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I’m helpless as I watch him walk away. He doesn’t even look back to check on my reaction. He is completely uncaring of my state as he turns off the light and closes the door behind him.
He leaves me dying to come, for him to touch me. He leaves me with the object he tortured me with in my mouth, taunting me with it. I’m naked, bound, helpless, and I hate myself when I do exactly what he asked of me. I think of him.
18
NATHAN
Daddy Issues - The Neighbourhood
For heaven’s sake. It takes all of my self-control not to let out the growl bubbling in my chest when I open the basement door again.
I always thought Kayla King was beautiful. Physically, she’s gorgeous. The place where she grew up took a toll on her body, and yet it’s hard for anyone to look at her and not notice she belongs on the cover of a magazine.
At first glance, there’s nothing special about her. Average height, average weight, average boobs, black hair. A nice bubble ass, but that’s not everything. Her porcelain skin isn’t smooth, with scars and tattoos. It’s her eyes. Her forest green eyes that could swallow a weaker soul. They grab onto you, dragging you in, refusing to let you go. And her lips, they’re slightly pouted, and a perfect pink. It gives her an air of innocence that doesn’t belong on her face, yet fits so perfectly.
I kind of want to kiss her. I never did, even when I played with her before prison. Back then, I didn’t want her to think I had any emotional attachment toward her. I didn’t.
Now… I’m dying to know what those pouty lips taste like. I also strongly believe it would weaken her even more. Maybe I’ll time it better. She’s too out of it right now.
Yes, Kayla King is beautiful, there’s no denying it. Add her stubborn personality, her pride, her strength, and her loyalty to the people she loves. It makes her irresistible. It makes her such a perfect target for hunters like me, people who feed on secret weaknesses and taking apart someone strong but breakable.
I’ve had relationships in the past, but people who are easy to manipulate aren’t fun down the line. People I use as a means to an end always end up boring me. Kayla is a perfect adversary. I can’t grow bored with someone who wants to fight. And seeing her like this, bound and naked, hanging from my ceiling now that her legs have given up, it stirs something in me that I struggle to define. The kind of feeling that goes beyond ownership and beyond revenge. It’s not the usual mellow satisfaction that I feel from getting what I want. It’s stronger.
My heart palpitates, sending something warm and relaxing through my veins. My already hard dick becomes painful, and I blink a few times, struggling to understand what the fuck is going on inside my body. Something seems wrong physically, and yet there’s nothing I would change to satisfy myself in this situation. In fact, I’m getting twice the fulfillment I expected to feel.
Tilting my head to the side, I focus my gaze since the only light comes from the door upstairs I didn’t close. I still haven’t crossed the second doorway I have downstairs. I’m just standing there, the door open, observing her with my hand on the handle, curious if she’s awake or not.
Her head hangs, her chin to her chest, but she’s still biting, meaning she’s awake. I can’t see her face, only her hair draping around her and the way her shoulders rise and fall ever-so slightly.
Shit. It feels really fucking good to see her like this. I can’t compare it to anything else, can’t find something else in my memory that’s made me feel this way before, and because of that, I can’t put an emotion to it.
“Little sunflower,” I purr. She doesn’t move, doesn’t startle, but I hear the desperate whimper escaping her.
My cock hardens, and I’m forced to fist it through my pants. She’s so exquisite like this. I’m going to fucking implode.
I take my time walking to her, purposely letting her hear my steps as I get closer. I want her to be dying for me to get there. I want her as desperate for my presence as I am to touch her.
When I finally stand in front of her, I pinch her chin with my thumb and forefinger, lifting her head. She hisses behind the crop, probably in an enormous amount of pain from her shoulders taking her weight.
I put my other hand below her mouth and speak as quietly as I can. I think if I speak louder, she’ll crumble under me. Mainly, I’m worried it’ll show how turned on I am.
“Release.”
Saliva covers her chin, and her eyes are glassy. I don’t think she has any idea what is happening anymore. All she hears is my voice, my order, and she executes.
The crop drops in my palm, and I throw it behind her. When I look at her again, she’s stretching her jaw from side to side. I notice her swollen eyes and damp cheeks.
She cried.
An excitement like I’ve never felt before zaps through my body. She cried because of me. For me. Releasing her chin, I cup her cheek, rubbing my thumb under her eye. There’s nothing anymore. I left her here all day so I’m not surprise she’s not crying anymore. Eight hours alone, biting my crop and hanging from my ceiling. I know full-grown men who work for the Cosa Nostra and who begged to be killed in lesser situations.
My wife is as strong as they come.
My wife is the closest person to being my equal that I’ve ever known.
And I think she learned her lesson.
“Name it.”
