As he says the words, Trent moves, taking me by the hips and transferring his weight to them, pinning my lower body in place.
“Your father?” I whisper, scared of the answer but needing to know. Needing to understand if his lineage is working against me.
“A stranger,” he says on an outward breath.
I drag in a gulp of air in relief.
“She struggled,” he whispers, and I take the command, moving against his hands, kicking my heel up, wriggling my arse. “She fought him like she was fighting for her life.”
And my panic bleeds out at those words, breaking free in a toxic rush of movement and screams and deep, mindless fear. My head pulls back, trying to snap the clasp around my neck where it doesn’t have a hope. Even if it had been one I’d scored through, my strength isn’t anywhere near Trent’s.
I’m weak on a good day. Winded running for the bus.
My strength is in my flexibility but being able to perform contortions isn’t any help when I’m bound, trapped under the body weight of a boy three times my size. A boy who just proved his strength by beating someone to death.
The panic is slow to ebb. I don’t know how long I’m in that state, fighting and gaining no ground.
Long enough for my mouth to go dry. Long enough to taste the zing of a nine-volt battery. Long enough to have a buzz in my ears and tear trails staining my face.
“That was so good,” Trent says, grinding himself into me. “You’re so perfect. I knew you were special from the moment I set eyes on you. Trapped in my dad’s study with those boys.”
“What happened to the woman?” I croak, not wanting to hear about me, what he thinks of me. “Who attacked her?”
“I watched as she stopped fighting. She screamed until she wore herself out, just like you.” There’s a strange sensation on my skin, and I take a moment to understand he’s licking me. My hip. His tongue must be pressed flat against my skin, lapping in long slow even strokes, then starting again. “When she couldn’t fight any longer, he pulled her legs apart, and he shoved himself inside her. It took a lot of effort. The fear made her bone dry.”
His fingers dance around the lips of my pussy, teasing at the edges before exerting enough force to slip inside.
“I don’t think that’s a problem for you.”
“It wasn’t…” His finger slips smoothly into me, stroking back to rub at my entrance, then dipping into me again, going up to the first knuckle, the second. A new flash of concern ripples through me. My desperate brain trying to solve the riddle of why Trent is why he is, racing to get to the answer before it’s too late. “It wasn’t your mother, was it?”
He’s gone. Moving his hand out and away, moving his body so the bed shakes as his weight leaves it.
My fear kicks in again and I keep my eyes screwed shut, trying to breathe as slowly as I can, in and out, trying to hold it for a few counts but having to give up the attempt when it feels like I’m strangling.
“Not my mother. She died in a boating accident when I was three. Open your eyes,” Trent says in a whisper.
When I do, he’s right next to me again, crouching beside the base of the bed. There’s something held in his hand that I can’t quite see but it sends fear spinning through me. A gag of some type. If he puts that into my mouth, I’ll be completely defenceless. I can’t do that; my mind can’t take any more.
“No more questions.”
“Okay,” I agree, fear turning my voice shrill. “No questions. I’ll be quiet, I promise, just please…” His eyes sharpen again, reacting to the words. A way in. A way to get back a tiny piece of control. I don’t mind begging if that’s all he responds to. “Please don’t hurt me, Trent. You can let me go. It’s okay. Just please…please…”
He moves, getting onto the bed behind me again, hand between my legs, fingers slipping gently inside me. When they withdraw, I know what’s coming next.
A scene in exchange for him killing my uncle. Sex for payment. You know how this goes.
He wants to hurt me, so I need to cry out. I’ll struggle. Any chance I see to get free or gain advantage, I’ll take it.
A scene.
His fingers disappear and the head of his cock nudges at my entrance. My automatic response is to clench my muscles against him, but the only person that’ll hurt is me.
I force my body to relax. When he slowly edges inside, I push back against him. Not obviously. Not enough to upset the fantasy playing out in his head. But enough to control his entry, reduce the friction, in the teeniest, tiniest way.
The stretch begins almost immediately. I was wet from our foreplay, from teasing him as I bound him to the chair, but that arousal is gone now. It’s been replaced with fear and anger, neither of them known aids for penetration.
“Stop,” I murmur when the stretch becomes a burn. Then louder, struggling against him. “Please stop.”
