“Can we just talk about this?” I stammer, but Amon isn’t listening. He just pulls me forward.
I swing my arms hard. Maybe I can elbow myself free from his grasp. But he just wraps one arm around me, and that’s it. I can’t move.
“No!” I scream. “Please, don’t!”
“Stop fighting,” he growls, attaching the rope that holds my wrist to a hook hanging from the ceiling, hanging me like a prisoner.
“So what? You’re going to torture me because I mixed up your fucking fruit?”
I kick out at him with both feet but miss completely, and all it does is causes me to swing like an ornament.
Amon takes a step back and looks at me, his eyes flashing with approval. “That’s quite the mouth you have on you, my little nun. What would your momma say if she heard you curse like that?”
Oh, so now he wants to bring Momma into this?
“She would think you’recrazy!” I scream until my throat hurts. “And once I tell her what you did to me—”
“You won’t tell her anything, Joan,” Amon replies with a chuckle.
“Oh, and you know thathow?”
His smile broadens, and he steps in close, so close I can feel the heat from his body and smell the lingering scent of his cigar. Ireallyhate to admit it, especially right now, but he’s beautiful. Like male-model gorgeous.
His eyes are fierce and steady, and his thick brown hair shines. What he’s doing to me is wrong, but my body is reacting on its own, and I can’t control it.
Suddenly, he grabs the neck of my shirt and pulls, ruthlessly tearing it down the middle, exposing my breasts.
I gasp, fighting the flush that hits me as he drinks me in with his gaze, licking his lower lip like a predator staring down its next meal.
“Just like I thought,” he muses triumphantly. He reaches out and cups my left breast with his rough hand, sending a shock through my body. “You tried to hide them, but I knew better…perfect…”
Tiny beads of sweat form on my lower back. Pins and needles poke my toes. My face heats with shame as I try desperately to squirm around and get my shirt to cover me up.
But it doesn’t work.
I’m exposed before him, overwhelmed with embarrassment. But at the same time, a funny feeling is starting to grow between my legs. Something I’ve never felt before.
He reaches down and grabs something—a strap—and fastens it around my right ankle. Then he attaches it to one of the eye bolts on the floor. I struggle, but it’s no use. He moves to my other ankle and does the same.
Now I definitely can’t move.
My wrists are tied above my head, my ankles are strapped to the floor, and my shirt is torn and hanging open.
Out of nowhere, he has something in his hand. A piece of pale textured rubber. He kneels and fastens it to the device.
Am I supposed to sit on that?
But my question is answered when he reaches to a pulley on the wall and begins to lower me down. I twist hard, struggling against my restraints.
“Amon, what are you—?”
“Don’t fight it, my little nun,” he replies. “There’s no escape.”
His strong hands grip my waist like a vise, and he carefully positions me atop the saddle. The fleshy attachment presses against places no one has ever touched, including me, causing my heartrate to skyrocket.
I look up at him, pleading with my eyes. But he isn’t even paying attention. He’s focused on what he’s doing.
With two quick tugs, the straps on my ankles tighten, pulling me firmly down onto the saddle. I can’t move. There’s no way out of whatever he has planned for me.
