Chapter 6
Izzy
“Don’t move.” His voice is quiet, but it cuts through my panic, centers me despite my sobbing and the searing pain. He withdraws his cock, rams it back in. “Don’t move while I fuck you or it will saw through your hand.”
He’s holding my hand so I cannot budge it. The agony lessens, surges, pulses with my heartbeat.
“Don’t move, and you’ll be fine. I drove it between the bones.”
Drove. “It hurts.” I bite my lip, inhale sharply as fresh pain peaks.
“Of course it does, that’s why I stuck the knife in you, so you’d squeal and make sounds. To impress Montez. Make more of those sounds. I want to hear those.” He kisses my hair, and the rhythm of his fucking gets faster.
He wants me to cry out? To act? He smacks himself into my rear. The table moves. The knife handle quivers. Tears dribble down my face. “I can’t just do them.” I tense and whimper.
“That one was perfect.” He bangs in, grinds on me, does it again. My attention shifts from the knife to what he is doing to my insides. God. The shocks echo through my flesh.
One end of me is being screwed, while the other end, my hand, has that obscene piece of steel jutting from it. Yet, my gasps become louder, no longer merely from the hurt. Lust creeps in to whisper filthy things. I shudder. I’m mewling like a caught animal.
And they’re watching.
I’m being fucked in front of my enemies with a knife in me. It’s not normal. It’s not nice.
My body doesn’t give a fuck. Its betrayal chokes me, rides my mind, and makes me experience all the bad things in pornographic 3D. I’m his toy being used. And it is magnificent.
This evil seesaw whips me back and forth, from the knife’s blood and pain to the pleasure of the sex.
Sex wins, hands down.
My mouth opens wider. I’m panting. I part my thighs, needing more of what he is giving. His seed, his come, his cock.
The rhythmic in and out shunt, the spearing thrusts, the fullness as he ruts in me.
Lust rises, rises, a relentless, lewd tide. I squash shut my eyes.
The little table is rocked to the point of collapse, and it shrieks across the floor when the legs shift. Montez begins to clap in time to the thrusts.
“I like that! Love it! Andre, go fuck her mouth.”
Groaning, room vanishing, reappearing, with my eyelids fluttering up and down, I watch a man approach and stop. “I can’t, sir.” He points. “Her mouth…”
“Eh. Fine. Next time don’t nail her so her head is so far from the table edge, Noah.”
“I won’t.” He pauses in me to adjust his fingers in my hair and on my wrists.
I’m stuck there, levered half off the table, fully aware of how nasty their voyeurism is.
But I’m sweaty and panting, and no matter my horror at this public display, my pussy spasms, grabbing onto his cock.
He says, quietly, so only I can hear, “Look at those dirty fuckers, watching you getting your cunt destroyed.” Dead Guy lowers his head, bites the side of my neck until I’m sure he will be chewing off a piece of me. My whine satisfies him. He licks the stinging bite then twists me so I must look at him. “Interesting, how a woman can enjoy this, no?”
His irises are a pretty gray, for such an evil man.
I close my eyes, open them, spit out a word, “Bastard.”
“My middle name.” He withdraws, slams in, lifting me off my toes. My cry makes him smile.
“I want a list of what you intend to do, Mister Smith! Cut off a finger maybe, daily? Things like that.” Montez has stood, and he unzips, begins to stroke himself.
“It shall be done,” he tells me this, intimately close, then kisses my mouth, bites my lip, my chin, my jawline. “I want to eat you, piece by piece.”
At the next brutal thrust, I shift my head so I’m looking at the entry, instead of the watchers. He turns me back to face Montez, his words a growl as he plows me, “You let them see you as I fuck you. Or else.”
I’ve no idea what the ‘or else’ is but the knife is in my view, sticking up straight from the back of my hand. Blood stains my skin, runs and spills to the table. Shamefully, this mirrors what has happened below. The wet noises as he impales me grow louder, more obvious.
He shoves the side of my face to the table. I squeal as his weight hits me, hard, as he slaps into my ass, rams into me.
The room moves, sways, as we fuck.
But lust is king. Lust is queen, king, and conqueror.
I won’t come. I won’t.
I vow this, even though he’s halted, reaching beneath me to find my clit, to slowly press and circle it. Pressing, pressing, fucking me slower as he does so. I resist then I collapse to the table, my hands twitching despite the pain evoked, my thighs tensing. I’m groaning and cannot stop.
I’m shaking, I’m spreading myself, I’m begging even, in a small pitiful voice.
I’m bleeding, I’m hurt, and yet I’m going to come. Shamefully, I know this.
“Blood and a crying woman who opens her legs.” Dead Guy says hoarsely. He’s grunting now, speeding up. “Perfect.”
I try to rise. He shoves, palm to my back. He fists my hair again. He yanks me off the table, rips down the front of my dress then scoops both breasts from my bra. “Stay where I fucking put you.” My hands are no longer pinned. The knife will slide. Then he comes to my rescue and traps my left wrist.
He rams in, battering me. I can’t stop him. I no longer want to.
My resistance falters and fails, and I’m swimming, drowning deep, in the darkest, filthiest, most shocking desires.
He swears, and I feel the warm ejection of his come, the degrading, yet head-spinning pleasure of this man’s release. I’m stretched upward, am made to arch, being shown off to the others as he finishes. My dress is ripped even lower while he pulls out and lets his come spill. It wets and runs down my thighs.
When at last I’m lowered, my butt is smacked. “Stay there.” I’m left belly-down, on the table. Panting, I see the knife, hazily.
Montez is laughing, talking, but its background noise.
“Stay there,” Dead Guy rasps out. “Let them see you. Spread your legs more. Outstanding. Don’t move.”
He zips up. My hand seems to have swelled and feels enormous, though my eyes say it’s a lie.
“I should carve my name in you.” With one finger he pretends to write something on my ass cheek.
In. ‘In’ sounds bad. As does carve.
“Adelmo’s whore,” he says quietly.
A name? Could that be his real name? I start to twist to see him, and he sticks a finger into my asshole, thrusts in as far as he can go. I wince, which makes my left hand shift. I yelp.
“You moved. Should I put the knife in here?” His finger rotates, probes.
“No,” I plead, and take care to only look at my bloodied hand. “Please?”
“Not even the hilt? You didn’t come?”
“No!”
“Good.”
Some men draw closer, and one is Montez. I stay prone, being sensible for once. Whatever he says or does, I vow to not flinch.
“Keep her there.” The sounds of a cock being slickly wanked warn me, and I grimace as his come spurts onto my head and my back. “Next time, we do her face, and you cut her more. Carmilla wants more screaming too.”
The knife is yanked free, and I scream but someone holds me down. I violated his rule not to move, but I’m too overcome to care. Fresh blood spurts. Kicking, wriggling, I try to grab my left wrist but am pinned again, writhing. Montez is laughing.
“That was funny.”
Another says, “For the trip to the boat, to keep her quiet.” Through tears I see Adelmo step away. A needle sinks into my ass. I bite my lip, tears dripping to the table, and I say nothing.
Either they kill me, or I survive. One or the other, I can only pray our deal isn’t a lie. I offered my body but does that really mean anything to him?
“Get her some antibiotics if you want her to last long enough.”
Long enough…?
My hands are being bound even as the drug takes effect, and I’m slung over someone’s shoulder. I watch the floor sway and slowly dissolve into pretty, floating splotches.