Chapter 10 Silas—or is it? #2
She snatches it out of my hand without a single word and with simpering aggression in the grasp of her fingers.
It is a generous pour, but she tosses it back in one go.
I take the glass from her, refill it and place it on her back.
But not before tracing my fingers around the deep cut of the teddy she’s wearing, her skin warm and soft underneath my touch. She shivers and lets out a moan.
With a chuckle that’s really more of a moan of my own, I run my now-empty hand down her lower back.
She whimpers as I brush my knuckles tenderly over the marks I left on her, and she groans when I worm my hand underneath the thin, soaked scrap of fabric that is all that’s concealing her pussy from me.
“Would you fucking get on with it already?” The hostile hiss melts on her tongue as I push two fingers inside her and stroke and tease her, putting circular pressure on her front wall, so hot and elastic, yielding to my touch only to tighten again.
There’s a perilous twinge deep inside my belly, and my balls tighten ominously, and I stop, retracting my fingers fast before I come in my pants just from the feeling of her squeezing me like she never wants to let go.
“My dark darling,” I drone, patting her arse with little regard for its injuries. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Crawling around in circles and being whipped into obedience is turning you on, isn’t it, you depraved little freak?”
“Oh, do fuck off,” she scoffs, but her voice is hoarse and full of lust. “Are we going to be here the whole fucking night?” Her apprehension is not lost on me; it is evident in her body’s tension.
My reaction to it sends me into a freefall, the sensation like missing a step while running down a staircase. I’m flat and hollow; the first signs of her slowly approaching her breaking point are bringing me none of the anticipated thrill.
“Go.”
Roxie starts crawling again, her jaw clenched in determination.
Left hand, right knee, right hand, left knee, she moves with the precision of a ballet dancer, graceful despite her animalistic position.
I walk with her, just slightly behind her, nearly slipping on the first puddle of whiskey because I’m not watching where I’m going.
How could I with her bare thighs rubbing against each other slowly and with the curve of her arse sharpening and then softening rhythmically like that?
As we reach the corner of the sofa, I start touching it with the cane. With just the tip at first, one cheek and then the other, before laying it flat across the width of Roxana’s hips.
She lets out a low noise, full of frustrated anticipation.
I whip her gently, and then hard, and then gently again, before settling into a rhythm of sharp, continuous swats, accompanied by the air’s vibrations and her strangled, ongoing yelp. Blood is blooming underneath the surface of her skin.
“Faster! Faster! Faster!” I keep urging her without mercy.
She learnt from her mistakes because this time she’s not letting me pressure her into hurrying, and keeps her pace steady and balanced, even as I ramp up the intensity of the strikes to the point that makes my present self gasp once again in horror, my students’ essays lying forgotten.
She rounds the sofa and safely crosses the shorter end of the living room. Passing the next corner, she stops, breathing hard.
“Fuck me, it hurts,” she whines, her voice shaky.
I can see that her arms are trembling a little.
“Do you want to give up?” I ask, my tone coldly victorious.
She looks up at me with watering eyes, and her lower lip quivers.
“No.” She shakes her head.
“Then what are you waiting for? Carry on!”
Back in my office, I nearly want to yell “no!” when my doppelganger whips her again without holding back.
“Damn it!” She hangs her head, breathing hard.
The thing to know about Roxana is that she only swears until it gets serious. But once she is actually struggling, she stops. In fact, in those situations, she ceases talking altogether, as she does just then, carrying on in complete silence, her palms and knees hitting the floor with faint thuds.
I find it strange that, unlike me, she is acting exactly the way she would in reality. In dreams, usually either no one makes sense, or everyone does, but it’s rarely a combination of the two.
As she nears the fireplace, the flames’ warm light shrouds her trim body in its glow, and my breath hitches and my balls tighten, and I am too distracted to torment her anymore bar a few light swats.
And even those earn me whimpers, and every little sound she makes sends an electric jolt down my spine as I imagine her making sounds none too different in reaction to me pumping into her, driving her to one orgasm after another, her tight, wet pussy squeezing my dick and milking every drop of cum from it.
Having passed the fireplace, Roxana is nearing the finish line, the bar cabinet well in sight.
And yet she doesn’t pick up her tempo, keeping her every motion precise and controlled.
My heart beats faster, blood roaring through my ears.
She only has a yard or so to go when I lengthen my step to gain on her just enough to be able to align the cane vertically with the alluring cleft between her upper thighs.
Expecting the rush of an impending victory, I rap her pussy like I mean to slice through it.
She shrieks and bolts forward, and the glass tumbles off her back so fast that some of the honey-coloured liquid spills onto her back and seeps into the fabric of her teddy.
“No!” She shakes her head and then hangs it so low that her hair sweeps the floor.
I suspect she’s crying from the way her shoulders are heaving.
My triumph over her rings entirely hollow, bringing me none of the usual satisfaction of driving a mortal—huh?
?—over the edge of bearable. Not only are my balls sore with need and my dick refusing to see her defeat as anything but his own loss, but there is a foreign, unsettling sensation deep inside at the sight of her humiliation. Like an ache, tearing at something raw.
“Have one more go at it.” For once, I am as surprised by what I say as my doppelganger is, if for completely different reasons.
But Roxie shakes her head in refusal.
“No. I don’t want to,” she admits in a small voice. “You’ll just keep making it so that I fail. Do what you will to me.”
She straightens up until she sits on the balls of her heels gingerly, but still she doesn’t look at me, keeping her sight lowered.
My first impulse is to growl at her that it’s her punishment and that she doesn’t get to decide when it stops.
But I don’t. Because ... I’m not enjoying this. I don’t like seeing her defeated.
I let her get up to her feet instead before weaving my fingers through her hair. I twist my fist around it and pull at it so that she is forced to look at me with tear trails glistening on her cheeks and with bitterness resting in the taunt corners of her mouth.
“Let me go,” she says. “Whatever point you wanted to make, you made it. If I have to choose between getting branded or getting branded and having my pussy whipped with a fucking cane, then I might as well just get branded and save myself the extra pain.”
Holding her in place, I reach down between her legs and touch her nimbly, only to discover that even now she’s leaking all over my hand. Something swells inside me and then roars through my ears.
“Let me kiss it better,” I suggest to her without thinking.
Her eyes widen, but I give her no time to consider.
I toss the cane aside, untangle my fingers from her hair, and drop to my knees, sliding my hands around her waist, all the way to her hips.
She winces and hisses as I grab her arse, squeezing her tender flesh.
But I have no attention to spare for that, no attention for anything but the scent of her flooding my nostrils.
I let out a tortured groan. But before I can so much as rip the black lace off her and drown in the silken heat of her body, she grabs my hair and tugs at it sharply, pulling me away from the glistening temptation in front of me.
“No,” she says firmly, aggressively, but with a noticeable fearful undercurrent to the flow of her words. “No. You won. You were always going to win. If you’re going to hurt me, do it now.”
Her eyes are two shining coals in the semi-darkness. Liquid desire pools inside of me at the sight of her face that has little to do with the urgent tightening of my balls.
“I said I wanted to brand you. Not that I wanted to hurt you,” I point out, once again shocking myself in both timelines and realities, if for exactly the opposite reasons.
“And I was never going to do it now. I have something much more special in mind.” I trace my hands alongside the swell of her hips.
“Let’s call it a draw. Soon I’ll get to brand you.
But tonight, I’m at your service.” Closing my fingers around her waist, I pull her closer and then let go, making her sway on her feet.
“What’s it going to be? Do you want to spend the night bouncing on my cock?
Sit on my face and drown me in your cunt?
Have me reach inside you with my fingertips and rub that favourite spot of yours for hours and hours? ”
She looks like she wants to refuse even that offer. But I know exactly what to say to her to convince her, what peace offering to lay at her feet.
“Your choice,” I emphasise before delivering my coup de grace. “Tell Daddy how you want him to take care of you.”
Her face changes, like something catches aflame inside it.
“Did you say my choice, Daddy?” she repeats, gloating.
Still holding me firmly by the hair, she inches her hips closer to my face, and then she rubs her clit against my lips. Briefly. Too briefly.
A primal sort of sound claws its way up my throat, but she’s already gone.
“Yes. Your choice,” I confirm, gritting my teeth.
All the while, I want nothing more than to tear myself out of her feeble hold, tackle her to the ground, close my hand around her throat, push her thighs out of the way, and rub her back raw the way I want to rut into her.
As the images of her bulging eyes and soundless scream flicker through my mind, a fantasy inside a fantasy, I feel nauseated back in my office and rest my brow against that student’s ruined essay.
When I raise my head again, there is a large sweat stain smearing my red pen marks all over the paper.
“Fine. I want your cock. But not in my cunt.” Roxana’s voice is so clear and acute, so immediate, that it pulls me out of the present and back into the memory of my nightmare.
She raises her eyebrows with a sardonic half-smile, waiting for me to grasp her meaning.
“What do you ... oh!”
Her smile widens as she observes my dawning comprehension.
The real me has never really been a fan of all that, and it’s been a long time since I last yielded to Roxana’s very vocal demands to—using her words—fuck her in the arse.
But this other me, oh, he’s buzzing with how much he cannot wait to sink inside the vice grip of that tight, tight shaft, filthier and more intimate than the wet cavern of her pussy.
“Please tell me you didn’t throw out my lube as well as my vibrator?
” Accusation and humour mix in her voice, but I only register that in retrospect, because in that moment, I’m consumed by the intensity of my hunger for her, primal and violent, the kind that cannot be suppressed, the kind that cannot be denied.
And I see red, boiling blood bursting out of every vein in my pawn’s pitiful, feeble body, so ill-fit to contain me and the power of my dark desires.
“No.” I shake my head vigorously, ignoring the yank of her fingers on my hair. “I did not throw that out.”
I straighten up, forcing her to release me.
“I’ll go upstairs to get it. You, take this off or I’ll rip it off you.” I pull at the strap of her teddy.
“Hey, no more ripping,” she protests. “It unhooks, at the bottom, see ...”
She reaches between her legs, unfastening the small hooks at the garment’s seat. They come apart, and she lifts the now loose front flap to demonstrate that there are no more obstacles in my way. Her clit is deep pink and swollen and coated in the generous slickness of her arousal.
I want to speak, but words fail me, and nothing but a guttural growl rolls off my lips.
Roxana grins, victorious, pleased by the effect she has on me.
But her smile evaporates and is replaced by shock when I lunge at her.
Fingers closing roughly around her soft flesh, I tear her from the spot and half-drag and half-carry her to the sofa.
I force her to bend over its arm, guiding her firmly by my brutal hold on the nape of her neck, no doubt pulling painfully on the strands of her hair trapped underneath my palm.
But she doesn’t protest my violence. She wiggles her hips higher, standing on her toes, and she spreads her legs apart in invitation, wide enough for me to see not only her weeping pussy, but also the shy, vulnerable ring of her other entrance.
“Stay,” I choke out before marching away from her.