Take Me With You(29)

I haven't had that freedom since he put me down here. My ankle burns from the cool air that instantly rushes the wound, but it also feels lighter having lost the heavy collar. I think about making a run for it, but this guy is freakishly strong and fast. He's thrown and carried me like a rag doll. It's better to earn his trust so I can find a better opening if I survive the next few moments.

He doesn't say a word but instead, tugs off his shirt, his chest still rising and falling, his uneven breaths filling the silence of the basement. There's no negotiating tonight. I don't have any fight left. They call it fight or flight, but there's another option, when the fear is so paralyzing that you submit. In fact, I'm even somewhat grateful that after the harsh reminder of his power, through his own anger, he let me relieve the pain in my ankle. The masked man unbuttons his jeans and lets them fall to the ground. His athletic thighs are peppered with hair that trails up to his cock which stands tall, undeterred by any previous protestations.

He comes at me, white-knuckling the long blade. I stiffen in anticipation, and he throws me over his shoulder, like a possession. I am weightless and inconsequential in his grip. He carries me past a corner I could never reach with my chain, to another part of the basement, full of tools and a work table. Thoughts of torture cross my mind and I scream, kicking and flailing.

“Please don't hurt me. I'll do whatever you want.” He lowers me to my feet and I make a run for it, but he wraps me by the waist in seconds. He heaves as he throws me at the steel work table, causing a loud thud, and bends me face down against the frigid surface.

I wriggle underneath him, but he's like a boulder. He presses my cheek against the table and kicks my legs open.

He yanks my arms behind me and itchy twine wraps around my wrists.

“Remember this?” he asks hoarsely as he works on tying my hands.

My tears fall on the metallic surface below me, the glinting knife rests a foot away from my face. Will it be the last thing I see? He reaches over with the long strip of twine and wraps it around my nape so that if I pull with my hands, I tighten the grip around my neck.

“I'm sorry,” I plead. “It's true, okay? I was embarrassed. What am I supposed to say? That I like it? That makes me fucked up.”

But he's in some sort of rage-induced trance as he completes the intricate bindings.

“You can fuck me all you want, just please don't kill me. Please.”

He tugs on the twine connecting my hands and neck so that I straighten enough for him to put his lips against my ear. “Shut the fuck up, Vesp,” he whispers.

“Oh god,” I cry.

He slides his other hand over my ass and squeezes viciously. I let out a sharp cry. Then he slaps the same spot, a distinct clap filling the air. A singeing pain throbs on the spot. He thrusts his hips violently against me, teasing his rigid cock against my ass and gripping the twine like a horse’s reins.

“I can get what I want in many ways. Let me remind you of that.”

He slips a couple of fingers into me and back out, slipping them along my slit. It's too easy. I hate that I don't clench and dry up. He's a monster, he's wicked. But his warm upper body presses against my back and contrasts the cool air of the basement. His heart thuds like mine. He's something—someone—other than the barren, unforgiving, concrete shell that is usually my only company.

He grabs the knife and I whimper as he reaches around to run the sharp tip along my collarbone, then down to my breasts. I try to suck in and make space between me and the blade, but it's useless as he presses the point against the tip of one of my nipples, sending waves of heat and fear down my stomach and to my clit. He runs it down my stomach, and inner thigh, stopping there to lightly drag the blade over my femoral artery. He knows I am a nurse, that I understand the message this sends.

My lips purse as salty tears run over them. Please sits just below the surface, but I know it won't make a difference. Without a word from me, he slams the knife back down on the table, so loudly I jump. Then my shoulders relax a bit with the immediate threat being gone.

“Now, tell me, Vesp. Tell me how your pussy feels,” he commands.

I'm hyperventilating so hard it's difficult to get any words out. He gives the twine a sharp tug that pinches at the soft skin of my neck.

I open my mouth, but the words stubbornly won't come out. They squeeze my throat, my mind strangling the body, fighting the disloyalty it displays every time this man touches me.

He bends me over the table again, the icy surface shocking my skin. His warm, soft tongue and lips are just as terrifying a weapon as the knife when they make a slave out of me with no threat. I moan and pucker my hips against the rhythmic lapping and sucking of his tongue. My mind and body begin to melt into one, the body snuffing out the protests of the mind. There is so little good down here. So few moments of pleasantness or pleasure. Of contact. Warmth. Excitement. This is one of them. It's wrong. It's weak minded. But my mind and body are weary. They just want to remember what it was like to feel at peace and not waging a constant battle.

So I let myself slip into a state of complete arousal. Not just passively accepting his mouth, but actively enjoying its adventures. And just when I do, proof I am certain, that he can in fact peep into my mind: he stops and pulls me halfway up.

“Tell me how it feels.”

My pride awakens, strapping in for another fight. It's one thing to silently accept that pleasure. To play with myself during a dream or let myself enjoy his tongue inside of me. It's another to say it. It's the ultimate act of voyeurism, to force himself to hear my feelings, my secret thoughts.