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I love sex. I love being fucked by a man. It makes me feel powerful knowing how they worship my body, how I can control them with the touch of their cock. But right now, I’ve never felt more powerless.
My thighs tighten, squeezing his fingers unconsciously.
Fuck, I’m going to come in a matter of seconds. But right before I find relief, he stops. My body is thrumming with fast-pumping blood and unbridled surges of deep desire with no release.
I search for his eyes in the dark to see the wicked gleam I know is there. Instead, I hear a soft chuckle against my ear. Suddenly, I remember the insane fantasy I wrote on page three. That writing was a huge mistake.
“No,” I breathe.
“No? No, you don’t want me to touch you again?” I can hear the cruel smile in his voice.
I don’t answer. I can’t win. He’s going to torture me no matter what I say.
“That’s what I thought.” And then his fingers brush against my bud again, but only that spot as he keeps me pressed against the wall. I can’t focus on anything except where he’s touching me. That intense rush spreads from my core throughout my body like wildfire—out of control.
And then he fucking stops—his fingers hover over me but not touching me.
I groan and arch my body off the wall, searching for his touch. My body is begging for him to touch me again, to let me finish.
“Are you not enjoying yourself, wife?”
I whimper. “Make me come.”
“I thought you hated me? Why would you want me to make you come?”
And then his finger presses over my bud, causing me to gasp. I try to let myself come. I try to let go of the pressure building inside of me. I try to find my release, but he stops before I have a chance.
Again and again and fucking again, he touches me, bringing me right to the edge of a cliff before stopping abruptly—never letting me go over.
“Please,” I beg again, with tears streaming down my face.
“Please, what? Let you come? Let you feel pleasure? I don’t think you deserve any pleasure, do you?”
I’m losing it. He’s pushed me too far, and I can’t stand it much longer. I need a release. I need to get out of this basement. I need…
My body is worked up and flooded with built-up energy. Finally, the pressure bursts—just not in the enjoyable way.
I don’t even know what I’m about to do when I do it. But I explode in a fury of emotion, wiggling free of Lennox’s hold and grabbing the gun on his hip, and aiming it at his heart.
“Don’t move.”
I can feel him freeze, but he’s not afraid of me. He’s not afraid of anything, even death. Threatening to kill him won’t do anything. He’ll fight me every step.
This is a game, just a game. So play it, Rialta.
“Kneel.” I pant, my body still worked up from his touch, still needing him to finish the job.
I take a step forward, until I’m right in front of him—the gun still aimed at his head.
“Push my pants down.” I try to keep the tremor out of my voice, but I can’t. I’m terrified of letting him touch me, but more terrified of him not.
His hands ease up to my waistband and carefully peel my pants down, his fingertips grazing every inch of skin as he lowers them to my ankles.
I swallow hard, considering my next move. It’s not too late to turn back.
“What do you want me to do?” Lennox asks, his voice full of amusement at our predicament.
I press the gun against his temple, reminding him that he’s no longer in control—I am.
