"You don't really want me to stop." He finishes the knot and steps back slightly, admiring his work. "Do you?"
I tug at the restraints. They don't budge. If anything, the movement just tightens them, the vines biting into my wrists with every struggle.
I'm trapped. Tied to a post in the middle of a vineyard, completely at the mercy of a masked stranger.
The thought should terrify me.
Itdoesterrify me.
But it also makes me clench around nothing, desperate for something to fill the aching emptiness between my thighs.
"Look at you." His voice is thick with satisfaction as he moves behind me again. "Trembling and tied and trying so hard to pretend you don't want this."
"I don't?—"
"Liar,” he cuts me off, his voice deep and convicting.
His hands grip the hem of my dress and yank it up over my hips, exposing me to the cold night air. I gasp, trying to press my thighs together, but he's already there—one knee wedging between my legs, forcing them apart.
"Let's see how much of a liar you are."
His fingers find the edge of my underwear—a scrap of black lace that matches the dress I woke up in—and he doesn't bother pulling them aside. He just grips and tears, the fabric giving way like tissue paper.
I cry out at the sudden exposure, the cold air hitting my bare pussy like a slap. But I barely have time to process it before his hand is there, cupping me possessively.
"Fuck." The word is almost reverent. "You're soaked."
Shame burns through me, hot and immediate. I am. I'm dripping wet, my arousal coating his fingers before he's even done anything. My body has betrayed me completely, showing him exactly how much I want this even as my mind screams that I shouldn't.
"Please." I don't know what I'm begging for anymore.
"Please what, love?" He strokes through my folds, spreading my wetness, circling my clit with a touch that's too light to satisfy. "Use your words."
"I can't—I don't?—"
"You can." He presses harder, and my hips jerk involuntarily, chasing the sensation. "Tell me what you want."
What I want is to understand what's happening to me. What I want is for my body to stop responding to a stranger's touch like it's been waiting for this all my life. What I want is for this to make sense.
What I want is for him to stop teasing and just fucking touch me already.
"More." The word escapes before I can stop it. "Please, I need more."
He makes a sound of approval low in his throat, and then his fingers are pushing inside me—two at once, stretching me open with no preamble. I cry out, my back arching away from the post, my wrists straining against the vine restraints.
"That's it." He fucks me with his fingers, hard and fast, not giving me time to adjust. "Take what I give you."
I'm making sounds I don't recognize—gasps and moans and broken pleas that fall from my lips without permission. His palm grinds against my clit with every thrust, sending sparks shooting up my spine. The combination of his fingers inside me and the rough wood against my front creates a friction that borders on painful.
It's too much. Not enough. Everything and nothing all at once.
"You're close already, aren't you?" His thumb finds my clit and presses hard. "I can feel you squeezing my fingers. Your greedy little cunt wants to come."
I whimper, hating him for being right. The orgasm is building fast, coiling tight in my belly, tension ratcheting higher with every thrust of his hand. My legs are shaking, barely able to hold me up. If not for the vines binding my wrists, I think I'd collapse.
"Come for me." His voice is a command, leaving no room for argument. "Now."
And I do.
