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“As long as you're a good girl for me, I won't get a new toy to replace you.”
He doesn't spell it out, but we both know what replacing me means. It doesn't mean he'll let me go.
I wish he wasn't so attractive. There’s a twisted sick part of me that has a hard time completely understanding the danger he represents. This part of my mind can only process his beauty, and the way he's touching me isn't helping. These soothing gentle caresses are confusing.
My body arches into his touch as his hand strokes farther downward, until he's rubbing my ass. I should pull away even though there’s nowhere for me to go. I want to pull away. I'm so scared right now, but I know he will do whatever he wants with me, and all my brain can process is that I’ll be safe as long as I’m a good girl.
This thought repeats over and over in my mind like a mantra.
I don't really know this is true, but I cling to it anyway.
I'm caught off guard by the hard smack on my ass. It's followed by several more sharp blows in quick succession. I cry out, part from pain, part from shock at the sudden shift. But before I can tense up again, he's back to the soothing stroking.
Heat rises into my face as I realize my body has decided this is sexually exciting. Wetness floods between my legs. It's such a betrayal, this thing my body is doing to me. It was different with Seven. It's okay with Seven.
But this nameless man who took me off the street and locked me in a cell... I can't feel this when he touches me. I can't allow it. But my body doesn't care. My body equally craves the touch of both men. There is no either/or, it is only both/and. My eyes have greedily drunk both men's beauty and found them equally satisfying.
He spanks me again, this time the other cheek, and before he even gets to the gentle caress, even in the midst of the pain as I cry out, a deep throbbing ache begins between my legs. He rubs the sting out where he spanked me.
“Are you wet for me?” he asks.
I don't bother to lie because as bad as it is for me, I know the truth will please him. And that may be good for me.
“Yes, Master.”
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 to this man 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.
