I keep my lips tightly sealed even as my heart rate jumps into the anaerobic zone. It’s stupid to fight a blowjob when we’ve f*cked dozens of times, but I can’t help feeling that by doing this, I’d be giving in even more… losing the last bit of me that still belongs to George. Not the alcoholic or the spy who lied to me, but the man I fell in love with back in college, the one who was my first everything.
Peter’s face tightens, his eyes narrowing as he growls, “You want to do it the hard way? Fine.” With his free hand, he pinches my nostrils closed, cutting off my air, and when I open my mouth to drag in a breath, he shoves his cock in, all the way to the back of my throat.
I choke, my eyes watering as my gag reflex kicks in, but he’s merciless as he starts thrusting, f*cking my mouth with a hard, relentless rhythm. I don’t even have a chance to bite; with his fingers pinching my nostrils, all I’m focused on is getting enough air and trying not to gag. Panicking, I instinctively yank at my bonds, my eyes scrunching shut as saliva drips down my chin, but his thick length pistons in and out, and there’s nothing I can do, no place I can escape to.
I don’t know how long he ruthlessly uses my mouth, but I can feel myself getting dizzy, the lack of air combining with my exhaustion, and a dream-like lethargy sweeps over me. I’ve never felt so helpless, so utterly in my tormentor’s power, and as Peter continues f*cking my mouth, I do the only thing I can.
I stop fighting and give in to him.
The punishing thrusts don’t stop and he doesn’t release my nose, but my panic eases as my body goes soft and pliant in his grasp. I’m a rag doll, a toy to be taken and played with, and there’s peace in that, a twisted kind of acceptance. My throat relaxes, letting him in, and the gag reflex subsides as I embrace his rhythm. Each time he withdraws, I gulp in a breath, and the air sustains me as he pushes in deep, filling my throat, controlling me so completely my very life is in his hands.
“Yes, that’s it. That’s so good… Just like that, my love…” His lust-soaked groan vibrates through me, and I open my lids a sliver, squinting up at him with watering eyes. Savage ecstasy is contorting his features, the tendons standing out in his muscled neck, and as his gaze meets mine, I feel something inside me shifting, changing in some fundamental way.
I’m yours, my body tells him, accepting all he has to give. It’s a complete surrender of myself, yet it feels right, feels comforting and peaceful. In this moment, I want to belong to him, to stay cocooned in his enormous strength.
To give up and let him keep me.
All fear fades, all thoughts about the future disappearing. I feel like I’m floating, like I’m above and beyond myself. If there’s still discomfort, I don’t feel it, yet my senses are heightened, my sex wet and thrumming with arousal. It’s oxygen deprivation, my medical training tells me, but the reason doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters but Peter and his pleasure.
I hold his gaze as the climax takes him, maintaining the connection as his seed spurts into my throat. Eyes streaming, I swallow every salty drop, and it’s only when his fingers release my hair that the strange high fades and reality kicks back in.
Shaking, I collapse onto my side, feeling like I’m crumbling into pieces as he frees my hands from the tie. My eyes are wet, but I’m no longer crying. I can’t. The plunge into despair is too sudden, too frightening and deep. And underneath it all is sick arousal, a hunger that burns in my core.
“It’s okay, my love,” he murmurs, gathering me into his embrace, and my shaking intensifies as his hand slips between my thighs, two rough fingers thrusting into me as his thumb presses on my clit. “You’re going to be fine. This is normal. Let me take care of you, ptichka, and you’ll be okay.”
But I won’t be. I know it, and he knows it too.
It takes mere seconds for me to come, to convulse in his arms with shattering pleasure. And as he holds me, stroking my hair, I know that this is it.
The cage he promised me is here.
Part II
21
Sara
* * *
The first two weeks are the toughest. I cry almost every day, my anger and despair so intense I want to yell and throw things. But I don’t. Instead, I walk around Peter on eggshells, determined to avoid further punishment—and to make sure my captor lets me keep in contact with my parents.
I still don’t understand what happened that night, how that blowjob broke me so completely. Sex with Peter has always had an element of darkness, but I thought that I could handle it, that I was used to the rollercoaster of fear, shame, and need. But that night was something different, something more perverse… something that cracked me open and twisted me up inside.
That night, I danced with Peter’s inner monster, and in the process, discovered one in me.
He hasn’t touched me like that since, though each time we have sex, I sense the desire in him, the need to dominate and torment. It’s there no matter what he does, no matter how tenderly he treats me. It’s part of him, this darkness, this urge to punish and avenge. He might fight it, but it’s there—because regardless of what Peter says, the past does influence our present.
He’ll never forget my husband’s role in the massacre of his family, and I’ll never get past what he did to George.
The good news is that we’re back to using condoms. I don’t know if Peter saw the wisdom in avoiding extra complications at this stage of our f*cked-up relationship, or if he’s actually respecting my wishes, but despite the copious amount of sex we’re having daily, there haven’t been any further slip-ups. Still, I anxiously count the days until my period, and when it arrives, two and a half weeks into my captivity, I sob with relief, for once grateful for the cramps and the discomfort. Peter doesn’t seem nearly as pleased, but when we resume having sex after the worst of my symptoms are over, he continues to use protection.
Another positive is that my failed escape attempt hasn’t lost me any outside contact privileges. Every afternoon, Peter lets me watch the recordings from my parents’ house, and every couple of days, he lets me call them. The calls are always brief, both as an extra precaution against the FBI tracing them and because there’s not much I can say. As far as my parents are concerned, I’m jetting around the world with my lover, happily oblivious to the danger he presents and to my responsibilities back home. Pretty much all I can do on those calls is assure my parents that I’m fine and inquire after their well-being before swiftly hanging up to avoid their endless questions and entreaties.
“You know, you can elaborate on our love affair a little,” Peter says after listening to the calls for about a week. “Give them some color to make it seem more authentic.”
“Really? Should I tell them how often you f*ck me, or describe how big your cock is?”