What exactly is Armani planning?
He guides me to the chair. “Get on your knees with your hands on the back of the chair.”
I exhale a shaky breath, hesitating and uncertain.
Armani’s having none of that. He grabs me by the waist and pushes me down onto the seat. Scrambling to get into a kneeling position, I find my balance and then grip the back of the chair for support. In the mirror, I can see Armani standing behind me, see the way his gaze roves over my body, as if he’s judging the angle of my position.
“Spread your knees and bend forward,” he instructs.
It’s clear that I don’t have a choice.
As I follow his orders, I hear a metallic clinking sound. A moment later, Armani moves beside me and flashes a pair of handcuffs before snapping them around my left wrist and the metal frame of the chair back. He closes the cuff tight so I can’t slip free.
Panic flickers inside me. I wiggle my wrist, testing the restraint.
“What are you doing?” I test the cuffs again, their rattle jarring to my ears.
Instead of answering, he grips the back of my top with both hands and tears it in two, as if it’s nothing. The fabric flutters at my sides. He makes quick work of ripping off the straps in the same manner, tossing the ruined tank to the floor, and then I’m fully naked. My nipples harden at the touch of cool air, and something else that I’m ashamed of. Excitement.
He leans over me and grabs my breast, the thick bulge in his pants pressing into my backside as he grips hard and pulls me back against him. Our bodies are pressed so tightly together, I can feel the hot throb of his cock. The buttons of his shirt and the buckle of his belt dig into my tender flesh.
“Do you want to know who you really married? Do you?” he says.
I’m breathing so hard and fast, all I can do is nod. Because I do.
His hand leaves my breast to glide back up to my throat again, over my chin, until his fingers touch my lips. He pries at my mouth, and I open on instinct. Then he slides three fingers into my mouth and splays them wide so I can’t move my face. When he forces my head up, I see both of us in the mirror, posed in a darkly sexy tableau.
My eyes, wide and frightened, yet hazy with desire. His face, half in shadow from the dim light, wearing a fiendish expression that turns me on even more. Who is this woman with flushed cheeks, fiery eyes, her mouth stuffed, her body aching for its next punishment?
“I’m a very rough and unforgiving man. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
The throb between my legs is growing, pleading, and demanding. Aching for his touch.
“Now I’m going to be rough and unforgiving to you. And you’re going to take it all, because you’ve been a very, very bad girl. I’m not nice to my enemies, Candi. Do you want to find out how not nice I can be?”
I don’t get a chance to answer before he pulls his fingers out of my mouth and plunges them into my pussy, hard and deep. I cry out at the unexpectedness of it. My wetness slicks around him, betraying my shameful desire, as he begins harshly, roughly driving his fingers in and out of me. Gripping my breast with his other hand, he pulls hard at the nipple. Sparks of pain and pleasure overlap and create a tornado of confusion in my mind. Why does this feel good, even as it hurts? He’s hurting me.
But I like it.
My hips jut back against him, and I have to tighten my grip on the back of the chair. Small moans escape my throat.
“Watch yourself getting fucked,” he orders. “Take a good, long look in the mirror.”
Reluctantly, I look up again and catch my reflection.
He adds another finger, pushing deeper, stuffing me and filling me up. My eyelids flutter. Something dark inside of me loves the aggression, the cruelty, the fact that he’s wielding complete control over me.
Shifting my gaze, I lock eyes with Armani in the mirror. He stares back at me coldly, with disgust, maybe, and clearly confident in his power. It makes me even wetter. I don’t recognize the pleasure-pain as an orgasm until I feel a hot rush that takes my breath away, gushing around his hand as my pussy contracts hard and fast. Shaking, confused, I feel a single tear roll down my cheek even as I continue to ride out the whirlwind.
He slaps my ass. The sound rings through my ears, the spreading tingle of pain blooming into something bigger. Another slap. Then another. The tender flesh stings, burns, my excited nerves jumping, and suddenly the feeling unfolds into something I’ve never experienced before. A kind of euphoria that is indescribable. Armani’s punishment feels…good. So good.
My thoughts are lost as the opposing sensations take over. I’m vaguely aware that he’s stopped fucking me with his hand, and then his fingers are back in my mouth. My own flavor is full on my tongue. Gasping, I brace myself as he grips my chin harder, anchoring me where I am.
Heart hammering, my own breaths loud in my ear. The sound of a zipper, of his pants falling to the floor. Behind me, he lines himself up against my swollen pussy, and then his cock is plunging, ramming, driving into me.
“Fuck,” I pant, struggling to hold myself steady against the onslaught.
My inner walls are still alive with the fading orgasm and quickly wake up as he pounds into me. I’m barely hanging onto this chair. My left wrist chafes against the cuffs, my knees digging into the hardness of the leather seat. I won’t be able to brace myself much longer.
