by Anna Zaires, Pepper Winters, Skye Warren, Lynda Chance, Pam Godwin, Amber Lin
Without thought, his hands went to the mask, released the buckles on the back, and chucked it to the side. He’d already seen her face, so the disguise must’ve been meant to conceal her expressions. Well, screw that. He wanted to force her responses to the surface and bare every twitch and twist of her features.
She didn’t try to free her arms or raise her face from the rug. Her breath whispered evenly through the mane of brown silk tousled around her head. He lifted his chest, pinning her legs with his, and flipped her over. “Do you and Van anally rape your prisoners?”
Arms limp at her sides, her expression was a blank canvas. But her detachment seemed to make her eyes look even more dangerous as they drew into slits and locked on his.
The length of chain gave him enough range of motion to strangle her with his hands, but then what? He didn’t have the code to the door, and she didn’t seem concerned about her safety, which meant she was prepared. Did she have a weapon hidden in her bodice? “You’re a pimp and a rapist. How many slaves, Liv?”
“It’s Mistress.” She slammed her brow into the bridge of his nose.
A blaze of fire burned through his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose, fighting the hurt from her hard head, worrying about the costs his parents would pay for his temerity. He needed to make certain the risks he took didn’t touch them.
She slid a palm up the back of his thigh and parted his cheeks. No amount of clenching dissuaded her from touching that forbidden place between. If he swatted at her, he wouldn’t be able to hold down her shoulders. He could roll off her and lose the upper hand or he could endure her probing finger.
He did his best to control his breathing, and failed. “What would you call this?” he panted. “Seduction or rape?”
Holding his eyes, she tried to pull her knees to the outside of his legs, but his weight held them in place. So she used the only freedom she had and pressed a stiff finger against his rectum, her eyes hard and fixed on his. She prodded deeper, a dry invasion that crushed his molars together. “Try again. With. The. Title.”
His blood boiled, and his mouth dried. “Are you going to rape me, Mistress?”
“You are restraining me.”
Her finger, toying shallowly where no finger should go, garbled his brain. He wouldn’t give up his position, and as much as the violation made him squirm, it wasn’t dampening the heat stirring in his groin where it rubbed against the apex of her open thighs.
“You like this.” Her lips curled up, perversely smug. “They all do. By the end of the first day, all of my boys beg me to fuck them.” Finger in his backside, she ground herself against his traitorous hard-on. “You’ll beg, too.”
He wanted to roar Never, but the way his fatigued body responded to her touch, he knew it would be a lie.
Her finger vanished, and his muscles relaxed but not for long. She slid her hand between their hips, and he jerked his groin out of her way. But she wasn’t reaching for him. She cupped herself beneath the lace, massaging and throwing her head back with a moan.
Heat swarmed his face. He’d kissed girls. He’d groped a breast once above the shirt, but he’d never seen a girl naked before him, and this…this open display of masturbation he’d never dared to imagine. Yet he couldn’t stop his gaze from clinging the dips and arches of her body and the hand circling between her legs. Was this why the others begged her for sex? “You rape them.” He thickened his voice with accusation, wanted her to hear his objection.
Her hand froze and her glare slammed into his. The darkest reaches of her eyes seemed to rotate while her pupils remained steadily locked on his. “You’re my first virgin cock, boy, which means you will endure your training without any hope for a charity fuck.” A cruel expression bent her face, catching light along her scar. “And you’ll address me correctly, you stubborn prick.” She yanked her hand from between them and slapped her fingers over his mouth, trailing a smear of tart moisture on his lips and tongue.
The shock of it arched his back, his restrained hands tightening the chains and halting his backward flinch. She used the distraction to slip from under him and shove a finger into her cleavage. As he scrambled forward to recover his position above her, she whipped out a metal wire, snapped it taut between her hands, and caught him in the throat.
In the next breath, he was on his back, his neck ensnared by the garrote she’d unleashed from her corset. His arms were yanked to the side by the chains clapping against the floor. Just an impulse away from hindering his airflow, he held himself as still as possible.
Her knee dug against his chest. “Requirement number two. Slave will service Master sexually with exceptional skill, and his body will be prepared to make it easy for Master.” She tilted her head, a tangle of curls snaking around her chest. “Your cock doesn’t belong to me, but if you beg nicely, I’ll take your virgin ass before Van gets a hold of it.”
It wasn’t her words that chilled him so much as the conviction that punctuated them.
She released him and his hands went to his throat, rubbing the unbroken skin.
On her way to the door, she glanced over her shoulder. “You’ll find your restraints don’t quite reach the mattress. Sleep on the rug. And if you bend just right—” she pointed at the toilet “—you can balance your tight little asshole on the rim.”
The rim that was splattered in his urine. His fingers gouged into his palms.
“If you don’t shit before I return, I’ll use a rectal bulb syringe to clean you out.” With a flick of her finger over the keypad, she left.
Hatred, his new friend, swept through his veins, promising delicious acts of retaliation against every foul fiber in that woman’s body. He shook with a violent contraction of muscles, his blood raging. He wanted to shove her against the wall and pummel her—
Sweet Jesus, what was wrong with him? Violence didn’t justify violence. He needed to talk with her, dig through the vicious mess of her mind, and show her there was a healthier way to overcome whatever was dragging her into damnation.
He rose on shaky legs and tested the chain’s four-foot length. Didn’t reach the bed or the door, but if he backed up and doubled-over like she’d said, he could use the toilet. As he stared into the bowl, he knew why she’d want his bowels clean. He also knew he’d follow her orders if it meant forestalling an enema.
As for the heat she’d stirred in him when he’d held her down, that couldn’t have been real. She’d concocted those feelings with the curves of her body, the shadowy depth of her gaze, and the musical way she spoke. God help him, her voice was so captivating it could reach over a hundred tortured screams and call a man to kneel beneath her garrote, mesmerized and brainwashed… Yeah, brainwashed. His attraction to her was certainly not genuine.
Who was he kidding? Her taste lingered on his lips, his backside still tingled from her invasion, and his erection throbbed merely by conjuring thoughts about her. And at what point did he go from exhaustion to full-on erection? Was it a testament to the power she held over him? Maybe it was the yogurt giving him the fuel he needed, because no way in hell was he that easily controlled by her.
Blowing out a breath, he tried to calm himself. She’d awoken things inside him, things he’d kept repressed for the sake of his parents and career. Assuming it was nighttime, the morning would bring a whole lot more ugly. He could be a pussy about it, or he could shut his eyes and wake energized and ready to break through her vile mask. Without using his fist.
Chapter Twelve
The door snicked behind Liv, and her lungs released in a noisy whoosh, her heart thundering unguarded. She clawed at the hooks on her corset, the heaving expansion of her ribs hindering the effort. “Girl!”
The girl leapt from the cot and crawled over the floor on hands and knees, her lean naked body swaying sensually through the movement, just as she’d been trained.
“Get me out of this thing.”
Shifting behind her, the girl’s fingers worked deftly, loosening the ties that cinched the ba
ck of the corset. A moment later, the bodice gaped enough to free the hooks. Liv tossed it to the floor and turned.
Blond hair curtained the kneeling girl’s face and shoulders. This captive was so docile and innocent, Liv found her hand moving to stroke the bowed head. She caught herself before she made contact.
Eyes down, the girl rubbed her palms over her bare thighs. Nine weeks earlier, Van lured the eighteen-year-old beauty from a seedy neighborhood in southern Texas, where she had lived with three older brothers. Perhaps they could’ve been commended for warding off horny boyfriends and protecting her chastity. The sad irony of her innocence was, it had set her in Van’s sights.
A shiver assaulted Liv down to her bones. Whether it was from dwelling on the girl’s future, Liv’s damp skin from the boy’s shower, or the exchange of words she’d had with him, she needed the warmth of a gentle voice. “You have permission to speak.”
She lifted intelligent blue eyes. “Are you okay, Mistress?”
The question, although touching, couldn’t keep her mind off the boy’s allegation.
You rape them.
Two girls. He was her sixth boy. She’d shared sexual intimacy with all of them, including the girl blinking up at her, but she’d never allowed sexual intercourse. She’d never considered the other stuff rape. “I’m fine.” She smiled, and it felt strained, achy.
What if she was wrong? She’d permitted the boys release countless times, removed from the purpose of training, without Van’s knowledge. There were no cameras in the house to monitor her actions. They’d pleaded for sex. She’d responded with hand jobs. During those moments, she only meant to offer them comfort. Perhaps that was how Van viewed his unions with her.
Uncertainty twisted her up, and within the turbulence arose an even more unsettling thought. None of her intimate encounters compared to the moment she’d just vacated. Lying beneath that boy, pinned by the burnish of his defiant green eyes and the unwitting seduction of his physique, she’d felt a new kind of stirring. It was accidental in its creation, but the inconvenient truth was she wanted him. Not only that, she wanted him to want her.
Startled by her vulnerable thoughts, she angled her head away so the girl couldn’t see the emotions creasing her face.
“You’re cold and wet, Mistress. Would you like me to prepare the shower to warm you up?”
The bathroom in this chamber was enclosed and, more importantly, out of reach of the boy’s studious gaze. Swallowing the bitterness of the job, she made herself answer in the severe tone the girl was conditioned to hearing. “Yes. Don’t make me wait.”
Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in an oversize t-shirt, Liv returned to her room.
He lay on his back on the rug, arms above his head to accommodate the chains. His soft snoring thrummed through the room, thanks to the sleeping pills she’d diluted in his water. But even in the grip of sleep, he wore a brooding look that pulled at his eyebrows and sharpened the bones in his chiseled face. A fringe of lashes shadowed his cheeks, and the lines on his forehead drew deep grooves.
Humans adapted quickly, and when they understood the boundaries, they worked within them. His aggressive attempts to overthrow her had been expected. All captives emerged from the box demanding answers and tossing clumsy punches. But there was something subtly different about his temperament. He wasn’t desperate enough.
He wasn’t scared enough.
She flipped off the light, submersing the room in darkness, and stretched alongside his body. The whisper of his breath and the clean scent of his skin navigated her toward his face. Lost so deeply in sleep, he didn’t stir as she speared her fingers through the thick muss of his textured hair.
The first meeting with the buyer was in two weeks. Two weeks to mold this boy-man into some semblance of a boy-slave, one who would be deemed satisfactory by a misogynist whack-job. Could she beat the contempt and righteousness out of him in that short amount of time?
It was a psychological battle she intended to win, because the boy wouldn’t suffer for his disobedience the way Mom and Mattie would.
Resolve guided her hands, lifting the edge of the rug and unfurling a thin latex sheet from beneath it. Half of the sheath was held down by his body. It was also glued to the subfloor. She folded the loose half over him, crawling quietly to his other side.
He coughed as she hefted the closest shoulder and rolled him on his side, the bones in his arm indiscernible through the hard layers of compact muscle. A few careful tugs on the carpet, his breathing stuttering and steadying, and the rug pulled free from his weight. She set it behind her and returned him to his back.
At his feet, she pulled a zipper around the edges of the latex, sliding it toward his head and removing the chains from his wrist cuffs as she went. Through the night, it would be a plastic sleeping bag. With the sides zipped together, she cinched the latex around his shoulders.
That done, she curled up on the mattress, lit a cigarette, and walked through her preparations for the next day. The nature of mornings in captivity was either they woke up remembering where they were and what was expected or they were punished and dropped in hell. The captive’s first day was always hell.
Chapter Thirteen
The gravity of confinement bore down on Josh’s sleep-dazed utopia. It was a relentless press, dragging against his skin and nudging him to wake. Lying on his back, he reached up to rub the fog from his eyes and couldn’t move his hands. He tried to lift his legs. Couldn’t move those either. His heart rate exploded, ripping the haze of sleep from his brain.
The oblivion behind his eyelids was replaced with the blank stare of a masked face. It floated above him, a ghastly-white monition against ruffled waves of chestnut hair.
Arms pinned at his sides, he blinked to clear his vision as her brown eyes watched him through the eyeholes of the opaque disguise. A nondescript nose, pointy chin, and cheekbones molded the white, oval-shaped face. It would’ve been androgynous, except for the puckered, red-painted mouth, the upper lip arching in two dramatically-peaked points.
He lifted his head, dragged his focus from the mask to where she straddled his ribs and arms, and wasn’t sure which had his heart pumping faster. The blood-red bra and panties that bared her body or the latex body bag that sheathed his.
An impending sense of doom sparked the compulsion to fight. His muscles tightened, heating his skin and constricting against the stretchy rubber. He could give into his rising panic and shout, writhe, and wear himself out. Or he could conquer his impulses, behave with reason, and deny her the satisfaction of his fear. At least his backside was safe at the moment.
He peered into the eyes behind the mask and searched for a human being. The pupils, lifeless and frozen, might as well have been painted glass. His jaw tightened. “Damn. I’m still in this nightmare?”
There, a flicker of raw umber in the glass. His heart danced in his chest. Then the flicker disappeared with a sweep of latex as she stretched the covering from his neck to his crown.
He gulped against sudden claustrophobia, catching pockets of air in the see-through plastic wrap. Bucking and kicking and straining his neck, there was no room to maneuver. The transparent rubber clung to every inch of him, his skin sweating and slipping along it uselessly.
His inhales thinned, every other breath sealing the bag against his mouth and nose. He squirmed toward the top opening, but it cinched around his neck and ensnared his head. He could lift his head to scan down the expanse of his body, but he couldn’t roll, couldn’t sit up. It was as if he was cemented to the floor.
The whine of a motor screeched through the room and vibrated the wood against his back. Oxygen vanished. The latex shrunk, compressing his arms to his sides and sinking his body to the floor. His nerves rampaged with realization. She was sucking the air from the bag with a vacuum, trapping him, suffocating him.
He grunted, tried to scream at her to stop. Breathless. Constricted. Fire lit his lungs, and his heart exploded with terror.
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The motor shut off, and the bag loosened. She peeled back the flap, cool air stroking his face and filling his lungs. She smoothed his hair from his forehead. “If there’s a definition for waking up on the wrong side of the bed, this is it.”
Was that a joke? Was the vile witch mocking him while she tortured him? He mustered his most sarcastic tone and smiled. “I’ll pray for your soul, Liv.”
Her fist slammed into his cheekbone.
Ow, dammit. A jolt of pain seared through his skull and burned his eyes.
The bag covered over his face again. The motor roared. He fought for air, his chest burning. The suffocation seemed to double this time. Trapped. Can’t breathe. Too long. Black spots speckled his vision.
When she turned it off and pulled back the plastic, he couldn’t catch his voice. He didn’t want to.
One of her cold, heartless fingers traced his jaw. “You failed two of the simplest requirements.”
He panted, his lungs on fire. The requirements…the requirements… Strip. Kneel. No sex with her. No touching her. No masturbating. Eyes down.
His gaze flew to his stomach, taking his heart with it. Chest heaving, instinct screaming to insult her with every curse word he knew, he tried to shed the fear from his face.
“That’s one.” She placed a hand on his groin, the heat of her palm seeping through the thin barrier.
A moan caught in his throat. He didn’t want to feel her hand there, and he definitely didn’t want to like it. Dammit, which requirement was he missing? Sifting through the list, he grit his teeth. “Mistress.”
“Good.” She stroked his penis through the latex with a skill that infused his body with lust and fury. Keeping his eyes averted from hers, he flexed his muscles, drew calming breaths, and blanked his mind. Years of practice in controlling his desires should’ve overpowered the sensations she was weaving through him, but with each twist of her wrist and drag of her fingernail, the traitorous erection swelled.