He stays there, his face buried between my legs, breathing in the scent of my climax. He lingers for a long, quiet minute, tasting the last of me, before he slowly pulls away.
He stands up, looking down at my shaking, bound body. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving, his own cock still straining against his zipper. He looks at the marks he’s left—the bruises, the blood, the zip-ties—and he smiles. It’s not a kind smile. It’s the smile of a man who just checked a box.
“There,” he says, his voice back to that chilling, witty calm. “Now you’re clean. And now you know.”
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small knife, and slices through the zip-ties in four quick snaps. My arms and legs fall limp, the blood rushing back into my extremities with a painful sting.
I can’t move. I don’t even want to. I just lie there in the wreckage of his bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling his brand on every inch of my soul.
“Go to sleep, Wendy,” he murmurs, turning toward the door. “I have things to take care of. And don’t bother trying the door. It’s locked from the outside.”
He pauses at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder.
“You’re not going back to the girl you were. She died in the alley. Remember that when you wake up.”
The door clicks shut, and the lock turns with a final, heavy thud.
I’m alone in the dark, smelling like him, aching for him, and knowing with a terrifying certainty that I’ll never be whole again.