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His hand moves between my legs, stroking my wet folds. I try not to grind against his hand. I try to just lie there, but when he presses a finger inside me, I begin to move against him. My body wants to fuck.
He chuckles. “Such a greedy toy. I like you.”
I feel a perverse relief at this statement. If he were ugly, it would be easy to resist. My body would agree with my mind. If he were seriously hurting me, it would also be easy. But the pain he gives me is erotic, and his restraint only makes me want more.
There’s something very wrong with me. I try to reason with myself that he didn't feed us for three days. I have so much adrenaline coursing through my body. I've been put in this completely helpless position, and instead of doing whatever grisly things psychos are supposed to do, he's giving me pleasure. It's incredibly hard to fight that, to be good.
Anyway, my definition of good and his definition are completely opposite. And the only definition that matters for my survival is his.
“Such a good girl. You are so responsive,” he says as he continues to pet me between my legs.
I whimper, but otherwise, I can say nothing. I can do nothing but grind helplessly against his hand as he keeps my gaze trapped in his.
“Because you are such a good girl, I'm going to give you a choice. I can punish you with the flogger, or I can let you come. Tell me which do you want? Would you rather be whipped or come on my fingers?”
I squeeze my eyes shut even as I continue to move with his fingers. He pulls his hand away, and it takes everything inside me not to beg for more. Seven will touch me. I can get this from Seven. I won't have to feel like something is completely broken inside me because he’s a good man. But I cannot give myself tothisman except for survival. Not for pleasure. Not for sheer wanton desire. If there’s a choice, I have to make the choice that won't make me feel so good.
“Open your eyes and look at me,” he demands.
I open my eyes.
“Good. Now, choose, Kate. Pain or pleasure.”
But I can't choose. It's demented to ask for pain, and even more wrong to ask for pleasure from this man. Or is it the opposite?
“Master, please... I can't.”
“It's a hard choice, I get it,” he says. He stands next to the bed, and a moment later, the flogger falls so hard against my back I lose my breath.
“That's pain,” he says, as if this were a confusing sensation I wouldn't figure out on my own.
He climbs back onto the bed, straddling me, trailing kisses down my back, running his tongue over the welts his hand left only minutes ago. Then his fingers are inside me again, rubbing in the most intensely pleasurable way.
“This is pleasure,” he says. “Do you want the demonstration again, or can you choose now?”
I know which he wants me to choose. If I deny him this and choose pain, he will make me regret it. Maybe he won't draw blood with the flogger, but it will hurt. What he just gave me was only a taste.
And so I fall. I submit. I give him what will please him even as it will break away a piece of my soul.
“Pleasure, Master.”
“You're such a sweet whore,” he says. His fingers fuck me harder as I buck shamelessly against his hand. It feels good, but I know I can't really come this way. I've never had that kind of orgasm—the one that comes from the inside. Part of me thinks they are a myth. Even so, I'm determined to fake it if necessary to please this dangerous man and save myself whatever pain I can.
But I don't have to. His other hand slips underneath me and rubs my clit. He drives me harder and harder, my body growing wetter and more aroused with each pleasurable sensation he offers me.
“Come, Kate,” he demands.
I wish he would call me Pretty Toy or even sweet whore. Not Kate. I can't stand to hear my name on his lips as I come apart in his hands.
The pleasure shatters me, and he is pleased.
“Good girl.”
I shut my eyes as the shame crawls over me. I didn't justletthis monster touch me, I wanted him to. My body craved him. If he had wanted to fuck me, I would have spread my legs wider and thrust my hips up at him in obedient invitation. I wouldn't have screamed or cried or begged him to stop.
This can't be me. This can't be who I am.
I think he'll untie me now and take me back to the cell, but he doesn't. Instead he goes to the box in the corner and comes back with a blindfold. I let him tie the dark cloth around my eyes without complaint because there’s relief here. I don't have to look at him or be ensnared by that cold gray gaze. I can hide here.
