He sweeps his tongue along the cut marring my torso. Then he brandishes his knife and reopens my healing skin. I whimper but force myself to stay still. Attempting to run will only fuel his wrath.
“There, much better,” Sandman mumbles, smearing red across my belly. “So much fucking better.” He trails his bloody hands up my rib cage and pinches my nipples. “That move you did with your leg, what’s it called?”
“Scorpion,” I whisper.
“Do it again,” he orders, sheathing the knife at his hip.
I shift into position, grabbing my right ankle and stretching my leg taut behind my back, holding my foot directly over my head.
“Don’t move.” He drops to his knees and buries his face in my folds.
I tense. “Please don’t bite me.”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he clasps the area just below my ass and pushes his tongue deep inside my body. His tongue moves like waves in an ocean, stroking every nerve ending to awareness. Then he amplifies the pleasure tenfold, licking his way to my hypersensitive clit before sealing his lips around the swollen flesh. He teases me with slow caresses, gliding his tongue back and forth over my sweet spot.
I gnaw on my bottom lip, my eyelids fluttering shut, as heat pools in my lower abdomen. I’m defeated. My mind revolts whilemy body falls victim to his mouth. I hate it so fucking much—that this monster can play me like a finely tuned instrument.
“I can’t stay like this for much longer,” I gasp, struggling to remain in position.
His fingernails burrow into my skin, a clear warning not to move. My muscles are going to give out at any moment.
He grips me tighter, lifting me to the tips of my toes.
“Sandman, please…”
The plea dies on my lips as I reach climax, coming so hard my body seizes, raw sensations surging through me like an electric current. I release my leg and topple over his shoulder in a boneless heap, too spent to stand on my own. But he doesn’t stop—he laps and nips at my clit, drawing another mind-shattering orgasm from me.
I twist my fingers into his cut, broken sounds spilling from my throat, my core humming with ecstasy.
Before I can come down from my high, he shoves to his feet and carries me into the bathroom. Once inside, he lowers me into the bathtub.
What’s next on his torture list? Several possibilities filter through my mind, waterboarding at the forefront. It takes everything in me not to throw myself at his feet and beg him to stop, but I keep my mouth sealed. Any compassion he once had is gone—black hatred replaced it long ago.
Sandman retrieves a small bottle from inside his cut and grudgingly thrusts it into my hand.Honeysuckle Dreams Bodywash. It’s my favorite, but too pricy for my budget now. I haven’t used it in months. After three years, he still remembers.
“Shower.”
“W-what?” I stammer.
He turns and sits on the toilet. “You heard me, and leave the shower curtain open.”
Another game… another level of Sandman’s hell. I twist the valves and let the water run until it’s nearly scalding before pulling the lever on the showerhead.
“I need a washcloth,” I say monotonously.
“Make it quick,” Sandman demands, throwing one at me.
I turn on the shower and step under the spray, trying my best to ignore his presence. Bloody suds cascade down my legs and vanish into the drain. As I glide the soapy washcloth over my breasts, a rumbling growl rends the compact space, kicking my heart into overdrive. His need is tangible, caressing my heated flesh like a physical touch. It stifles the air, mingling with the rising steam.
“Face me.”
I follow his command, hesitation clinging to every movement. A sharp breath catches in my throat when I see the cell phone aimed straight at me. He’s recording me. My fingers itch to pull the shower curtain closed.
What does he plan to do with the footage? Post it online? Sell it?
“Spread your legs and wash your pussy,” he mutters huskily, palming the huge tent at his crotch.
“Please don’t record me,” I say, my voice small and thin.
