His Indecent Revelations (Bound and Shackled to the Billionaire BDSM Erotic Romance)

by Hunt, Aphrodite

  Hugh gives a short, mirthless laugh. “Same thing could be said about you.”

  “ – but you’ve never gone over the edge. Not like this.” Channing closes his eyes and opens them again. “I’ve never known you to be a killer.”

  “Sorry, but you were the one who went over the edge a long time ago. I am merely your stunning creation.” Hugh spreads his arms. “You should be so proud.”

  “I can help you. Come home to America with me. I can get you the best doctors, the best – ”

  “You think I need a shrink?” The madness flashes in Hugh’s eyes once again. The same blue eyes as Channing’s. “Gawd, you have some nerve. This is my home now, in case you haven’t noticed. You made sure of that a long time ago.”

  “We need to talk. Alone.”

  “So you can choke me in your stranglehold and snuff me out for real? I know better than to be alone with you, Channing.” Hugh gets up. “Wait for tomorrow. Whatever she has got planned for you is going to be a real stunner,” he adds morbidly.

  He turns to the doorway and leaves, his guards closing in behind him. Channing can only look helplessly after their retreating backs.

  Oh no. Does this mean that his own best laid plans are failing?

  Susan snatches the edge of the bed in despair.

  Tomorrow.

  Today may be last day Channing and she will be together.

  6

  That night, they lie in each other’s arms, unable to sleep.

  “You think they’re going to kill me?” Susan says. Her head is on Channing’s chest.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Liar.”

  “I don’t think Alia would let you die. She’s not the type. She thinks you’re kindred spirits. You share a common bond. That is, you’ve both been majorly fucked by me, and I don’t mean it in a positive way.”

  “So why am I here?”

  “As a pawn to keep me in check before they kill me.” His tone is a matter-of-fact.

  She realizes he has come to accept that he is going to die.

  “I don’t think she’ll kill you,” she whispers, stroking his chest. “She still loves you. I can feel it. As a woman, I know these things.”

  He is silent, but his heartbeat thuds erratically.

  “Permanent imprisonment isn’t on my bucket list of things to do either,” he says.

  “Channing . . . I love you.” It seems as though she has loved him forever.

  He lifts a tendril of her hair.

  “I love you too,” he says hesitantly.

  She tenses and holds her breath. This is the first time he has ever said it to her.

  “But I’m afraid to jinx you by saying it too often,” he adds. “So don’t expect me to say it again until . . . unless we get out of here.”

  His eyes are shining the dim light of the flickering lamp on their bedside table.

  “It’s all right. You said it . . . and that’s all that matters,” she says.

  Tears come to her eyes and her heart expands with sudden emotion. She has always wondered why folks made such a big do about those three little words, and now she understands. They are monumental. They represent anything and everything that has happened in their relationship, and for it to come to this pivotal moment . . . well, it’s as good a time as any to say them.

  She clasps his body to hers, and he does likewise. They hold each other like this for a long, long time, gazing into each other’s eyes, studying each other’s faces and thinking about what might ensue tomorrow.

  About what may never be.

  After a while, he says, “You want to try again?”

  She knows what he refers to. Do you want to try to make love again? Because we may never get the chance . . . again.

  Her hand moves to his crotch. He is limp. She grabs his soft shaft and strokes him. She holds his flesh as tenderly as she would his hand. He sinks into the bed and tips his head back into the pillow, closing his eyes. From the furrow between his brows, he seems to be concentrating hard.

  When her stroking has no effect, she takes his cock into her mouth. She sucks it, maneuvering her tongue expertly around his head. She tastes his flesh, feels its texture against the tip of her tongue. She licks his corona and the vein snaking elliptically across his rod. Slowly, his member starts to fill with blood and swell within her mouth.

  But it is still far from being rigid, and so she intensifies her sucking. She pulls at his flesh with vigor. Her tongue flits and fans and makes circular motions against his skin with varying intensity. He shifts restlessly, his hands clawing the sheets. But his penis is still semi-turgid despite all her attempts.

  He says, “Let me do the oral loving.”

  She looks up. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. If I can’t get off, I might as well get you off first.”

  This is the first time he has ever offered to perform oral sex on her. He had always been her dom, preferring to use his clever fingers and thumbs to tease her rather than his sensuous mouth. But there seems to be firsts for everything tonight.

  Suffused with a warm, tingling feeling all over, she rolls onto her back. Unselfconsciously, she spreads her legs for him. He perches on top of her with his elbow upon the bed.

  “Let me play with these first,” he says, grabbing her breasts gently.

  He lowers his mouth onto her right nipple. He deftly flicks the protuberant tip with his tongue. A curl of exquisite desire blossoms in her pussy. This is Channing doing this, she reminds herself. Channing . . . the only man she has ever loved deeply with her heart and soul, and who loves her in return in his own angst-ridden way.

  And his tongue is so very, very clever. Just like his fingers.

  He laves her nipple and the puckered flesh surrounding it. Her areola swells and fills with the warm rush of blood. He plumps her mound with his hand so that the tissue is ripe and firm, and he swallows her entire tip. Ohhhhh. His sucking intensity escalates, and with each pull of his mouth, she can feel her womb contracting – a twinge-like feeling of sinews and fibers being plucked pleasurably from within.

  Her pussy juices start to congeal within her passage, dollops of cream coalescing into more cream. She feels it trickle out of her hole, staining the bed.

  He suckles and suckles at her breast, and when he is satisfied that he has done enough with one breast, he transfers his mouth to the other and does the same. Her highly aroused skin is flushed, and her brow is peppered with sweat. She arches her back to give more of her breasts to him. His hands run up and down her body, zooming straight for her lush, swollen pussy. She can smell her own molten heat – her own pungent desire.

  He slides his tongue oh-so-slowly down the midline of her tummy. He dips the tip of it into her navel, circles it ever so lightly, and continues his languorous trail downward . . . always downward . . . until his tongue stops at the uppermost curl of her clit.

  “Ohhh,” she groans. “Don’t stop.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  He assaults her clit with a jab of his tongue. The sudden thrust of a wet organ of a different sort into her folds sends spasms flowering and flowing in and around her pussy. They trail all across her groin and pelvic region and splinter within the column of her backbone. He licks and licks her clit, teasing out its folds, darting his tongue into and around her recesses. He massages her inner labia until she is clutching handfuls of the sheets and twisting and contorting her body in exquisitely tortured formations.

  For a man who does not do cunnilingus often, he appears to be a master at it.

  He kisses and licks and sucks at her pussy wedges thoroughly. He slides his tongue into her hole – superficially at first, and then deeper. She feels him exploring her snug, wet tunnel. Applying oral pressure to the walls. Trawling her cleaves and grooves. Getting to know her intimately as he has never known before.

  I love you, she wants to say over and over again.

  But he’s right. She would only throw bad karma upon them both, espec
ially when there might be no tomorrow for either of them.

  So she lets him lick and suck her to distraction. Lets the waves and peaks and crests and ever-building momentum sweep through her body and carry her to another level – another plane of existence where everything is sublime and uncomplicated and sweet and all too brief. She almost sobs with her orgasm – the sheer ecstasy and finality of it.

  Because she only wants to have orgasms with Channing. The epiphany of his love affirms her realization. Hugh was but a pale and twisted imitation.

  It’s different when we are both in love.

  He lets her come and come until she is spent and drained and lying once more in his arms, soaked and wet and satisfied in a way that only pure pleasure can give you. Then he holds her close to him. Skin to skin. Flesh to flesh. Permeating her with his warmth and body and soul in a way that he has never done before.

  She feels for his cock.

  He is no longer even hard.

  “Should I try again?” she says timorously.

  He shakes his head. “It’s no use.”

  She understands. He has some mental block which he hasn’t yet overcome. And this is the last time they may possibly be together. She wishes they can go out with an all-consuming, mind-blowing double orgasm that would go on and on into increasingly stratospheric heights.

  But it’s not to be. There are no happy endings here.

  “Kiss me,” she says, blinking back her tears.

  He obliges. A long, loving but comparatively superficial kiss. When she tries to probe her tongue in between his lips to taste his mouth, he winces.

  “What’s the matter?” she asks.

  “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  Of course. He is still recuperating from whatever horrors they inflicted upon him. So she watches him as he closes his eyes. His breathing grows gradually deeper. He looks so beautiful and peaceful that she wishes she can freeze this moment and imprint it upon their own personal firmament – a place they can journey to and return whenever they wish.

  Even if one of them were dead.

  “I love you, Channing,” she says, even though she knows he can’t hear her.

  He continues to sleep the sleep of the dead.

  *

  She wakes up at night to go to the bathroom. That’s when she spots it in the trashcan. It is covered with toilet paper. Blood has seeped through the crushed tissue.

  She’s afraid that he is bleeding again. Only she can’t recall him bleeding in any part of his body.

  She picks up the bloody tissue. Fearfully, she unwraps it. Inside is a tooth. A bloodied molar, to be precise. Embedded within its granular underside is mesh of electronic circuitry that has been mostly torn off from a larger portion that is now missing.

  Bewildered, she remembers Channing wincing when she tried to French-kiss him earlier.

  What the hell is going on?

  7

  They are not even fully awake when the guards open the door to their stucco prison and force them out of bed. Susan is glad she is wearing a shift.

  “Get dressed,” a guard says, throwing her a robe. “And you too.” He indicates Channing, who is fully naked.

  He glowers at them but does not protest as he gets into his clothes.

  “Come,” the guard says. He is rough and swarthy. A rifle sticks out from his back.

  The guards hem both Channing and her in their midst as they troop down the passages of the citadel. They pass women in black burqas who are cleaning the floors. The hooded eyes of the women stare at them as they pass. Susan can sense the unspoken whispers: You will be condemned today.

  Yes. Today is their reckoning. It doesn’t matter if Channing is the one they are after. It doesn’t matter if she will be spared. She would readily swap places with Channing and give him her life.

  She feels too wretched right now for tears. All she can do is place one foot before the other and walk like a doomed prisoner to the gallows. Essentially, that is where they are going. Unless –

  The tooth. It is obviously Channing’s tooth and he has pulled it out. But why? And what mysterious gizmo is buried inside it?

  They ascend a spiral staircase with extremely steep steps. Up and up it winds. Her thighs begin to ache with the protracted climb. But the stairs continue to ascend until her lungs run out of wind.

  They finally reach double doors made of cedar. These are bound by iron trappings. The guards push the doors open. With her heart in her mouth, Susan enters the chamber.

  The ‘chamber’ is a gargantuan circular room at the top of a tower. The ceiling is very high and domed. A series of tall, elongated slit windows perch near the ceiling, allowing the morning light to filter in. A broad stone gallery encircles the tower, allowing spectators to look down into a blackness far, far below.

  Susan peers into the void. It seems to go on forever. A chill brushes her flesh.

  Everything smells of rust and iron and stone and blood. The walls are lighted with flaming torches in sconces. Two large iron cages are sited on the floor on opposing sides of the gallery. Either cage can effectively hold a grizzly bear. The entire place wears an eerie, hope-abandoning medieval atmosphere, as though they have been transported back to an era of Inquisition.

  Her spirit wilts a little.

  The ceiling is suspended with a system of complicated pulleys and ropes. The tops of the cages are attached to parts of this suspension ensemble.

  Alia and Hugh stand within a cluster of guards on the gallery, waiting.

  “Hello, big brother,” Hugh says pleasantly.

  Sounds have a weird echo here, Susan notes. It must be the strange acoustics of the pit. How deep is it really? she wonders. What terrible things lurk in its shadows far, far below?

  She senses, with a deep dread, that they are all about to find out.

  “Restrain him,” Alia commands, gesturing at Channing. She is all covered in black today, as though in mourning.

  A couple of guards seize Channing by the shoulders and arms.

  “No!” Susan cries, but she too is forcibly restrained.

  The guards tie Channing’s wrists behind him. He locks eyes with her mutely. Don’t react, he wills her. Turbulence pools in his bright blue orbs and a pang flutters through her chest.

  Channing, I love you.

  “Begin,” Alia says. Her voice is tired, as though she wants to get the whole thing over and done with.

  Channing watches helplessly on as Susan is half-led, half-dragged to one of the iron cages.

  “Please, Alia, for the love we once had, don’t do this to her,” he pleads. “She has done nothing to you.”

  Alia ignores him. Doesn’t even look at him.

  The guards push Susan into the cage and bolt the door firmly behind her. She can only cling, frightened, to the bars. The guards work a series of rotating levers – set in the cogs of a medium-sized wheel – embedded partially between the wall and floor. A creaking sound ensues, like the groaning of a thousand undead souls. Her cage is pulled up and over the stone balcony. She almost loses her balance as her new metal prison shivers and dangles over the black pit.

  The floor of the cage is solid iron, but she can peek through the bars at the sides and discern the pit’s black turbulence. The blackness is not opaque but rather a gradual darkening as it descends into unknown depths.

  Something within those depths chills her soul. She imagines the cage breaking off from its treacherous ropes and pulleys and falling . . . plunging into those unfathomable depths. She’s certain that is what Alia and Hugh have in mind for her.

  No, no, don’t panic.

  She won’t kill me. That’s what Channing says. I’m a bargaining chip. I’m a pawn. The least I can do is help Channing do whatever it is he has to do without panicking.

  But oh God, why does everything feel so final? So futile?

  With her cage precariously hanging over hell itself, she watches as the main doors open again to admit a procession of dirty, bound men
in shackles and rags. They are a mixture of white, black and Hispanic nationalities. In horror, she recognizes several of them from the escape boat in the Caribbean.

  These men are Channing’s mercenaries, now captured and brought here to the east of Baghdad like prisoners of war. There are a dozen of them.

  Channing stands fierce and proud in his bound state as his men are brought to the other iron cage. The guards push them in, all twelve of them, and bolt the door. Then the cage is strung up and over the balcony, pretty much like hers. The ropes and pulleys strain and creak with the considerable weight.

  She can only imagine how much more precarious their situation is compared to hers. After all, they are twelve burly men. Their combined weight must be more than a ton. Fearfully, she observes the pulleys. Anytime, the taut, taut ropes stretching that fragile iron cage can snap and send them all plunging into the pit. This is a world she doesn’t know. A world so far removed from corporate shenanigans and Leonard Drake that she has no clue how to operate here.

  She doesn’t want to play damsel in distress. Far from it. But she doesn’t have a choice. Any which way she turns, she’s going to land Channing, herself, and the whole lot of brave mercenaries into trouble.

  She can only observe, hope and pray.

  God, if you will grant me one request. Save Channing, please. I love him so, so much.

  Now that the sinister tableau has been set up, Alia moves to the edge of the balcony. The guards push Channing forward. Hugh has his arms folded. He watches the proceedings with a slightly amused demeanor.

  Alia faces Channing. Her voice rings out clearly, magnified by the acoustics of the tower.

  “I have long waited for this moment of retribution. Many years ago, you robbed me of all that I held dear – my family, my home, my wealth, my beauty, my innocence. And now I would claim but a small fraction of the pain you caused me.”

  Susan’s heart sinks. She knows where this is heading.