Chapter 4
Nash
“Nice and slow. I want him to enjoy it.”
The sound of Pirro’s voice has always gotten on my nerves, but the irritation I felt losing money to him playing poker is nothing compared to the way I hate the sound of it now.
I’m torn between fighting and acting as bravely as I can manage. I doubt kicking and screaming would change the trajectory of what happens next, any more than being quiet would. I know for my own sake, I need to face this with as much dignity as I can manage.
I wince, my body controlling my reaction to the cold cloth pressed to my shoulder blade. I don’t know why I expected warmth when Pirro instructed the woman to clean me.
I also don’t want to evaluate why I’m a little calmer, knowing they are feminine hands touching me rather than those of a man.
It doesn’t stop my skin from crawling, knowing that I’m being touched without my permission.
Although this doesn’t feel like any type of sexual assault yet, I’ve never given up power in the bedroom or elsewhere.
I hate the complacency I’m attempting. It’s not like I think Pirro will commend me for behaving in a certain way and release me.
I’m also not foolish enough to give them any reason to end me before I have the chance to fight back.
I refuse to imagine it all ending for me this way, that I’ll die before I get to claim a pound of his flesh.
My back molars make an awful noise, grinding together as the cold rag runs down the length of one arm.
I don’t think my body will ever have the chance to get used to what’s happening to it.
It’s nothing like submerging your entire body in cold water.
There’s no possibility of acclimation as she moves from one area to the next.
She sewed up some wounds and was instructed to leave others open.
There’s a very real chance with how deep Pirro has cut me, in the many hours since he took me from that parking lot, that I’ll die from infection before he’s tired of hurting me.
Unless there are ice cubes in the water she’s using, then I also have a fever.
It feels much colder on my skin than just regular water would.
“Ignoring it won’t keep it from happening,” Pirro says, and a second later, I jerk at the sensation of her lifting my flaccid cock.
I growl into the cloth shoved in my mouth, wishing they would’ve just tied something around my head like they always do in the movies.
Being abducted in real life looks nothing like I’ve seen on television.
A wad of fabric is shoved so far in my mouth, I periodically wonder how quickly I’d suffocate if they held my nose.
The sounds I’m capable of would be easy to decipher if anyone in the room gave a shit about my opinion on the matter.
I do my best to move away, but the chains keeping me suspended don’t leave much room for movement. I feel like I’ve been hanging here for days, my shoulder screaming in pain from the times I’ve passed out.
“After it’s clean, suck it,” Pirro says. I fight even harder, wondering how quickly they’d kill me if I kick this woman in the fucking face.
She isn’t crying. I don’t hear a whimper of disagreement, despite the growly way he commands what she’s doing.
It leaves me confused. I’d expect her to beg, to bargain her way out of doing what’s being asked of her.
The confusion leaves me still for the briefest of moments, but then my cock is engulfed in warmth.
I want to fight against it and let it settle inside of me at the same time.
I hate my fucking body for the way it responds, my cock thickening and lengthening.
It doesn’t give much credit to the male species with how easily arousal happens.
If I weren’t sliced to pieces, if Pirro hadn’t cut into me over and over, I might be stronger.
I might be able to push her away when my tormentor chuckles at my reaction.
I don’t want to give him what he wants. I want to fight him every step of the way, but at the same time, I know I’d be a fool not to take what may be the last ounce of pleasure I’ll feel before I die.
Knowing right from wrong and doing right instead of wrong are two very different things.
I kick at her, wanting to sob like a fucking baby at the way the muscles in my shoulders seem to tear when I add the full weight of my body to them.
I continue to growl into my gag despite the effort being fruitless.
I don’t know when I give in to it. I can’t even recall if I reasoned with myself to settle down, that fighting now when my only choice is losing is incredibly stupid.
Maybe it was her skill, the way she took me to the back of her throat.
Maybe it was the low hum I could feel vibrate up her chest until it settled inside of me like a gift.
Maybe it was having at least one part of my body that doesn’t hurt.
Maybe it was the warmth of her mouth or the slight tremble in her hands when she wrapped them behind my thighs.
All I know is a calmness washes over me, and I let my head loll to the side on my shoulders.
It doesn’t take long, that urgency racing through my muscles that tells me I’m going to come.
I fight against it, having no clue what happens after, but at the same time wanting this to last forever.
Eeriness seeps inside of me that this will be the very last ounce of pleasure I’ll feel before I die.
It doesn’t keep the orgasm at bay, and before too long, my cock is falling, spent, from her lips.
“How’s he taste?” Pirro asks, making me jerk at the realization I’m still tied, still gagged, still the victim.
“Delicious,” she whispers, an edge to her voice that I immediately fucking hate.
This woman is no better than the man who sliced at my fucking skin. She’s hurting me in a very different way, but it doesn’t make the abuse any less real. I’ve witnessed it before, women who are just as cruel and evil as their male counterparts.
I vow to end her the same way I’ll end Pirro—slowly and without hesitation.
“Stick around,” Pirro says, an ominous tone to his voice. “You’ll need to sew him back up after I’m done with him.”