Seth shrugs and places the gag back in my mouth. Kisses my cheek again. If he weren’t so genuine, I’d find it patronizing.
I forget all about the kiss when the sharp, burning pain licks at my back. Something wet drips down my torn skin.
“Ahh, look at how pretty she bleeds from my whip.” Rory’s voice is theatrical, like he’s narrating for me.
I wish I could float outside my body like an omniscient narrator and escape the pain. I’ve never been able to. Not at Easthaven. Not here. For some reason, I hold onto the pain, grip it like it’s my life preserver to keep me from drifting away, from going under.
The whip cracks again. More fiery tongues scald my back until I swear there is more blood than flesh. Sweat coats my skin. Tears drown my eyes. And then, I feel a hot stream of liquid running down my leg.
“Pay up,” Jude says to Rory, still naked on the other side of me. “I told you she’d last until you whipped her before pissing herself.”
Rory grumbles something, stomps over to Jude, and shoves a hundred-dollar bill in his hand. Something in me should feel rage about them gambling over my bodily fluids. But it helps distract me from the pain flaring all over my back. Or at least, it gives me some sick and twisted humor. I’m gasping through the gag, and I expect to pass out at any moment…
Until Rory grips my hair, yanking my head back and licking along the curve of my ear. When his naked chest rubs against my bruised and reddened breasts, I realize he’s shed his costume. I blink, then flick my eyes down, desperate to look at anything, focus on anything but the burning on my back.
Unholy fucking devil dick!
Seth and Vincent are decently sizable. Jude is long. But Rory? That thing is a foot-long, thick beast designed for one purpose: to split cunts and assholes alike. It’s too big to even rise.
“That’s right, Firecracker. Take a good, long look.” He showcases himself before grinding that beast against my pussy, rasping his beard against my cheek. I flinch, clenching my wet eyes shut.
I’ve heard of guys like him. Porn-worthy guys who make girls cry and scream an S.O.S with every thrust. Those screams echo in my mind, threatening to drag me under five-year-old memories—until Rory grips my jaw, forcing my mouth open. Bless his sick sociopathic soul.
“Are you my pretty Lass? Aye, smile nice and big for Red.”
I’m shuddering, my vision blurring from the excruciating agony. But his commands keep me in the moment. So, I do. I smile like the goddamn Joker himself right before I snap at him. He jerks his hand away. My teeth don’t connect. But the lurch cost me, and my feet slip on the blood on the floor, causing the collar to restrict my air flow.
“Shit,” Rory barks before snapping his fingers to Seth, who retrieves an instrument from a nearby table.
“NO!” I shriek. “NO—NOOO—N— ” On my fourth “no”, Rory forces the ring gag to stretch my mouth wide, securing it to the back of my head. What’s worse are the little chains dangling with clamps he tightens to each nipple. The collar conspires horrifically with the gag and the chains, tugging on the buds. Tiny bells line the chains.
Rory laughs deeply and slaps at one breast, then the other, enjoying the twisted tune of the tingling bells. I hope they aren’t playing the song of my doom.
For the first time in several minutes, I glance at the others. Jude stands tall, hugging his muscled arms. Vincent still leansagainst the wall, his eyes observing the whole scene. And Seth wanders around the room, fingers skimming each instrument like he’s envisioning me, associating me with them.
And Raphael? He hasn’t moved a muscle. Hands at his sides. Dark eyes assessing everything. Judging.
I choke on the thick fingers plunging into my throat, and I turn back to the socio. He tugs on the chains, and I moan from the pinching of my nipples. Lowering his head, he licks at the tip of each clamped nipple before working his way down, tonguing every bruise from his cane.
When he touches his lips to the sparse, thin curls on my mons, I writhe, bucking. I knew it was inevitable, but I’m still rebelling as he trails a finger along my pussy.
He chuckles darkly, sliding the digit in deeper. “Pay up, Jude.” He jerks his chin to the side. “She’s wet. Bloody Christ, she’s fucking soaked.”
Endorphins will do that to you. And Stockholm Syndrome.
It’s the first time Raphael moves. So subtle, if I hadn’t been looking in his direction, I’d have missed the muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Damn,” Jude mutters before returning the hundred-dollar bill. Rory drops it onto the pool of his clothing on the floor.
I’m too focused on Raphael, I don’t know what’s happening until the suction cup is on my vulva. Rory rises, grins, and holds up a small device, signaling he is about to push the button. I’m gasping, panting, crying. Saliva drops from the sides of my mouth.
“Time to get that pretty pussy as red as your back, mi’Lass.”
My eyes widen. He pushes the button. And I scream from the blinding pressure. The others step a little closer, their cocks growing harder from the sight of my swollen pussy, my clit, and labia pulled into the suction cup. Another press of thebutton, and the pressure increases, pumping and engorging the hypersensitive flesh.
The pain is too much. The pressure is too much. I’m going to pass out.
I lock eyes with Raphael as the darkness swirls in. His eyes narrow. He takes one step forward.
