And I pounce.
It’s not a fair fight. It never is, between us. I’m stronger than she is, I’m faster, and I’m even more motivated. Buttons fly as I tear open her top. She shrieks and then she swears at me in Irish, exactly as I expected she would.
She crosses her arms over her chest to keep me from her bra, which only allows me to grip her biceps, to steer her toward the bed. With my height and my weight, I force her back onto themattress, ignoring her slapping hands. I have to move fast to strip away her linen pants; she nearly knees me in the balls.
I know all the things she’s lived through, all the nightmares from her past. There’s an argument that she should never want rough fucking, that she should need the most patient and gentle of lovers.
But Kate, though, needs to be overwhelmed.
Every Dom knows the brain is the most complicated sex organ in the human body. No person on earth can explain the things they crave. There’s no right and no wrong, as long as everyone in the game has given full consent.
So I tear off Kate’s panties, stripping them down her scarred thighs. They’re soaked, which doesn’t surprise me. She starts to cry, though, which does.
“What’s your color?” I snap, climbing off the mattress, giving her space to reply.
She sniffs before she answers, and then she swallows, hard. But her eyes meet mine, unwavering. Her voice is louder than I expect when she says, “Green.”
I nod, but I wait a moment, giving her a chance to change her mind.
She raises her chin and licks her lips. “You did all this for me,” she says. And then: “Green.” This time I believe her.
It only takes me a moment to wrestle her out of her bra. She starts to swear again, a constant stream in English and in Irish. A range of gags waits in the oaken armoire, from simple strips of cloth to suffocating rubber balls. Under other circumstances, I’d shut her mouth, but with her cheeks still wet, I need to leave her an absolutely clear option to end our play.
She calls me a cocksucker, and I catch her jaw between my index finger and thumb, squeezing hard enough to force her mouth open. “You’ll be the one sucking cock tonight,” I warn, shaking twice before I set her free. “But only if you’re a goodlittle sub. One more word out of you, and I lock you in that cage and head upstairs alone.”
She eyes the iron bars and proves what I’ve known all along: Kate Lynch is smart. She closes her jaws with an audible snap. But the murderous look she gives me would melt the hard-on of a lesser man.
Pressing my victory, I wrap her bra around her wrists, lashing the fabric tight. The restraint makes it easier to manhandle her to the center of the room, but she doesn’t give in without a fight. She’s still thrashing when I force her arms overhead, snagging the twisted bra over a hook that hangs from the ceiling.
Kate freezes.
“Yellow,” she says, her voice very soft, the word very clear.
Slow down. That’s the rule I gave her the first time I tied her up. Green, we go; red, we stop; yellow, we slow to give her a chance to adjust.
And she doesn’t have to explain why she needs time.
She hung Pyotr Tarasov from a hook.
This is a different hook over a different drain. No matter what games Kate and I play, she knows I won’t leave her here for days. She understands she won’t die in this room.
Still, I knew the hook would be hard for her—excruciating, even. It forces her to think about everything that animal did to her and everything she did to him, for revenge.
Ineedher to face that. She needs it too. We can’t leave this dungeon tonight until we’ve both reached peace with what happened.
Her chin dips to her chest. Her arms stretch overhead, the muscles perfectly sculpted as her hands clench into fists. I’ve calculated the distance perfectly; she’s balanced on the balls of her feet.
The only sound in the room is her breathing, heavy and fast. I wonder if her pulse is pounding in her ears, if she’s hearing Tarasov beg for freedom.
I could lift her off the hook. I could carry her to the bed. I could find other ways to test her—tools in the armoire or my fingers, my mouth, my cock.
But the hook is what she has to face. So we wait, both of us, until her breathing slows. Her fingers stretch, released from their fists. She raises her chin.
“All right, then,” she says. “Green.”
She says it. And she means it, even though tears are drying on her cheeks. So I reward her for being brave.
The dildo I take from the armoire is massive, molded to look like a real cock, heavy and veined. I make a show of lubing it up, turning the silicon to catch the golden light. Hanging captive, she gulps.
