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Tessa didn’t reply.
“What do you think of yourself being laid open, your pussy being whipped?” Miles demanded an answer.
Tessa fidgeted with the leather bindings, trying to put off her answer. She found no words to authorize such brutality on her own body, even though the idea had been one that had often appeared from out of now where in her mind. In any event, Tessa knew the arrangements had been made. The only thing she wondered… had it been a spontaneous suggestion, or had they planned it in advance? Was it a flash of inspiration, or part of a larger, devious plot?
“Answer me, Tessa,” Miles spoke sharply. His eyes were brimming with darkness—in fact, it seemed at that very moment, the lights in garret dimmed appreciably. Tessa was amazed by the strange coincidence, even though it could be easily explained, with Hector standing next to the switches on the wall adjusting the lighting.
Suddenly, there were but two lights lit, and both were glaring at Tessa, blinding her vision. She could still make out the glimmer on Miles’ face, but it was as shadowy as if he were a ghost just materializing.
“Answer me,” he repeated.
“It would be another sign of my enslavement to you,” she finally replied.
“How true,” he agreed, “but how would it make you feel to have you have your pussy whipped?”
She didn’t know. “I imagine it would excite me.”
“Eventually,” Miles said, “and before that?”
Tessa’s eyes flashed angrily as she felt his words prodding at her for something more. “It would make me scream in agony,” she blurted out, “is that what you want me to say?”
“I only want you to admit the truth.”
“If you want me in agony now, be assured I’m there.”
“And no doubt wet between your legs,” Martine guessed.
“No doubt,” Tessa snapped at her.
“And, if it’s Martine that wields the lash against your pussy…” Miles asked.
“I’d hate it,” she quipped almost before Miles finished the question.
He smiled. “That’s good. This way—with Martine brandishing the implement—you won’t have the advantage of some affection getting in the way.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t,” Tessa declared.
“You two must think I’m a totally ruthless bitch,” Martine objected, though her objection was only in fun. She had every intention of being rough on her roommate; to have free reign with the little tramp was a dream come true.
Miles took Martine’s hand in his, affectionately stroking the skin. “Your temperament is perfect for what I have in mind. It’s perfect for what Tessa needs. I told her I’d give her trip down the wicked path of he
r nasty passions—that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
Martine admired him. Though she didn’t like admiring any man, this one was so much like herself that she couldn’t help it. One day, she’d hate him, probably because he’d choose Tessa over her, but she was used to that. Martine didn’t want men the way most women do. She wanted challenge, a good contest, risk, intrigue—and Bryce was certainly giving her that.
“Besides, this is going to be one helluva video tape,” Miles continued. “I know several collectors and dealers who will pay dearly to own it. Each little jerk of the female cunt in abject pain makes some dicks crazy.”
“Then I’ll really make the lash sizzle, Sir.” Martine’s voice darkened like her dark eyes, into something of a sexy growl. She was ready to begin.
Cowering on the bed, Tessa wanted to run. She was nothing in their eyes—just flesh, limbs, cunt, nothing more. A body to be used. That was Hector’s word. Used like a whore. Was she just an unpaid commodity for Miles’ use, to pad his bank account and impress his friends?
Tessa fumed. The straps of the dildo device cut more keenly into her skin. All the pulling and the posing made the device uncomfortable. And, there was that ever-present gnawing sensation in her belly—lust, desire, body-hunger. She hated that fact.
“God, if they’d only get on with it,” she brooded to herself. “Do anything you want with me, just do it!” she wanted to scream. Her body crawled with anxiety, was prickly hot with sexual energy rolling through the deepest recesses with nowhere to go.
And still, she had no voice, no permission to speak. She waited, looking a bit like a little trapped animal, a gentle, anxious lamb awaiting the claw of a lion to strike her down.
***
