11. Anna #2
Fuck me! I don’t have any collateral. I don’t have anything to offer for a new bargain. All I have is a man with the body of an Adonis lying on top of me with a knife.
And it hits me.
The idea may be enough to make me nauseated, but it’s the only course of action I can see that won’t end with someone much worse winding up at my front door.
I offer him my new proposal, and though he seems to understand it, he actually releases his grip on my mouth ever so slightly.
“Come again?”
“I’ll give you a blow job.” I all but mouth it, but he hears it all the same.
I know the suggestion sounds completely random and off-topic, but feeling him rub against me, I pray I can appeal to his primal nature rather than logic.
It’s the only thing I can think of that would force him to remove the handcuffs.
At least then I could fight back. And even if he decides not to let me go, leaving me to lay here as he teabags or some shit, I still have my teeth in the event I can’t escape before the act.
I have a feeling he’ll be far more preoccupied with his dick or balls being ripped off and the consequential blood loss rather than finishing off the girl responsible.
Because there’s no way he’s letting me out of here.
I’ve already proven to be too much of a liability, and whether he has something to threaten me with or not, anyone concerned about their own self-preservation isn’t going to take their chances on me again.
He looks more than a little taken aback by my offer, recoiling ever so slightly. “You would do that?”
He sounds more than a little skeptical, but he lowers the knife down onto the bed, and using his teeth, he pulls the glove off his free hand to cup my sex.
Even with my panties and the thin fabric of my sleep shorts, I know he can feel how wet I am.
For once, my traitorous pussy might actually do me some good, because the knowledge issues a change in his demeanor.
“I have a better idea.” He sits back on his haunches, and it takes everything in me not to try bucking him off or to start screaming now that his hand is off my mouth.
I need to appear compliant, but he makes that rather difficult when he suddenly hooks his thumbs under the band of my shorts and underwear, tugging them down.
Oh, fuck.
I have to swallow back the urge to sob, tears preemptively burning the backs of my eyes.
This was exactly what I was trying to avoid with my offer.
If these are going to be my last minutes, I don’t want to spend them in pain, being violated as he slams into me unrelentingly, hard enough to do damage.
And then what? Is he going to slam the knife down into my chest?
Or drag it across my throat and leave me to choke on my own blood?
I’m not going to be able to get out of these handcuffs, and unless my vagina has spontaneously grown teeth, I won’t be getting the chance to bite anything off.
“Do you have any preferences?” he asks oh so calmly, like this really is just a casual hookup.
What little hope I have that he’ll remove the handcuffs in order to take off my shirt is obliterated when he picks up the knife and moves to slice the cloth up in order to tear it off.
“Please,” I choke out. “Let me keep it on.”
If these really are going to be my last moments, some stupid little part of me doesn’t want to spend them knowing that he ruined my favorite sleep shirt.
It sounds stupid even in my own head, seeing as how it will likely be covered in my blood by hour’s end, but I’ve had it since high school.
And I want to cling to as much modesty as I can.
To my relief, he pulls the blade back and nods. “As you wish.”
My legs instinctively lock together the instant he tosses my shorts and underwear aside, like I can really hide myself from him.
Daring to look back up at his face, I can see it in his eyes. He’s grinning, like I’m the most adorable thing in the world. To my surprise, he gets off the bed, heading across my room to the closet. When he returns holding one of my scarves, I’m more than a little confused.
Is he going to tie each of my feet to the posts at the end of the bed?
But if that’s the case, he’d need two.
I freeze as he rounds the bed and comes to stand directly at my side.
“Lift your head,” he instructs, and every instinct has me jerking away as he drapes the fabric over my eyes, eliciting a dark laugh. “I thought this is what you’re into.”
Being blinded from seeing what some knife-wielding psycho is going to do to my body?
Why the fuck would he think that?
When I make it clear that’s not the case, he still secures this scarf, knotting it firmly behind my head to ensure there’s no chance of it slipping.
“Sorry, baby,” he purrs, “but I want to see and appreciate every glorious inch of you.”
I hear him adjust the curtain, no doubt pulling it all the way closed, before the faintest light makes its way through the material of the scarf.
He’s turned on the lamp to my nightstand, but even with the illumination, the material of the scarf is too thick to see anything more than faint, blurred outlines. It looks like he might be pulling things over his head, and as he settles back onto the mattress, I realize I’m right.
Bare hands, bare arms, and even his mouth brush my skin. I can still feel the denim of his pants against my legs, but it’s clear his shirt and mask are gone.
Does he have a condom? A small, sick part of me hopes he doesn’t. This way, if he does kill me, maybe they’ll be able to get some DNA evidence from my body.
The thought isn’t a welcomed one, but it’s impossible to ignore the presence of that knife.
I try to brace myself for the invasion, anticipating him to pry my legs apart and slam into me. Instead, his knees come to rest on the outside of my own as he straddles me.
I flinch at the sensation of his fingers brushing my abdomen and only panic further when he begins drawing up the hem of my shirt. “W-What are you doing?”
Another dark laugh. “You said I had to leave the shirt on, not that it had to stay pulled down.”
Sure enough, I feel the cotton drift over my skin as he pushes it up over my stomach and rib cage before exposing my breasts to the chilled air.
He goes alarmingly still over me, and my imagination conjures up too many horrific scenarios.
I watch far too many true-crime shows, recalling one particular case where the rapist-slash-murderer used a knife to quite literally cut off his victim’s breast. Is he going to do the same?
Or is he going to use it elsewhere? Every cell in my body locks up at the phantom sensation that hits my core, imagining him inserting his knife inside of me like the world’s most horrific dildo.
I whimper the instant something touches my skin, but it’s not the cold steel of a knife. He palms my breasts, his rough calluses scraping over my nipples as he squeezes.
Hot air licks my skin before something else does.
His mouth comes down on my nipple, his tongue and teeth working the bud until it’s so hard that it’s almost painful from how sensitive it is. He laps his tongue around it, only working it more before suckling on it.
Oh, God.
I shouldn’t like this. And I don’t. Mentally, I’m screaming bloody murder. But my body…
The traitorous bitch arches into his touch as he moves to give the other breast the same attention.
Or should I say affection? Because that’s what he’s doing, practically worshiping my tits like he’s never seen any pair before.
He keeps murmuring about how “fucking gorgeous” they are, and to my shame, heat rushes below my waist, my slickness impossible to hide as it slides down my skin and onto the bed.
Another whimper escapes me, and it has nothing to do with being scared.
I’m still horrified, but I can’t get my body to agree.
It continues pressing and arching its way into his touch, and my hips rock involuntarily, searching for something— anything —to grind my clit against. There’s no way he misses it either.
He goes still again, his hot breath dancing over my nipple. “You want me, baby?”
I can’t bring myself to say anything, but he also doesn’t wait for a response.
Even with my legs clamped shut, he’s still able to slide his fingers up the length of my folds. “Fucking hell,” he growls, no doubt feeling just how wet I am.
I expect to hear the zipper of his jeans, to hear the foil of a condom wrapper, but I get neither.
He begins working his way down my body, his hands tracing over the curve of my hips as his mouth plants kisses and licks down my torso.
The warmth of his breath and skin elicits goosebumps to spread all across my body, and whether I want to admit to it or not, I know it’s not a response to my fear.
Every inch of me invites the connection as badly as a starved man welcomes food and water, in spite of what I try to tell myself.
“Please.” That single syllable is all I can manage, coming out breathless and caught in a whimper. I’m not even sure what I’m trying to ask. For him to stop? For him to cut to the chase and go where I’m throbbing?
My hips roll in response to his fingers brushing my folds, desperate to increase the pressure, answering my question for me.
I should be embarrassed, and I am, but some baser part of me is the only thing that responds to his touch.
I should be writhing away. I should be kicking and twisting and flailing, consequences be damned.
But I don’t do any of those things, and it’s no longer out of self-preservation.
If it was, I would simply be lying here, compliant.
Instead, tiny sounds keep slipping from my throat that he can’t mistake them for anything but what they are.
Moans. Metal scrapes above my head from the handcuffs, my fingers curling, but there’s no anger accompanying it.
Any rationality has fled the scene, leaving me desperate to fist his hair and direct his mouth to where I need it.