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With a laser-like focus, I set her feet on the ground, but keep an arm wrapped around her waist. She’s so damn small compared to me, her head barely coming up to my chest.
The difference in height and weight only accentuates her femininity, her youth, and the fact that I should go easy on this girl.
But I can’t. Not just because of my principles, but because I need to see her face when she realizes there is pleasure in the pain, when she experiences the awareness that this bad thing that’s about to happen to her can actually be good.
Oh. So. Good.
Keeping her in place with an arm wrapped around her, my forearm like a bar on one of those roller coasters whose only task is to keep the occupant secured, I reach up my free hand and grab the steel hook hanging from the thick chain, the same chain you could hang a small car from…or a man, while you beat him into submission, trying to get answers or a confession out of him.
Or a little college girl, a first for me in so many ways.
My cock is as hard as a steel pipe, pushing into her from behind as I grab her wrists and lift her hands overhead, using a piece of nearby rope to tie her up to the hook.
“What the fuck are you doing, you sick fuck?” she struggles, but it only causes her body to spin around and adds unwanted pressure to her shoulders.
“Teaching your sweet little ass a lesson,” I grit out as I take a step back and stare at her clothed body.
This girl has tried to own me with that recording device. Now it’s time to show her who owns who, who she belongs to. Exactly who the fuck is in charge here. And I’m going to make that abundantly clear so she’ll never fucking forget it.
“Pick,” I say, pointing with my free hand toward the workbench directly in front of her, as my other hand drags down her spine.
“No!” she protests, kicking back at me, only making this worse on herself, her feistiness only turning me on that much more.
“You pick or I pick for you.”
She swallows so hard I can hear it and so can she. I grab her chin and pivot her head back toward me, seeing the fear in her eyes, but there’s something else there. Excitement, and she can’t deny it.
“I’m not going to be a part of your sick game. You let me go now or my father will send so many people after you you’re the one who will wind up being tortured in some off-the-grid warehouse.
“Ah, yes,” I laugh. “Your father. The pussy who couldn’t help you with your problem which is why you came to me.”
She swallows a second time.
“You think I didn’t research you? You think I’m just some idiot who shows up and discusses committing crimes with little girls?”
I pinch her jaw harder and she grits out, “No.” But the reality is a yes. I didn’t know exactly who she was, but I did know she was a rich kid and one, or both, of her parents, are probably the ones with the endless supply of cash.
Some wimp who wears his Sperry Topsiders on his yacht off the coast of Cape Cod, or wherever rich fucks pretend to be bosses in front of women they rent by the hour.
But they’re far from anything resembling a boss when I cross their path. I know because I’ve done it time and time again. They need shit done, they call me. And I’m not a hired gun. I’m the boss. They pay upfront and they get what I give them. I never let them think it’s the other way around because it’s not.
And more often than not their kids don’t respect them, wish they would just spend more time with them instead of focusing on adding more numbers on a screen, a bank balance that is already greater than the GDP of some small banana republics.
But these guys never get it. This time I will. Because what this girl needs more than anything is a paternal figure in her life. That’s why she’s risking all her daddy’s money to find a man who can do what her father can’t, won’t, and is incapable of. And like most little rich girls she needs some excitement in her life. Preppy boys her own age in pastel Ralph Lauren polo shirts don’t really cut it.
“Now. You choose, or I choose for you,” I say, shaking her face so she has no choice but to look at the table.
“That one,” she says, motioning toward the braided rope with the frayed end. “That doesn’t look like it will hurt as much.” Quickly realization sets in. “You’re not going to hurt me, are you?”
“No more than you want me to, precious.”
Stomping over to the bench I grab the rope, wrapping the thick end around my arm, the frayed tip dragging along the ground about three feet from my hand when it’s resting by my side.
But there will be no resting. It’s time to make this girl feel more alive than she ever has been.
I flip the rope up over her shoulder and drag it over her back. The sensation has her back bowing in but then she pushes it back, leaning into the experience I’m providing.
Carrying on with this for a few minutes I warm her up. She resists at first, but her body doesn’t align with her mouth, with her words.
