Not me.
Soft rustling sounds came from behind me. I felt his soft breath on my lower back, and I knew he was crouching down behind me. Something hard and cool prodded my entrance—and pushed inside. He hadn’t used lube. It was my body’s own preparation, creaming myself in anticipation of him. A defense mechanism, I told myself, but the excuse felt thin. Whatever object he’d put inside me, it stretched me to full capacity.
Cocks would have felt hard in my hands and in my cunt. But they weren’t really, were they? They were flesh and blood and muscle. The thing he’d put inside me—that was hard. Made of something with no give at all. Maybe glass. I felt stretched and daunted. Take it. With a single thrust, he shoved the dildo all the way inside, and I gasped, feeling its curved tip bottom out at my cervix. My mouth was open around the ball gag, panting against the intrusion. Too full. Too much.
But this wasn’t about what I wanted, was it? This was punishment. Except when his fingers found my clit from beneath me, when they circled and teased and drew a stuttering orgasm from me, it didn’t feel like a punishment at all. The walls of my cunt clenched around the glass dildo and rained down hot liquid.
The dildo pressed against the forward wall, finding my clit from the other side, making me come even harder. I felt something wet gush out of me, and I worried briefly, his hand, getting him wet, before I realized how crazy it was to be worried what he thought. He’d made me do this. It was all for him anyway. So I let myself go, riding the waves of my orgasm, one after the other until I could only rock on the choppy seas, eyes closed against a blinding sunset.
He unlatched the gag and removed it. Gently, he wiped the drool from my face.
“Why are you doing this?” My words came slurred. I sounded drunk, and felt that way too, but this was important. I only had this time, right after he’d hurt me, to ask him questions. It was the eye of the storm.
“Because I can,” he said simply. “I don’t need another reason.”
It wasn’t the answer I was looking for, and he knew that. I didn’t feel he was evading me either. That was the logic he used to justify it, but deeper still, in the places where logic didn’t reign, where instinct did, he wanted this. My subjugation. My fear. Elemental, the way another man wanted to kiss or feel a woman up. Just instinct.
“Will you ever let me go?” I asked. He’d already told me. I knew the answer. But I had to find out. Had to hear it again.
“Eventually.” His voice was faintly regretful. “If it makes you feel any better, it was decided before I took you. You never stood a chance.”
“Why would that make me feel better?”
He ran his thumb over my lips. “Because someone finally wanted you. Not just because you were pretty and convenient. Someone was willing to hurt you. To take that risk. My little orphan with no one to abuse her. To understand her. But I do. You’re just as crazy as me, love. And we’re going to be happy together for a long fucking time.”
I shivered. How could he know that about me? Why would he care? I’d kept my horrible desires hidden from everyone. Even myself. Never admitting, even to myself, that I wanted someone to hit me, stalk me, rape me. I’d never secretly wished the sweet guy I was dating would turn into a raving psycho behind closed doors and make me do things I didn’t want. That was crazy.
You’re just as crazy as me, love. A sob escaped me, just one. Because he was right. Normal people didn’t think like that. Most people avoided becoming a victim. This was why I’d become an agent: to protect them. And to put myself in harm’s way. Firemen weren’t called crazy for running into fires. Maybe they secretly wanted to burn.
*
Something was different.
For the past three days he had come at every mealtime. He would help me wobble to the bathroom. He would feed me some time-specific meal, so I could get my bearings. Scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast. A hearty stew for lunch. Gnocchi and marinara sauce for dinner with a warm garlic bread that tasted homemade. There was always music for our meals and our sessions. He varied the selection, but he was a fan of La Bohème, that much was clear. Really, if it weren’t for the chains and the whips, he’d have been a very good host.
But he hadn’t come for a while now. Without the meals to tick away the hours, I couldn’t tell how long it had been. But I was hungry. And I had to pee.
And pain screamed through my arms at being held in one place for so long.
Fear was a constant presence in my mouth, harsh and metallic. I was worried about nerve damage at this point, and that was unlike him. So far he’d been careful with me. Cuts and bruises, but no broken bones. Nothing permanent.