He smiled, his mouthing curving up at the edges in a wicked grin. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Kara. Either way, your hands will be cuffed. The choice is whether you’d like me to spank you first.”
I looked at his hands, large and capable, the knuckles scarred from a life I could only imagine. I looked at the cuffs, a symbol of my submission, a physical manifestation of his control. I thought of the belt, the searing pain that had blurred into desire, and I swallowed hard.
I didn’t want to fight him. Not again. Not now.
Slowly, reluctantly, I brought my hands behind my back. He leaned forward and reached around me, the scent of him filling my senses. He fastened the cuffs around my wrists, the click of the lock an ominous, damning sound in the quiet car. The cool carbon fiber was a strange, heavy weight against my skin, a constant, inescapable reminder of my new reality.
He settled back into his seat, his movements unhurried. He watched me for a long moment, his eyes dark with heated promise. He was enjoying this. Savoring it. The bastard.
Then he reached for his fly.
My eyes widened, a flicker of panic cutting through the post-coital haze I was still wading through. I watched, mesmerized, as he unbuttoned his trousers, the metallic rasp of his zipper sending chills down my spine. He reached inside, and his cock, already hard and demanding, sprang free.
It was a beautiful and terrifying thing. Thick, long, with a prominent vein pulsing along its length. It was a weapon, a tool of pleasure and punishment, and it was pointed directly at me.
“Come here,” he commanded.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My body was a statue, frozen by a mixture of fear and a dark, shameful anticipation.
He sighed, a sound of mild exasperation. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of black lace.
My panties.
He leaned forward, his face close to mine. “Open your mouth,” he snarled.
I shook my head in frantic, silent denial.
His hand shot out, wrapping around my jaw, his grip like iron. He wasn’t gentle. He forced my jaw open, his fingers digging into my cheeks with a painful, unyielding pressure. He balled up the lace, still damp with my earlier arousal, and shoved it inside my mouth.
He reached for his suit jacket, which was slung on the seat beside him. He pulled out a silver roll that I quickly realized was duct tape. He tore off a strip with aterriblyloud ripping sound, then smoothed it over my mouth, sealing the panties inside. It was a brutally efficient act of silencing, a final, physical manifestation of his control.
I was gagged. Bound. Helpless.
He leaned back, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. “Now,” he said, his voice a low, possessive growl. “Let’s try that again. Come here.”
I had no choice. With my hands cuffed behind my back, my balance was precarious. I rocked myself up, hunched over, and shuffled forward. I was clumsy and awkward, basically a creature humbled and humiliated.
When I was directly over him, my knees straddling his thighs and my head leaning on his shoulder for balance, he stopped me and lifted my dress up around my hips, baring me. His cock was a hard, insistent pressure against my stomach. He reached down, his hand closing around my hip, his grip bruising. He positioned me, aligning my body with his, his intentions unmistakable.
“Ride me,” he commanded.
I hesitated.
I couldn’t do this. Not here. Not like this.
His hand cracked across my outer thigh, a sharp, stinging blow that made me jump, a muffled cry escaping my throat. “I said, ride me,” he repeated, his tone darkly suggestive.
Lifting my head to look at him, I slowly, reluctantly lowered myself. The head of his cock nudged against my entrance. I was still sore from our last encounter, and I winced as he pushed inside me. The initial stretch was a dull, aching burn, and I yelped out loud, which simply caused him to raise an eyebrow in my direction.
He guided me down with his hands on my hips. I was forced to take him, inch by thick, throbbing inch, until he was fully seated inside me. I was so full of him that I ached.
“Now move,” he commanded.
I started to pump my hips back and forth in a slow, awkward rocking motion. It was difficult, and incredibly humbling, to be so exposed, so utterly controlled by him, with my hands cuffed behind my back and my mouth gagged with my own panties.
“Faster,” he prodded.
I quickened my pace, my movements clumsy and uncoordinated. The friction, the relentless, pounding rhythm, was sending jolts of pleasure through me. A dark, insidious heat was coiling low in my belly. I hated it. I hated him. I hated the way my body was responding, the way my hips were tilting to meet his, the way a fresh wave of arousal was slickening his cock.
