Take Me

by Anna Zaires, Pepper Winters, Skye Warren, Lynda Chance, Pam Godwin, Amber Lin

  Her touch disappeared. His pulse tapered then hammered anew as she shifted down his body. Her mask hovered over his crotch, her hands braced on either side of his hips. The long silk of her hair curled around slim, bare shoulders. If his hands were free, he could snap her in half.

  She slid the mask to her forehead, her face angled out of view, and the heat of her breath penetrated the thin material, sweeping over his groin. He arched, straining against the compression of the bag. His legs trembled as quivering energy tingled over his thighs and tightened his balls.

  This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t stop his release from building. He must’ve looked ravenous, the transparent latex adhering to his genitals, revealing every detail under her close inspection.

  It was wrong. She was violating him, molesting him—

  Her tongue dragged over his length from root to tip, wrenching a moan from deep within his chest. Despite the layer of latex between them, all he could feel was the concentrated heat, the soft stroke, the atrocious pleasure of it.

  With an invasive grip, she adjusted his erection to lie flat between his pubic mound and the latex. “You have permission to speak. Tell me what you want me to do with this monstrous cock.”

  “Mistress, release me.”

  She raised up, shifting the mask to cover her face, and straddled his hips. “I’m so wet, if you weren’t wearing a full-body condom, you’d slide right in.” She ground against him, and he thought, for a terrifying second, he might come just from the contact.

  “My pussy would stretch to accommodate your girth. It would grip you like a vise and cream all over your cock as you rub in and out, sinking deeply, withdrawing reluctantly.” She leaned toward his face, her breath whispering behind the mask. “You would finish with hard, hurried fucks, punching every inch of my cunt.”

  Vulgarity could be a form of torture, along with character assassination. He knew she was taunting him, trying to coax him into abandoning his beliefs and begging her like those before him. Even knowing this, he couldn’t stifle the overwhelming desire gripping his body. He’d never wanted to come so badly, but he would not beg.

  She slid the red satin crotch of her panties to the side and rolled her hips up. The sight of her plump, pink creases of skin, hairless and glistening with moisture, wrestled his wildest, most insane fantasies to the forefront of his thoughts. He curled his toes and tensed against the warmth rushing to his groin. His breathing and heart rate quickened, yet he couldn’t look away from her body.

  No cheerleader, no pastor’s wife compared to her beauty. She moved with the grace of a dancer, lithe and muscular, shifting over his privates as if she were floating. For a thick moment, he was convinced he’d found an angel. Then he remembered she was his captor, a rapist, the devil incarnate.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers digging into his thighs, his penis unbearably hot and uncomfortable.

  “Open your eyes, boy.” Her voice was commanding, the mask adding another layer of detachment. “Watch me.”

  Startled by the ease at which he followed her command, he watched her finger as it traced her slit, up and down, gathering wetness. He couldn’t stop his mind from darting to the conclusion of sex, wanting the mystery of her flesh wrapped around him and not caring about his virginity or his parents’ promise to God. It was enlightening and reckless.

  Lowering her hips, she parted her folds with the latex-protected length of him, rocking, fingers reaching to pinch his nipples through the rubber buffer. The bulges of her chest overflowed the satin, the color of the bra accentuating the red pout painted over her hidden expression.

  She was a demon in the form of the most beautiful girl on earth. If he peered into her liquid brown eyes, he might’ve found the cruelest corners of the world there. But when she ground against him, the lustrous sheen of her hair swishing around her, her fingers curling against his abs, she seemed more human, less wooden. She seemed to desire him.

  The thought made him needy in a way he didn’t comprehend. He wanted her to slide her heat over him faster, longer, and hear her hypnotic voice cry out in bliss.

  No. He blinked, tried to clear his head. He wanted her to stop.

  Another bout of quakes tumbled through him, coaxing the climax that was teetering on a razor’s edge. What was her true intention? Was any of this real? Could she produce moisture between her legs if she didn’t want him? If he could recognize her authenticity, he might be able to explain the meaning of her actions. “Mistress. Remove the mask.”

  She threw her head back, the sinews in her slender neck straining against the skin. She moaned, and the sound transformed into a harmony of Ahh-Ahhhh-Ah. Her voice was an offering from God and a temptation from hell, a tone so potent it could corrupt a man, or save him.

  Blood surged to his penis, raising his testicles, and his inhibitions fled. His heart rate skyrocketed, his lungs labored, and his thighs and butt tightened. She continued to grind on him, hitting the right spot, the right speed. He was doomed.

  “Requirement number eight.” Hips flexing, she rubbed against him with the mastery to finish him. “Slave will not orgasm without permission.”

  A series of contractions gripped his cock. He’d reached the point where he couldn’t stop, didn’t care about anything but the rush of pleasure barreling down on him. It was happening, and oh sweet Jesus, his body shook with the violence of a spasmodic freefall. Sensations flooded him from the waist down, pulsing against the friction of her heat, and he forgot where he was.

  Her weight vanished. Latex covered his face, and the vacuum roared to life.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Four more near-suffocations later, and Josh knew Liv wouldn’t kill him with vacuum-shrunk latex. But every time she sealed it over his face and powered on the motor, he feared it would be the time she miscalculated.

  He labored to catch his breath. How did she measure how long he could go without air? What if she waited a heartbeat too long? And what was the purpose of this cruelty? He was supposed to hold off his body’s reactions? Wait for permission to come? If she jerked him off enough, maybe he’d run out of juice.

  Fatigued lolled his muscles. Sweat drenched his skin, and the stickiness of five ejaculations dribbled into the creases of his balls, itching the crack of his backside. No way did he have the mental or physical capacity to come again.

  He’d thought the same thing three orgasms ago. “Mistress, no more.”

  She leaned over him, her hand working his sore, yet frustratingly swelling penis. “Your cock says otherwise.”

  A growl erupted in his stomach. He licked parched lips, unsure if she registered his hunger. If she had any reaction at all, it was locked behind the damned mask. Maybe some mysteries, like if her goal was to starve him or masturbate him to death, were better left in the dark.

  She stroked and stroked and stroked. He was past cringing from the effect of her touch. The familiar surge of climax tightened his gut. Unable to stop it, his release surged through his body and burst beneath the latex.

  The momentary bliss lessened each time with the ache of overuse, but it was still there, owning him. Though, if he was actually ejaculating semen, he couldn’t sense it amidst the existing puddle.

  When the haze of orgasm faded, he filled his lungs with air and braced for his claustrophobic punishment.

  Her legs bent in a squat above him, the crotch of her panties damp and taunting. “You smell like sweaty balls and spooge, virgin boy.” She rose and lifted a bare foot backward to her hip, balancing without falter, stretching her muscles. She lowered her foot and repeated with the other leg. “I’m going to release you to use the toilet, scrub the piss from it, and take a shower.”

  His body melted into the floor, and his lungs collapsed in relief.

  “Then you’ll wash me.”

  Maybe she wanted to shock him, but putting his hands on her might be the most pleasant thing he would experience in this room. No matter how much she disgusted him, her body aroused
him. It was infuriating. “Yes, Mistress.”

  She crouched beside him and rested fingertips on his hardening length, watching him through the eyeholes, allowing him to make eye contact with her.

  Her inhuman stillness paired with her apparent disregard for time was hell on his blood pressure. As she squatted there, making him wait, the rest of the world went about their oblivious lives. Except his folks, but he refused to ask about them, fearing the answer.

  Finally, she loosened the cinches around his neck and lowered the zipper down the side. “I’ll feed you when your tasks are complete…if you follow the eight requirements you’ve been given.”

  No doubt she had an infinite supply of punishments planned if he lapsed on her perverted rules.

  As she worked the zipper on the bag, he walked through the list. No sex with women. Service the Master sexually or some crap. Eyes down. No clothes. Did a latex toga count? No touching her or himself sexually. Use the title. Kneel. No orgasms. Never thought he’d welcomed that last one so eagerly.

  When the zipper finished its rotation around the bag, she unfolded the cover and stepped back.

  Careful not to meet her eyes, he lifted to shaky knees, debating the wisdom of knocking her off her feet. If he strangled her to death, he probably wouldn’t live to see his next meal.

  He rubbed his cracked lips. Were there cameras hidden in the ceilings? Was Van watching from another room, waiting for an excuse to kill his parents? And leading his parade of insecurities was a humiliating thought. Was the fluid crusting his pubis an indication he didn’t have a chance at adhering to her damned rules?

  His body was conditioned to take a beating on the field, his mind strengthened to suppress desires that didn’t align with his spirituality. He could endure her punishments as long as he made progress in unraveling the knots that bound her soul.

  He held out his cuffed wrists, hoping his submission would garner her trust.

  “I see through you, boy. Passivity doesn’t take root until the first weeks or months, and stems from boredom and lack of contact with the outside world.” The mask cocked. “Six orgasms in two hours does not convince me that you’re bored and lonely already.”

  Ugh, she was frustrating. Deep breath. Acquiring her friendship would be a harrowing endeavor, but the first step was easy. He wouldn’t lie to her. “Mistress, talk to me. I don’t want to screw this up. If something happens to my folks… Just help me, and I’ll help you.”

  The dainty bones in her collar and shoulders sharpened against her skin. He didn’t dare raise his eyes above her neck. Then the mask spoke. “Follow the requirements, and you’ll help us both. No more talking.”

  Irritation skittered over his spine, but he remained on his knees with arms raised. Helping people was the one aspect of his career he’d looked forward to. Maybe God put him in this situation to test him with the ultimate challenge, to save the darkest of souls. “Mistress, I’d rather you restrain my arms than my voice.”

  She stepped before him and gripped the cuffs she’d never removed. He expected her to whip some hidden chain from her bra and slap it on his arms. Instead, she molded his hands around the tiny circumference of her waist and squeezed in silent command. Don’t let go? Was this a softening in her armor? Please?

  The velvet of her skin heated his palms. The wet crotch of her panties, in the direct line of his lowered eyes, filled his nose with a spicy aroma. Perhaps God was testing him with man’s greatest temptation. His confidence in being able to pass that trial fizzled as blood rushed below his waist.

  “Requirement number nine. Slave will not speak unless spoken to.” Her nails scratched down his forearms. “Your hands will be free to perform your tasks.”

  He guessed she expected him to try to overpower her and was probably prepared to subdue him like last time. He wasn’t going to give her the pleasure.

  “I’m the only person who knows the code for this room. Stand and follow me.” She pushed his hands off her hips and walked to the toilet, though the way she moved couldn’t be described as walking. It was more like the uninterrupted flow of a stream, gliding forward with confident disregard.

  He trailed her wake, dodging the floor hooks with much less grace. Though, he strode a little lighter with the knowledge that Van couldn’t bust in without her permission. How odd that he didn’t have access. Was it because she was in charge? Something didn’t seem right about that and the answer felt vital to understanding her. What was her relationship with that guy?

  She stopped before the medicine cabinet above the vanity, swung open the mirrored door, and dropped a threadbare rag in the sink. Her weight shifted to one leg, jutting out her hip, the bottom edge of her panties creeping up the musculature of one round cheek. She was so tiny and sensually-shaped, yet he’d felt her strength in her punch and could see it contracting through the tendons in her back.

  As much as he despised her cruelty, his body wanted her to exhaustion and beyond. It pulsed to tackle her, to use its extra mass to dominate her in a battle of physiology.

  Heat blazed down his thighs, and he clenched his hands to stop them from massaging his persistent erection. She was raining temptation down upon him in the form of curves and satin and glowing skin. Was his state of arousal normal in this situation? Perhaps another means of intended torment?

  He stood over the toilet. Prayer was supposed to strengthen the struggle against lust, so he cycled The Lord’s Prayer in his head. Holding his partial erection over the rim, he tried to relax it long enough to urinate. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one.

  Yeah, she was evil, all right. And seductive and exquisite and complex. The repeated verses did nothing to alleviate his wandering thoughts or the weight between his legs.

  She turned toward him and leaned a hip against the counter. “There’s no video monitoring in this house. What happens in this room stays in this room. If you kill me, you’ll be faced with the decision of whether or not to eat my body to stay alive.”

  Good God. Seriously? Where prayer didn’t defuse him, her revolting words did. He softened in his hand and didn’t waste the opportunity to aim and empty. “Mistress, are you trying to scare me or offend me? Because I’m already glutted on both.”

  “Shock has a way of rousing attention.” She moved behind him, the satin of her bra caressing his back, her fingers creeping along his abs, circling around the root of his penis, and trailing his hips to cup his backside.

  He tried not to purr with the electrifying sensations. Lead us not into temptation…

  Smack.

  A sting zipped along one butt cheek. His body shuddered. She smacked him again on the other side. He sighed, relaxing with the tingle. Damn. That was arousing, and… cute. His lips twitched.

  “No. Talking.”

  That was his punishment for talking? He freed the grin squirming to escape and flushed the toilet. A slaphappy fog of delusion must have settled in his brain. He didn’t know her, yet he was dangerously close to letting her see his deepest urges. Surprisingly, he wanted her to dig around inside of him, but the notion raced his pulse. What would she do if she knew he savored physical pain?

  If only she’d remove that mask so he could search for a hint at what she was thinking and feeling.

  Crouching behind him, she rubbed the heat in his gluts. “You have two sexy handprints on your ass cheeks, boy.” She rose, clutching his biceps, and whispered over his shoulder, “Wonder what your God thinks about you grinning while I spanked you.”

  His smile fell. No way she saw his reaction. He glanced over his shoulder, and followed her gaze to the mirrored door she’d left angled open. The reflection of her mask stared back.

  He blew out a breath. He was a rookie in this demented game, and she controlled the line of scrimmage.

  “The next time you speak without permission, we’ll find out how easy your ass reddens beneath my cane.”

  His backside clenched, relaxed. He wasn’t sure what his limits were
, but that wasn’t one.

  She sashayed to the sink, wet a rag, and flung it toward the floor. He intercepted it and knelt before the toilet to begin his first task. To win this, he’d play her game until, eventually, hopefully, they played on the same side.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Toilet cleaned, hair washed, Josh stood under the warm spray of the shower. He attempted to use the few spare minutes to meditate, but the pangs of hunger nudged him from his thoughts. Facing the wall, he soaped away crusty remnants from his ball sac.

  A trickling sound cut through the whoosh of the shower head. Was she peeing? He leered over his shoulder before his brain told him not to be rude.

  Perched on the rim, knees and toes together, ankles twisted out, she tore off a wad of toilet paper. The mask lay on the tile beside her discarded panties. He turned slowly, not to gape while she did her business but to devour her expression.

  Her lowered eyes fanned thick blades of lashes over her cheekbones, softening the elegant lines of her face. Where most complexions washed out under fluorescents, her flawless skin seemed to glow in the glare.

  He held his breath, feet frozen to the floor. She appeared so very human and gut-wrenchingly beautiful sitting there doing normal things like peeing and fidgeting. Fidgeting!

  Did she know he’d turned to watch her? Was this another enactment to mess with his head?

  Her teeth sawed along her bottom lip, and she twisted the end of her hair between a finger and thumb. No question the length and shine of her hair was exquisite, but she seemed to be eyeing it with more scrutiny than it deserved. What was she thinking about?

  She dropped her hand, and her eyes slid up, finding his unerringly. Her lips bent in a conspiring smirk.