“No!” he wailed. “I don’t want to come.”
I leaned in close, my voice ragged against his mouth as I whispered, “Too fucking bad.”
He sobbed as I jacked him off. The skin moved beneath my hand, smooth but hard all at once, and I was relentless. He wasn’t going to get out of this.
He was still fucking lucky, because all I was doing was giving him a hand job. This could’ve been so much worse for him, but I knew his straight-guy mentality was making it difficult for him to process.
Moments, mere moments, passed before he was spilling all over my hand with a harsh cry. “No,” he sobbed. “No, no, no.”
“Yes,” I told him, kissing him again just because I could.
I was burning from the madness of rage and desire alike, and I slid my hand into my boxers, hissing as my cum-covered hand found my own cock. I kissed him again and again, greedily devouring what should’ve been minealready. If I was going to take from him — if I was going to ignore his pleas — then I was going to get something else out of it too.
I knew my own body well enough to wring an orgasm out of my cock in seconds, mingling our cum on my hand. I drew it up and shoved two of my fingers into his mouth.
“So fucking help me, if you bite me…” I warned.
He knew he was in deep enough shit.
“Now suck on those. You need the practice.”
His eyes went a little wide, but he sucked on my fingers as he wept.
Suddenly disgusted with myself, I pulled back, wiping the sticky mess off on the outside of my boxers. “Come the fuck on,” I growled at him.
I dragged him out of bed mostly by the collar, eschewing the leash and the handles on the harness in favor of making sure he understood just how much trouble he was in.
“Bad dog,” I told him. “Bad, bad fucking dog.”
I slammed the door to the kennel and padlocked it in place, breathing hard as I stood and stared down at him. He hadn’t fought me the entire time, but there was something about that that bothered me. Fuck, the whole thing bothered me. I’d already gone far enough by having him kidnapped, and now…
Now, I felt sick.
Sick, and sated, and so, so good.
How was it possible to hate myself so much even as I rode the waves of my climax?
I staggered to the bathroom and washed my hands, yanking down the black cloth so I could see myself in all my hideousness. I deserved it. I deserved to have to see myself like this, like I really was — bestial and monstrous.
I’d defiled such beauty, and my self-loathing and griefwere written across my face every bit as much as those scars were. I didn’t deserve to get to cry, not after what I’d done, no matter how many memories haunted me and left me this way.
I couldn’t blame the fire for everything. Obviously there was something wrong with me, deep inside where there was no way to fix it, and I could only fight that so much.
I’d lost that fight tonight, and I didn’t know how long I could keep fighting it before I gave in like the monster I was.
I got back into bed, ignoring him when he whispered that he was sorry into the darkness. I didn’t care how sorry he was. He shouldn’t have tried to get free, not when all I’d done was give him kindness and gentleness and…
And held him captive, and humiliated him, and tortured him in my own way.
Raped him, because wringing that orgasm out of him had been just that.
When had I become this?
Was there any coming back from it?
I didn’t know.
On the wake of those thoughts, I fell into blessedly dreamless sleep.
