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One moment, I’m on the verge of an orgasm; the next, it’s gone. Kirill wrenches his fingers from inside me, leaving me hot, bothered, and with a scream bubbling at the back of my throat.
“What…? Why?”
His expression is now closed off, and if I wasn’t so frustrated, I’d be frightened. “This is a punishment. You’re not supposed to come when you haven’t confessed yet.”
“You can’t be serious…?”
He thrusts the knife's handle inside me, and I reel from the renewed pressure. Kirill all but fucks me with the knife, and I don’t know why it feels so hot. Depraved, yes, but it’s so erotic that my earlier intense buildup seems like a joke compared to the wave that’s currently sweeping me under.
“Oh, God…”
“I’m the only god you’ll ever have.” He goes faster, harder, and so out of control that I think I’ll faint from the intensity alone. “What’s his name?”
At the moment, I forget why I shouldn’t be confessing everything. But some brain cells remain functioning and forbid me to.
The moment I shake my head, Kirill pulls out the knife when I’m a second away from coming. This time, I scream with frustration, and tears line my eyes.
“Stop it, please,” I cry out.
Sweat coats my skin, my nipples hurt so bad due to the sexual stimulation, and my core screams for a release that he won’t offer me.
And since my hands are bound, I can’t do it myself either, so I’m completely at his nonexistent mercy.
Kirill’s face turns stone-cold as he teases my clit with his fingers and thrusts the knife’s handle inside again. “You’re the only one who can stop this by giving me his fucking name. The more you resist, the more creative I become about denying you one orgasm after the other. I know your body, Sasha, even better than you do. I know when you’re about to come. Your breaths are faster, your neck flushes red, and your hips involuntarily jerk. I’ll let you come close to the peak but never reach it. I’ll do this again and again and fucking again until you give me what I want.”
And then he proceeds to do just that.
Until I think I’m going to die.
12
KIRILL
I’ve never experienced frustration that’s so close to the level of self-fucking-destruction I’m feeling now.
I had to physically remove myself from the room before I did something I’d regret for the rest of my life.
My steps are controlled, but they hide a raging fucking war. Once I’m in the bathroom, I splash my face with cold water a few times, but it does nothing to kill the flames that are devouring me from the inside out.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror and barely resist the urge to drive my fist into it. That would be no different than spiraling back into bad habits.
Namely the younger, less balanced version of myself.
The man who stares back at me overflows with negative fucked-up energy that could be used as ammunition for a weapon of mass destruction.
I had everything I fucking wanted. Not because of privilege. In fact, being born into this family has worked against me all my life. The only reason I got to where I am is because of pure fucking will.
The best way to get what you wish for is to block all other paths so that those against you have no choice but to turn to you.
And I succeeded, again and again.
Except with the fucking woman tied to my bed.
I whirl around and head back into the bedroom. Sasha lies in the middle of her shredded clothes and spots of her arousal. Her skin is sweaty, red, and smeared with droplets of her blood and wetness that I made sure to tease her whole body with.
There are also marks from my knife on her breasts and stomach because I couldn’t resist putting them there.
Currently, a toy teases her clit on a low setting, so she’s close but will never get there.
Did I get this toy on impulse a few weeks ago? Yes, I did. But maybe it wasn’t impulse, after all, since I knew all along that I would be torturing the fuck out of her.
I just didn’t know that she wouldn’t budge. Not even a little. Not even close.
I used every single method under the sun and denied her more orgasms than should be legal. Yet this little fucking shit only shook her head while sobbing and begging for a release.
Then, when I continued depriving her, she started calling me names and cursing me six ways to Sunday while trying to dry hump my fingers.
Now, she’s in the acceptance stage. Her head lolls to the side, sweat coats her skin, and her nipples are as hard as diamond pebbles.
Her expressive eyes are half closed, and her dry lips are parted. Despite giving her water now and again, she’s still on the verge of dehydration.
