“This isn’t you.”
The words are spoken with conviction. Her faith in her analysis makes her bold, but she doesn’t know me. She said so herself. She could’ve known me, and who knows what kind of man I would’ve been for her? But ifs are feeble, and reality is cruel. This is what we are.
I circle her once, twice. Her eyes follow me. When I’m behind her again, I strike. The leather catches the back of her legs. Hampered by the folds of her ridiculously thick skirt, the lash doesn’t do damage to her skin, but it’s forceful enough to make her legs buckle. She falls down on her knees. Before she has time to get up, I cup her neck and push her upper body down until her back hits the floor. She fights me, but it’s hard to struggle when your legs are folded underneath you and you can’t breathe. She knows when to give up. She knows to stop clawing at me and lie still. When she does, I slacken my hold, allowing her air, but I don’t remove my touch.
“Straighten your legs.”
She obeys. I give her enough space until she’s managed the maneuver. I don’t tell her to close her eyes, because that’s not the point. I let her look at me, ignoring the hatred that darkens her irises to galaxy blue.
“Take off your panties.”
Those blues widen, the green and gold dots contracting like satellite debris polluting space.
“Take them off, Lina, or I’ll remove them for you.”
She knows this much about me. I’m not bluffing.
If looks could cut you up, I’d be strips small enough to feed a blender. Her hands dip under her skirt. She lifts her ass and fiddles a bit, getting her panties down to her thighs. I’m still pinning her neck to the ground. That’s as far as she can get those panties without lifting her upper body.
“Now pull up your dress.”
“No.”
She really has to learn to obey. Straightening, I fold the whip double and spank her pussy once through the fabric of her dress. It’s a gentle smack, but she arches off the ground.
“Either you pull up the dress, or I tear it off.”
She must really not want her dress removed or her pussy spanked. She grabs a fistful of fabric on either side of the skirt. There’s a short hesitation, as if she’s hoping I’d change my mind.
“You should’ve just kneeled,” I taunt. “If you obeyed, it would’ve been under your skirt.”
She frowns. She doesn’t catch my drift, but she will soon.
“Up.” I hook the whip handle under the hem and lift it a good few inches to demonstrate what I need.
Her nostrils flare as she lifts her skirt to her thighs.
I tap her stomach with the handle. “All the way to here.”
She shoots me another hateful look but complies. When she’s lying exposed with the lower half of her body naked, except for those black panties constricting her thighs, I smile down at her reddening face before turning my attention to the juncture of her legs. She doesn’t shave, but she trims. Her pussy is covered with a dusting of golden hair. I want to see her slit and arousal. Snaring the elastic of her panties with the whip handle, I pull them slowly down her legs and free from her ankles. She doesn’t break eye contact or ask questions. Good. She’s here to follow instructions.
“Open your legs.”
Her lips purse together.
“There’s no fabric to protect your vagina, this time.” I show her the whip. “It’s going to sting.”
Everything flares—her eyes, her nostrils, her fingers—but she spreads her legs like an obedient girl.
“Bend your knees.”
Her eyes go even rounder. Her silence says no.
I drag the whip up the inside of her thigh. “If you follow instructions, I’ll keep my hands to myself. If I have to make you, my fingers will most definitely end up buried inside you.”
“You said you wouldn’t.”
“I said I wouldn’t stick my dick in you. However, I’m not opposed to using other things, such as my tongue.” I tap her thigh. “Bend.”
The threat of my tongue does the trick. She obeys reluctantly, stretching her pussy wide and almost giving me the view I want. Stepping between her legs, I enjoy that almost-view. I like to look at my most prized possessions, and her pretty cunt qualifies for both categories. Most prized, with the emphasis on possession.
The trimmed curls don’t hide much. Using the whip handle, I part those pink lips. I’m still to kiss them, but I know they will be soft under my teeth and musky in my mouth. I stretch her open to see her slit and the nub hidden between her folds. She’s no longer shooting daggers at me with her eyes. She’s got them fixed on the ceiling.
“Look at me,” I command. I want her to watch me while I study her. I want her to see me.
When she complies, I flay her open to the right, then the left, taking my time to imprint the image in my mind. Her inner labia unfold like a flower opening its petals to the night. She’s not a sunflower. She’s a night lily. It’s not in daylight that she thrives, but in the dark hours of the night.
She may not know it yet, but she’s my kind of crazy. We fit together like a pussy and a whip. I trace her slit with the handle as if I’m a scientist and she’s an experiment, but there’s nothing clinical about the hard-on in my pants. She’s biting her lip, embarrassed at my unabashed dissection of her arousal. Yes, there’s no end to my perverse gratification when the folds I’m so diligently inspecting start to glisten. They turn redder, more swollen.
Pressing the stick at the top of her slit, I pull up the skin to reveal the little hidden pearl. Her clit swells and throbs under my stare. I’ve seen everything when she was bent over my desk, but not from this angle. This is new. I have a feeling Lina will always be new.
The urge to touch her is severe. It’s real. It’s not a power game where only one of us gets to play with a whip. It’s a game where I’ll easily ejaculate from visual stimulation alone. Just because I like torturing myself, I flick the stick over her clit to test her reaction. She bites her lip harder. Her pussy clenches around nothing.
I drag the whip handle up and down over the nub. She whimpers, but it’s when I use a circular motion that her back lifts off the floor. All the while, I inspect the button that’s causing her to shiver with pleasure as if it’s a million dollar-painting I’m invested in buying.
“This is sick,” she whispers as she lies there with her legs spread and me probing and watching, learning what she likes.
I don’t care what she thinks. She belongs to me. I can do with her as I please. I earned the right. She deserves the consequences. As long as she comes, it’s not wrong. Not in my eyes. It’s not how she gets there. It’s that I get her there, even if I have to use paddles, whips, and her own fingers.
“Touch yourself.”
“What?” She looks at me as if I asked her to fuck the doorknob.
“You heard me.”
“No.”
“We’re going to work on your vocabulary.” I press the stick at the bottom of her slit, applying steady pressure but not enough to penetrate her. “I’ll give you a choice. You can fuck yourself here.” I move down to her asshole, teasing her rosebud entrance. “Or maybe you prefer here.” Lastly, I give her a soft smack on her clit. “Or here.”
She gasps, her shoulders lifting off the floor.
“Choose, Lina. Cunt, clit, or asshole.”
“I-I can’t.”
“In this house, no and I can’t aren’t part of your vocabulary.”
She’s so flustered, so wet. Red blotches mar her cheeks, and her pussy quivers. If I unfasten the ten little buttons of her bodice, will I find her nipples hard? It’s difficult to say with the thick fabric covering her. Where does she buy these ugly, old-fashioned dresses? I don’t know if she’s wet because I’m standing over her like a schoolteacher with an erection I’m not trying to hide, watching her getting wetter, or because I’m touching her in such a dirty way with an object designed to torture.
“Pick, Lina, unless you want me to pick for you. Tr
ust me, if I do, I’ll fuck your clit, pussy, or ass—maybe all three—with the stick-end of this whip until you give me what I want.”
“W-what do you want?”
“Your orgasm. You have until three. One.”
Her fingers flitter to her clit. She rubs in a circular motion, like I’d done with the stick. She’s slick. Her movements are fast and the sounds wet. Crouching down for a closer look, I inhale her scent. She smells of sweet poison and sex. Her head is thrown back and her brow pleated in concentration. She goes faster. The sound of her fingers rubbing over her slick flesh makes me harder. She works herself up to a crescendo, her neck muscles pulling from the strain, and then she collapses.
“I can’t.” She shakes her head. “I can’t make myself come if you watch.”
The leather strip comes down so fast she doesn’t know what’s hit her. It falls between her legs, covering her clit and slit. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but she squeezes her legs together and cries out in fright. At least she didn’t fake an orgasm. For that, I cut her some slack.
“What did I say about your vocabulary?”
“I can’t come like—”
Smack.
“Ow!”
“That was for I can’t.”
She’s angry now. “What do you want from me?”
“Try harder.”
“Why?”
“I had my turn. Now it’s yours.” Smack. “Show me.”
She cries out again, covering her pussy with her hands.
“Two, Lina. When I get to three, I’m fucking you with the whip, and I choose which hole.”
Her chest rises and falls with fast breaths. In direct contrast, she opens her legs in slow motion, her fingers going tentatively back to her clit.
“Tell you what. Since you didn’t try to fake it, I’m going to help you out.”
She doesn’t ask. She watches me as she fingers her clit while I push the stick end inside, fucking her lightly as she plays with herself. It’s hot to watch. If my dick rubs up against her, I’ll blow. Before she knows it, she’s going to let me stick my dick in every hole in her body. Her outer labia clenches around the thin intrusion, telling me what I want to know. I already know from the paddle incident how to rub her up inside, and it doesn’t take long. Her globes pull together. Her ass lifts off the floor. Every muscle in her lower region pulls tight. She comes with a silent gasp, refusing to give me sounds. That’s all right, because I have her pleasure.
Her hips collapse. She looks spent. Gently, I remove the handle, wiping it clean on the inside of her leg. I straighten without covering her, because I’m not done looking. Our gazes are locked. There are questions in hers, so I give her the answer.
“This is who I am.”
Lina
Who is my husband? Who is the man carrying me to his bedroom in warm, strong arms, so careful with me, as if I could break, when he’s just broken me on his study floor? I was right. I don’t know him. I do know I’m not immune to his hands or the way his eyes turn dark with lust when I orgasm. No, I don’t know much about him, but I do know he’s not the boy-man who told me he was going to marry me. He’s a grown man, manipulative enough to force me into marriage and perverse enough to take what he wants, no matter how shameful. Most of all, he’s a dangerous man. He not only survives the battles of life, he thrives on them. He loves the fight. I see it in his brooding eyes every time he forces me to resist, only to keep me hovering on the brink of pleasure before pushing me over ever so slowly.
Every time he spars with me on his desk or floor, I see the sinister satisfaction in his eyes when I lose the battle, when my body gives in and comes. It’s not that I’m not fighting the climaxes. I do. I fight giving him what he wants with every ounce I’ve got, but he’s clever at dissecting me, at reading the signals and figuring out which buttons to push. The one I’ll never let him get close to is my heart. I take comfort in this notion as he carries me into the bathroom and lowers me to the rug. He can have my pleasure, hurt me until it feels good, and make me peak with paddles and whips, but he can’t touch what’s not physical. He can’t touch my feelings.
The violent lust has left his eyes, but he’s still hard. If he hadn’t promised he wouldn’t force me, not with his cock, I would’ve been scared. He smooths his hands down my arms. An involuntary shiver runs over me when his fingers brush the scars. I can’t stand any caresses on the mutilations. The urge to pull away is so severe my skin breaks out in a cold sweat. It takes all my self-control to stay put.
His look is almost tender. “Cold?”
“No.” I’m surprised my voice is steady.
The tenderness evaporates, making space for hardness. “I see.”
As if sensing my revulsion, he drops his hands, but his eyes tighten and his lips thin. “Need help with the dress?”
I fold my arms over my stomach. “What?”
He trails a finger over the buttons of the bodice. “The dress. Do you need help removing it? There must be ten buttons the size of a raven’s pupil.”
“I’m fine.” As an after-thought, I throw in, “Thank you.”
He nods. The gesture is like a small kindness in exchange for what I gave him in the study.
His gaze flicks to the shower as he speaks. “I’ll leave you to it.”
By exiting the bathroom, he gives me another reward for letting him watch. He gives me privacy. He leaves the door open a crack, and for all my apprehension of what he’s capable of, I can’t bring myself to close it completely. The fear of being locked in is bigger than any other, even having my arms touched. The click of the bedroom door tells me he left the room. I peer around the door. Sure enough, the bedroom is empty. The sight of the closed door makes my throat constrict.
It’s not locked. It’s only closed.
I tell myself this over and over, until I feel calm enough to brave it into the shower. I only take a few minutes to clean up and pull on my nightdress. By the time I step out of the bathroom, Damian is back. He acknowledges me with his eyes from across the room. Throwing back the bed covers, he wordlessly commands me to get in. Seething on the inside, I do as I’m ordered. When I’m lying flat on my back, he grips my uninjured wrist and pulls up my arm.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, already starting to silently freak out.
“I need a shower. It’s either the handcuffs or Russell stands guard at your side.”
My anger ignites. “Where am I going to go?”
He trails his thumb lazily over my arm. “You tell me.”
I grit my teeth to bite back the repulsion as his fingers closes around the scars. “I’m not going to kill myself.”
He considers the statement. “I don’t believe you are.”
“Then there’s no need for the constraints.”
Slowly, he lowers my wrist to my side. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, but prove me wrong…”
He doesn’t have to finish the threat. It’s in the unspoken promise of his unsettling eyes. He’ll chain me to the wall if he has to.
“Good,” he says with self-assured confidence.
I don’t have a choice but to obey, not that I’ve ever had suicidal tendencies. I have too much to live for.
He covers my body with the sheet. The act is both careful and possessive, as if he’s covering an expensive piece of art to protect it from dust and curious eyes. It’s too hot for the comforter, which he leaves at my feet. Without sparing me another glance, he makes his way to the bathroom. As before, he leaves the door open, only wider. His back is turned to me as he starts stripping. I should turn on my side, or at the very least close my eyes, but I’m frozen in place. Does he know I’m looking? Does he care? Or maybe that’s the objective.
His shirt comes off first. His back is riddled with hard, lean grooves. His arms flex as he goes for his belt. Every movement puts the cut of his muscles on display. He stands tall and confident as he unbuttons his pants and pulls down the zipper. When he unexpectedly turns, he
catches me staring. Too late, I turn my face to the wall. I’ve already seen his belt and fly hanging open. I’ve already seen the male hardness under his black briefs. Heat burns in my cheeks.
From the corner of my eye, I continue to watch him. It’s compulsive, a magnetism I can’t control. He sits down on the toilet seat to remove his shoes and socks. When he straightens again, his pants and briefs follow. His erection is huge, the bulbous head and thick shaft jutting out proudly, but I can’t bring myself to stare so unabashedly, not while he’s watching me.
There’s a smirk on his face as he finally gives me his back again to run the water in the shower. I close my eyes, willing myself not to give in, but it’s fruitless. My gaze is pulled to his sculptured ass and powerful legs as he steps into the shower and closes the door. The glass is clear, allowing me an unobscured view of Damian leaning one hand on the wall while grabbing his erection in his other. I know what he’s going to do before he starts pumping his fist.
The only reason I don’t look away is he’s not acknowledging my invasive stare. He’s fully immersed in the act of masturbating. His head is lowered, the water running in rivulets through his ebony hair. His gaze is fixed on the manipulations of his hand. I imagine his breathing turning faster, the sound drowned out by the running water. I watch for no other reason than he’s a magnificent specimen, a perfect exhibition of male power. My body reacts mechanically to the erotic sight, my folds swelling and my entrance lubricating for penetration.
What I feel emotionally is far from arousal. I fear the power the man who calls himself my husband holds. I feel the darkness he’s holding back. A day will come when he won’t be strong enough to keep that depraved darkness on a leash. I sense with instinctive knowledge my time is short. Damian’s patience is thin and his lust strong. One day soon, he’s going to unleash all of that darkness on me.
My breathing spikes in acknowledgement of the truth as his ass clenches and his hips jerk forward. In tandem, his body and my heartbeat peak as I fall into the devastating realization while he ejaculates behind a thin veil of steam that starts filling the cubicle. Mercifully, the choice to watch is taken from my hands as the fog thickens and hides everything in the shower from view. Damian finishes in a cloud of humidity while I’m left with an unwanted slickness between my legs.
Beauty in the Broken: A Diamond Magnate Novel Page 10