Page 48 of Nocturnes & Nightmares

But I do.

Fist tight around the base of my dick, I imagine pushing inside of her, feeling her body stiffen against mine, her soft cries dying to long-drawn moans. My hips drive forward, and with the heat of the water, I picture burying my dick inside her tight cunt, the chains over her head lifting her tits through the unbuttoned opening of her shirt, enough for me to suck one of her pert pink nipples into my mouth.

She tries to fight it, of course, for the sake of her pride, but the moment her head tips back and those pretty lips part, the moment she relents and owns her pleasure, is the moment my whole body shudders with victory. I pump my cock in time to each thrust, fucking her rough and recklessly, as the chains rattle and her tits bounce in my face. I drive my hips into my palm the same way I drive into her pussy. Hoisting her up, I pin her to the wall, bracing my hand against the cold tiles as the visual plays in tandem with the woman in the video, the sounds of slapping flesh and her outcries.

Tension winds inside my muscles, and I don’t take my eyes off Nola because I need to watch her come, even if it’s just in fantasy.

The woman’s moans heighten. The slapping sounds hasten in time to the wet jerking of my cock.

“Oh, no, please,” the woman in the video mewls to her fake captor. “I can’t.” The beauty of it is how real she sounds, though. The distress in her voice bleeds through every sweet little imploration, until her moans become quick pants and hiccups of panic.

She can’t help the inevitable collapse of her resistance, as every muscle trembles with the need to hold on to her tightly-guarded morals, and the moment her pussy contracts along my shaft, I’m done. Warm jets of cum hit the tiles, quickly washed away by the dribbles of water spilling from my skin. I groan and squeeze every drop, imagining my seed up inside of her, filling her body. How badly I wish I could touch her right now, to see the flush of her skin and watch her body convulse in pleasure. Harsh breaths beat back against my face as I rest my head against the shower wall and bang out the last of my load.

It’s not enough. It never is.

For now, though, it keeps the cravings under control.

For now, it keeps Nola safe from my messed-up appetite, a bastard family curse that ensures I’ll never have a woman the same way most men do.

13

The Sandman

One week ago …

The blonde twitched with the first signs the tranquilizer had begun to wear off. The slight flare of her nostrils through the small breathing holes of the latex mask told him she could smell the gasoline in the bucket beside her. The only visible part of her face was her lips, which parted on a gasp. Her eyes remained concealed by black latex that also masked her long blonde hair and covered her body.

Aside from her thick, pouty lips, she no longer had any distinguishable features. She could be anyone he wanted her to be. A faceless doll, like the mannequins he’d once slept with at night. Only, the doll before him was warm and came with a hole in which he could bury his swelling manhood, many times throughout the night.

Long, slender legs jerked beneath the smooth black latex sheet vacuum-sealed to her body, where she lay trapped on a bed, knees bent, her thighs held frog-legged apart by the form-fitting plastic. Her hands had been placed flat to the bed at either side of her, completely immobile.

Every curve visible, teasing him.

The sheets came in a variety of colors—white, clear, red. Black was his favorite, though, and the hole for the head fit snug at the throat, to keep the air locked inside, so he could play with different masks. Some covering the mouth, some the entire face. In this case, he enjoyed the element of fear in having her eyes shielded.

He wore a full body latex suit, himself, but unlike the mask she wore, his offered cutouts not only for the mouth, but the eyes, too. Even his penis fit into a black latex sheath attached to the suit, which he’d buffed with lube—the mere preparation making him fully erect. He couldn’t stand the thought of touching her dirty skin, riddled with hair and dry bits that flecked off. The visual of fluids seeping out of her cunt made him want to gag.

The leather braids of his whip slipped between his fingers as he toyed with it, waiting for her to wake.

With a drowsy groan, she shook inside the sheet of latex in a poor effort to move about.

The first weak scream that passed her lips soured to a tearless sob. Latex squeaked and rubbed as she fought inside her bindings.

“Hello, Marnee.”

At the sound of his voice, she froze, lips trembling as her head, the only movable part of her body, blindly shifted back and forth, as though she searched the air for him.

Dipping his latex-clad finger into the gasoline, he dabbed a small drop beneath her nose, and she reared back, gasping through her mouth. “Regarding my proposition earlier …” He reached down to where the base of a red dildo stuck out of an attached condom he’d jammed into her pussy—a long latex balloon pocket he’d sewn into the sheet to keep the air from leaking out. With a gentle tug, he removed the plug for the small hole between her pried thighs, one he could scarcely look at, even when covered in the shiny black material, without shivering. “Which would you prefer? To be ravaged for hours, or burned alive?”

“Please.” Her voice carried a slur, broken by sniffles. “Don’t do this. Please don’t do this.”

“Answer the question.”

“I want to go home.”

Whip in hand, he brought the leather braids down against her thighs with a resounding whack that echoed through the cold pole barn.

She cried out, while the latex concealed the marks of her abuse.