Page 25 of Demonic Delights

“Fuck me, it hurts,” she whines, her voice shaky.

I can see that her arms are trembling a little.

“Do you want to give up?” I ask, my tone coldly victorious.

She looks up at me with watering eyes, and her lower lip quivers.

“No.” She shakes her head.

“Then what are you waiting for? Carry on!”

Back in my office, I nearly want to yell “no!” when my doppelganger whips her again without holding back.

“Damn it!” She hangs her head, breathing hard.

The thing to know about Roxana is that she only swears until it gets serious. But once she is actually struggling, she stops. In fact, in those situations, she ceases talking altogether, as she does just then, carrying on in complete silence, her palms and knees hitting the floor with faint thuds.

I find it strange that, unlike me, she is acting exactly the way she would in reality. In dreams, usually either no one makes sense, or everyone does, but it’s rarely a combination of the two.

As she nears the fireplace, the flames’ warm light shrouds her trim body in its glow, and my breath hitches and my balls tighten, and I am too distracted to torment her anymore bar a few light swats. And even those earn me whimpers, and every little sound she makes sends an electric jolt down my spine as I imagine her making sounds none too different in reaction to me pumping into her, driving her to one orgasm after another, her tight, wet pussy squeezing my dick and milking every drop of cum from it.

Having passed the fireplace, Roxana is nearing the finish line, the bar cabinet well in sight. And yet she doesn’t pick up her tempo, keeping her every motion precise and controlled. My heart beats faster, blood roaring through my ears. She only has a yard or so to go when I lengthen my step to gain on her just enough to be able to align the cane vertically with the alluring cleft between her upper thighs.

Expecting the rush of an impending victory, I rap her pussy like I mean to slice through it.

She shrieks and bolts forward, and the glass tumbles off her back so fast that some of the honey-coloured liquid spills onto her back and seeps into the fabric of her teddy.

“No!” She shakes her head and then hangs it so low that her hair sweeps the floor.

I suspect she’s crying from the way her shoulders are heaving. My triumph over her rings entirely hollow, bringing me none of the usual satisfaction of driving a mortal—huh??—over the edge of bearable. Not only are my balls sore with need and my dick refusing to see her defeat as anything but his own loss, but there is a foreign, unsettling sensation deep inside at the sight of her humiliation. Like an ache, tearing at something raw.

“Have one more go at it.” For once, I am as surprised by what I say as my doppelganger is, if for completely different reasons.

But Roxie shakes her head in refusal.

“No. I don’t want to,” she admits in a small voice. “You’ll just keep making it so that I fail. Do what you will to me.”

She straightens up until she sits on the balls of her heels gingerly, but still she doesn’t look at me, keeping her sight lowered.

My first impulse is to growl at her that it’s her punishment and that she doesn’t get to decide when it stops.

But I don’t. Because ... I’m not enjoying this. I don’t like seeing her defeated.

I let her get up to her feet instead before weaving my fingers through her hair. I twist my fist around it and pull at it so that she is forced to look at me with tear trails glistening on her cheeks and with bitterness resting in the taunt corners of her mouth.

“Let me go,” she says. “Whatever point you wanted to make, you made it. If I have to choose between getting branded or getting branded and having my pussy whipped with a fucking cane, then I might as well just get branded and save myself the extra pain.”

Holding her in place, I reach down between her legs and touch her nimbly, only to discover that even now she’s leaking all over my hand. Something swells inside me and then roars through my ears.

“Let me kiss it better,” I suggest to her without thinking.

Her eyes widen, but I give her no time to consider. I toss the cane aside, untangle my fingers from her hair, and drop to my knees, sliding my hands around her waist, all the way to her hips. She winces and hisses as I grab her arse, squeezing her tender flesh. But I have no attention to spare for that, no attention for anything but the scent of her flooding my nostrils.

I let out a tortured groan. But before I can so much as rip the black lace off her and drown in the silken heat of her body, she grabs my hair and tugs at it sharply, pulling me away from the glistening temptation in front of me.

“No,” she says firmly, aggressively, but with a noticeable fearful undercurrent to the flow of her words. “No. You won. You were always going to win. If you’re going to hurt me, do it now.”

Her eyes are two shining coals in the semi-darkness. Liquid desire pools inside of me at the sight of her face that has little to do with the urgent tightening of my balls.