I can’t see anything, and it’s cruel. Every squeeze of his hand, every soft swipe of his tongue, is all magnified a millionfold. It’s cruel to deny me the sight of Victor’s intent face: his mouth hidden by the swell of my sex, his eyes on mine, and his pupils blown, the icy blue of his irises consumed by lust.
I don’t know how long he eats me, how many orgasms I have, or whether it was one long, continuous orgasm. I only know that it’s a mercy when he finally takes his mouth away.
“Lula,” he growls, and the flogger falls again, warming my front. Then it’s the crop, biting at my breasts. It hurts and feels good. I arch my back, accepting the pain, feeling the connection to him any way I can. I want to feel him, to touch him. Pain or pleasure don’t matter. I want more, more, more.
His thumb nudges my clit, and I realize he’s stopped striking me. My body is throbbing. I am scoured by sensation, devoured by it, and every nerve is singing. I imagine my body lying on the padded platform, no metal table this time, my skin a painting of pink and red and my pussy a pale target. I feel Victor lean over me, his pale head at my collarbone, dragging down my breasts. His tongue probes my belly button, and I let out a long, low groan. The barest amount of penetration feels so damn good.
“Do you want me, Lula? In this pretty pussy?” He pets it, and every stroke of his fingers is delicious. “Will you be good for me?”
In the distance, an alarm bell is ringing. Under the silk, I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Good girls get to come on my cock.” His fingers slip down into the cleft of my ass. “Bad girls get something else.” The tips find my back hole, tickling the tight skin there. A shock runs through me.
“Has anyone ever taken you here?” He leans close, whispering like a lover. I hold my breath as he circles my rim. I clench my buttocks, but it’s no use. He’s pressing in, and his finger is so slick from my pussy that he’s able to breach the tight ring of muscle. Just a millimeter but it burns. “Have they? Answer me, Lula.”
“No.”
“I will be your first.” He sounds so confident that a tremor goes through me. “Soon.” His hand falls away, and I feel relief, but it’s short-lived.
He steps away, and the crop falls again, this time on my unprotected pussy. He alternates smacking it and using it to probe my folds. He uses it to work me up to orgasm again, and it’s wonderful and awful. When he finally releases me from the table and gathers me into his arms, I cling to him like he’s my anchor in the ocean. If I let go, I’ll drown.
* * *
Lula
“Why Stephanos?”We’re in the shower after another long session on the table and then the cross. We’ve fallen into a routine: he ties me up and works me over. Every time he gives me an instruction, he uses the hand signals I’ve now memorized. I’m made to beg for my orgasm, and then he gives me so many I beg him to stop. I wake up in the cage. I’m fed and watered and allowed some privacy, but he’s always near. He bathes me himself, either in the bath or, this time, in the shower. Sometimes, he keeps me blindfolded. And he always keeps me shaved.
There’s no more talk of earning privileges, but I know he’s keeping track of my behavior. Sometimes when I beg him to stop, he shows mercy and doesn’t make me cum. Instead of figuring out how to free myself, grab one of his many knives and plunge it into his heart, I find myself thinking of ways I can please him. And as much as I tell myself that pleasing him will lead to more freedom, which will give me a chance to escape, it’s only a partial truth.
He’s wearing me down.
“Lula,” Victor sing-songs and tweaks my nipple. He’s introduced me to the clover clamps, and I’ve never known such pain. I go to great lengths to keep him happy when I’m wearing them.
What was he asking me? “Stephanos? He’s our enemy.”
“He’s a petty thief compared to the Regis family. A fly buzzing around a pack of lions.”
“He’s stolen from us.”
“He’s stolen from all the families. For many years. He’s a scavenger. It’s not enough to explain your lifelong vendetta.”
It seems impossible that Victor doesn’t know of my mother’s death. It’s more likely that he knows and is toying with me, wanting me to bare myself and my reasons to him. “Maybe I don’t like thieves.”
He smacks my ass. The sound echoes in the tiled space. “You defend them for a living. Don’t lie to me.” His hand cups my rear, massaging it. “You know I do not allow lies between us.” His touch grows bolder, slipping into the crevice of my ass. With a foot, he nudges my feet apart and bows me forward so he can play with my ass. He’s been encroaching on this forbidden territory more often, in the deepest part of a pain session when I’m too limp to protest. He pushes his fingers deep into my cleft, finding the slick skin of my seam and massaging. It feels weirdly good. I press my palms against the tile, partly to brace myself and partly to pretend I can push the sensation away.
“You know I’ll find out eventually,” he taunts, the blunt edge of his knuckle pressing onto my rim. He has long, elegant fingers, but they feel impossibly huge when he works one into my ass.
“If you won’t tell me why you went after Stephanos, you will tell me why you ran into danger so recklessly and without backup. Practically unarmed.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“It was stupid.” He stops threatening to penetrate my ass and grips it hard, squeezing so tight I’m sure I’ll have violet bruises on my skin. “One word and you’d have the full might of the Regis family behind you. And maybe even the other families if you formed an alliance.”
I swallowed. I never thought of an alliance. But get too many people involved, and there would be a chance that Stephanos wouldn’t die from one of my bullets.
“So why, Lula? Why were you so foolish? I’m sure your cousin would back you up?—”
“There’s a mole!” My voice rings out, too bright and loud, and I bite my lip to keep from saying any more. Victor’s not a judge I have to convince by making my case. He’s my captor, and every second, every hour, he worms deeper into my psyche.
