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She doesn’t hesitate.
“Defeated,” she croaks.
She’s lost all control over herself, and she needs me to guide her. I don’t even think she’s really present, most definitely not realizing what she just admitted.
But I need to know. I need her to tell me her emotion, and how she truly feels deep down, because then I can learn her tells. I can identify it in the future. I’ll recognize her tone of voice and the features on her face. It’ll make it simple to read her.
She names it, and I can study it. She names it, and I can remember what it looks like on her. I can’t emphasize and feel bad or ever share her joy. I can only attempt to learn. Sometimes, I can link it to something I’ve been through, but that is a lot of work because I hardly ever feel much. But if I learn what everything looks like on her face, in her body, in her breathing. If I learn all her emotions by heart, there will be nothing she can hide from me.
Utter control.
What a fun game to play.
If I were a normal person, this would make me feel all sorts of ways. But with how I’m wired? My blood feels thicker, my body is so full of it, powerful. I smile, an unmatched happiness making me almost giddy. My head drops to the crook of her neck. She’s sweating, trembling. Her muscles are tense and hard. I breathe her in, a need to be close to her so strong that I want to bite into her soft skin.
This feels good. Good. What is it? How else does it make me feel?
Ecstatic? Exhilarated?
“Well done, little sunflower. You’ve made me very happy. Now you get to leave this room.”
Wrapping an arm around her waist, I quickly unbuckle the cuffs, and rejoice in her helplessness when she collapses into my arms.
“Do you know what you are right now, baby?”
She nuzzles against me when I hook my other arm under her legs and lift her up. Unable to talk, she shakes her head against my chest. She feels like dead weight in my arms, completely boneless.
“You’re weak.” I kiss the top of her head despite her little cry of despair.
She thinks it’s a bad thing, but it’s not. It’s filling me with a sense of pride I can hardly describe.
I like her like this. I like her at my mercy. And she’ll need to come to like it too, or she’ll have a terrible time in my presence.
I don’t bring her to the room I had her in. Instead, I walk all the way to mine with her in my arms. Her body is getting cold. She’s shaking. Probably to do with being left thoroughly whipped and naked in my basement. Probably shock. Probably a need for reassurance that she doesn’t realize she’s exhibiting.
I lay her down on my bed on top of the covers. I’ll warm her up in a minute. I just need to observe her first. Her nipples are not their usual dusty pink. They’re red and swollen, still hardened from the beating.
Rubbing a hand across my face, I wonder how much harder I can get. I ditch my shirt, pants, and boxers, and I spread her legs, kneeling between them on the bed.
She startles, but she’s too lifeless to do anything about it.
“Nate,” she rasps, her eyes closed, her head resting to the side.
“Yes, little sunflower?”
“P-please.” Her teeth chattering is another indicator of her defeated state, and I store it in my Kayla King file. “Please,” she repeats weakly. Is she even awake? She doesn’t sound awake. “Don’t break me.”
Oh fuck.
That is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard coming from her.
Insults? Threats? Miserable attempts at begging? Yes, she gave me that.
But a devastation so absolute that she can’t help herself from begging for mercy? That’s new.
My cock throbs, leaking precum down my length. I want her badly. I want all of her. I want my dick in her tight cunt and my mind to take over her soul. I want her every thought, her vulnerability. I want her fucking grief.
I spread her legs a little wider as my gaze drops to her pussy. “Oh, little sunflower. How can you still be so wet for me? You’re a sucker for torture and you’re taking me down with you.”
