Chapter 19
“Get on your knees.”
I shiver at my master’s voice. If there’s one thing tonight has taught me, it’s that I don’t want to be without this voice soothing my soul.
Because every time I’ve heard it since I’ve been captured, it’s been a balm to my fear.
Even if there’s command in the intonation, I know that nothing will be done to hurt me.
Not emotionally. Physically, maybe, but that’s what I want. That’s how I know I’m going to feel.
Shifting slowly as my muscles protest, I face the wall and get onto my knees, my feet still parted by the bar that locks my ankles in place.
My hands are raised on the wall, still held by the rope tied around them as I’m half-suspended upward.
I bite my lower lip, my palms digging into the cinderblock, scratching at my skin.
I don’t even bother to adjust them or to brush them off.
I know this is going to hurt. I want it to.
Leather-clad fingers slide down my shoulder and my spine, across the curve of my ass. They push my hips down so I’m in more of a squat on my knees rather than straining upward. Then the hand moves back up my spine and into my hair, tugging sharply so that my neck strains backward.
“Scream if you want to,” my master says.
“Would you like it if I did?” I fire back, knowing that I shouldn’t be asking questions. I need to know what they get out of this. I’ve finally figured out what I do, but is it the same for my master? Or is it different entirely? Surely, they have to find some pleasure in this.
The laugh is sharp and quick, just like the slap against my ass.
I gasp, pushing forward as the blow hits me.
My nipples pull into peaks, tightening. I didn’t think it would be possible to cum again tonight, but maybe I was wrong.
Maybe I’m the dirty little slut that my master claims I am, and maybe I’m perfectly fine with that.
Pushing backward to show my master that I want more, that I’m ready for more, I hold my body still. And I just wait—wait for pressure, for pleasure, for pain, for whatever my master is willing to do to me and more.
Their grip in my hair tightens as they shift.
Their legs move between mine, pushing my knees apart just like my feet already are.
The pull of the zipper is loud, and the rustle of leather squeaks.
The grip on my scalp tightens even more.
I push backward with my hips, waiting with every ounce of anticipation that I have because I know what’s coming.
And it’s exactly what I want.
“Scream, bitch,” they demand before they slam their cock into me.
I cry out, my eyes clenching shut and my face pressing into the cinderblock.
My master pushes my cheek into the wall, my ears ringing from the force of the pressure.
The rhythm they start is brutal. Pounding their hips against my ass without stopping, without breaking the pattern.
I hold my breath and try to catch it all at the same time before I realize what I’m doing.
Their hand that’s free moves to my breast and squeezes hard, tugging at my nipple to the point that it feels like they’ll rip it off if they pull any harder.
My breath is hot, coming back to me as it hits the wall and then rebounds into my face.
I grunt. I whimper. I push back against my master, trying to find just an inch of space to make everything perfect and better than before, but it doesn’t work.
I should know better at this point.
I should trust that my master understands what they’re doing to me—no, for me.
Putting my lips together and pushing them out, I breathe slowly and just focus.
The way their cock hits inside me, the way it pushes into me and right against me is perfection.
They slide out of me and right back in like we’re meant to be together, like we were made for each other.
The tug of my nipple doesn’t hurt so much as it adds pain to the pleasure, entwining the two together in a tightly woven band that’s being pulled tighter every second.
Then their hand is against the center of my back, between my shoulders, shoving my chest into the cinderblock.
My sensitive nipples rub against the rough surface, and that very nearly breaks me.
My cheek is hot, my skin sweaty. The pounding continues.
My entire body rams into the wall before I push back into my master, longing to continue to feel them filling me so blissfully.
Their leather-clad fingers cover my cunt, sliding across my clit harshly, back and forth a few times before taking on a brutal pace.
It must be their entire hand. I stop feeling the seams of the leather and just feel heat.
Blessed and pure heat as it builds and grows and gets stronger.
I hold my breath, not sure whether to scream or cry and moan or bite my lip until I taste blood.
My head roars with white noise, my body rocking hard into the wall until I’m smooshed into it so much that it’s impossible for me to escape. But I never want to. Here, right where I’m being brutalized and fucked senselessly, is exactly where I want to be, right at the fingertips of my master.
I scream, my voice echoing in the room and coming back to me as if it’s someone else screaming right next to me.
My voice cracks. I breathe. I scream again, my entire body trembling as my orgasm rips through me.
It takes every ounce of energy I have to stay with it, to keep my brain and body working in sync so I know what’s happening, because I don’t want to black out again. I don’t want to forget this. Ever.
They jerk and still.
My master sighs and groans, their voice gravelly even through the technology that keeps changing it. “You’re mine, slut. Don’t forget that.”