by Henry, Jane
I walk around behind her, put my fingers in the waistband of her leggings and underwear and pull them both down over her perfect little ass.
“You should have chosen the cock.”
“Why?” Her response is panicky.
“Because you’re soaked again, little girl.”
It’s true. The gusset of her panties is wet. Her pussy is swelling that sweet way a woman’s sex does when she’s ready to be fucked. I can smell her. I can almost taste her. It’s tempting to bury my face between her cheeks and lick her naughty little cunt until she comes but doing that would defeat the purpose. She chose the cane, so she’s getting the cane.
I stand back and tap the cane across her cheeks, lower center. This is going to hurt more than she realizes. A caning can be one of the most brutal means of punishment possible. But she chose it—like so many other things she seems to have chosen without fully considering the consequences.
I pull the cane back, sweep it through the air, and land it right where I want it. A blushing line of red appears on her ass, and a moment later she lets out a shriek.
“Oh my fucking God!”
I smirk to myself and give her another stroke. This one lands about a quarter of an inch below the first. Another cry erupts from her throat. And a third stroke follows. I don’t want to give her any chance to recover from these before they happen. And that too, is a mercy. I could be drawing this out, letting every stroke reach the crescendo of pain before delivering the next.
Six strokes land across her ass. The latter ones are not as neat, only because she’s dancing in the stocks, up on her tip-toes, stamping her feet, wriggling her ass back and forth.
And she’s still wet.
Even with the pain of the schoolgirl beating coursing through her body, her pussy is dripping, slicking the insides of her thighs. Her inner lips are swelling and parting to allow me a view of that tight little hole. I find myself wondering how many other men have fucked her, and then I think it doesn’t matter, because nobody besides me is ever going to fuck her again.
“Shhhh,” I say, rubbing my palm over the upper part of her ass in a gentling motion. She’s sobbing. When I walk around the side of the stocks, I see tears coursing down her face. Poor little thing never saw any of this coming.
“Do you want daddy to make it better for you?” I keep my hand on her bottom as I speak to her gently.
“Yes,” she sniffles. She doesn’t question the word daddy. I don’t entirely know where it came from myself. I feel protective of her, even if I have to discipline her. Even if I have to make this little girl hurt.
I walk back around behind her. I know what will make her feel better. I know what will make me feel better.
My cock springs free with one motion. I line the head up with her pussy, just gently gliding the head of it up and down her wet lips.
She stops crying almost instantly, distracted by this new sensation. Her clit has emerged from its hood. I let the head of my cock kiss her there, just a gentle rub which makes her moan softly.
“You had the cane,” I croon softly. “Do you want the cock now too? Do you need daddy’s cock?”
This is deliciously wrong. My little caned captive bent over in the stocks, her legs spread, her pussy vulnerable to me. I’m going to fuck her. I have to. But I want her to ask for it. I’m not going to let her retreat into a lie where she doesn’t want this. I want her to ask for her defilement, be complicit in it.
She doesn’t answer right away, so I pull my cock back. Almost instantly, I hear a little whine.
“Please…”
“What was that?”
“Please can I…”
My cock throbs. This is so fucking hot. “Ask me for it, baby.”
“Please can I have your cock…”
That’s all I need. I press the thick, hard head of my dick to her slick lips and I push forward, her tight, hot pussy enveloping me as I sink myself inside her as slowly as I can stand. I want her to feel every bit of this. I want to hear her moan as she gives herself to me. This naughty little pussy of hers is so damn tight. I can feel her muscles contracting as she grips me, her body drawing me deeper.
Maybe I should be fucking her roughly, but she was such a good girl asking for my dick that I want to reward her.
“Good girls get fucked nicely,” I growl down at her. “Good girls have their pussies stretched nice and slow and wide.”
“Oh my God,” she gasps, more to herself than to me. I feel her cunt quivering. She loves this. She loves being my captive little fuck toy. No matter how much she might also hate it, she can’t hide what she really wants, and what she really is.
“Are you going to be a good girl for me, baby?”
I ask the question as I sink all the way inside her, wrapping my hand around under her body, my finger finding that wet little clit. I hold myself there, toying with her gently as she squirms on my dick, whimpering when her caned ass meets the hard line of my lower abs.
“Are you going to be a good girl for daddy, now that he’s fucking your little pussy so nicely?”
The words are obscene and powerful. She grunts and moans and almost cums on my cock, but I move my finger away before she can reach her climax. Not yet. She hasn’t earned her orgasm yet.
Chapter Seven
Sonya
I can’t think, I can’t focus. I’m suspended between pain and pleasure, terrifyingly out of control of damn near everything. My body. My mind. My will. My ass burns and my pussy throbs. The need to scream to tell him to leave me alone sticks in my throat, overcome with the need to chase my carnal needs. No one’s ever fucked me like this, and if he doesn’t make me come I’ll find a way to hurt him.
Jesus, I’m so fucked up.
He strokes my clit and pounds into me and I’m about to shatter, but just when I’m close he removes his hand and grasps my hips.
“Please,” I beg.
“Please, what?” he says. “Say it. Make me come, daddy.”
A shiver races down my spine and my pussy clenches around his cock. If this were any other place and time, I couldn’t do it. If he’d just bought me dinner and taken me to his home and kissed me and felt me up then made me call him daddy, I’d toss him on his ass and call him a sick fuck.
But he owns that he’s a sick fuck, and that gives me the ability to let shit go and feel this. Hell, I’d rather be fucked than beaten again, and if he doesn’t make me come soon, I’m gonna lose my mind.
He’s taken everything from me, so what do I have to lose?
“Make me come, daddy,” I pant out.
“Mmm, baby,” he says, his voice hot and tortured and deep. He thrusts hard and primal. “That’s a girl. Take daddy’s cock in that tight little cunt. This pussy’s mine. Daddy takes what daddy wants.”
“Yes,” I say, my body tensing and primed to come. “Please.”
He swipes my clit and thrusts so hard I fear he’ll split me in two, but I can take it, I’m impossibly aroused by this. It’s nothing I want and everything I need. One more thrust, and he sends me shattering into orgasm. Pleasure and pain rips through me, fire and ice, a senseless, mindless flurry. I moan and writhe when he spills in me, fingers gripped so tight on my hips he’ll mark me, but I don’t care. I slump against the restraints when he’s done, panting and stilled behind me. Without a word, he pulls out, and warmth trickles along my thighs. I should hate this, but I’m boneless and still riding spasms of pleasure.
He finishes unfastening my bonds and I try to stand but I slump forward. He catches my body as it slithers to the floor, his slick body pressed against mine. Sweat drips down my forehead and blurs my vision so I close my eyes as he carries me, subdued and weightless, to the bathroom. He slings me over his shoulder so he can put the shower on, tests the temperature, then steps in, both of us fully clothed. Hot, soothing water pounds down on me. He stands me in front of him and strips the wet clothing from me, tossing them carelessly on the floor, before he strips his own sweat-slicked
clothing off. In silence, he soaps me up almost tenderly. There’s nothing sexual about this. For the moment, we’re replete. He washes me, rinses me off thoroughly, and before I know what’s happening, the shower is off, I’m wrapped in a thick towel, and he’s carrying me to the bed.
He lays me down, then folds himself down beside me, lengthwise, so that his chest and flank are pressed against my back.
“Good girl,” he says. His voice is tight, and I wonder why. Did he not mean to fuck me like that? I’m weirdly let down with the thought, so I quickly dismiss it. He runs a hand through my hair, and a flutter of warmth blooms in my chest. I like good girl. No one ever called me good, and it would be condescending coming from anyone less dominant than he is. But from him, it’s authentic. He’s beaten me, stripped me, dominated me, and now fucked me. But he hasn’t broken me. And for that, I’ve earned the temporary good girl.
It’s fucked up that it means something to me but it does.
What is he doing? I close my eyes, exhausted, and there’s no good fighting anything anyway, since I’m held here against my will and not in a position I can escape yet. Somewhere in my rational brain I’m mad at myself for enjoying what just happened, but hell, why not?
His phone rings and he pushes away from me. I don’t like the loss of him at my back, and I’m angrier at myself for that than I am for letting him fuck me. Momentary pleasure in the middle of torture is one thing; weakness is another. So I let myself go rigid and remind myself of my training. Why did I put myself in such a fucked up position? Was it worth it? What did I really gain here?
“Yeah?” he asks, and I’m listening now because I need to stop thinking about this and get my head back in the game.
He curses vehemently and his hands clench. “Now? For fuck’s sake. Tell me you eliminated him for pulling that bullshit. Of all the fucking ways to fucking screw things up.” He goes on in a tirade, but for some reason it seems half-hearted.
Is it my imagination? He’s furious and letting it be known, but I’ve seen him really pissed, and this isn’t it. But at the next thing he hears, his eyes darken, narrowing on me even though I had fuck all to do with this conversation.
“Now?” he says, his voice tight with anger, like a rubber band about to snap. “Fucking now?” His voice lowers, and he looks straight at me as he speaks into the receiver. His eyes are slits of fire. “You deal with this the way it needs to be dealt with. If you don’t, I’ll do it myself, and none of you will like the results.”
He listens, exhaling angrily, then runs his fingers through his short, dark hair. Who is he? What’s his name? Where did he come from and where is he going? Everyone has a story. Everyone’s got secrets. Everyone’s got a price to sell their soul, though some demand a higher price and others merely barter.
He hangs up the phone and swivels a furious gaze to me.
“What did I do now?”
To my surprise his eyes soften a little and his lips twitch. “Brat,” he mutters. “Nothing. Yet. But I’ve got to leave because one of my men fucked shit up and I need to deal. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
It’s not what I expect, but what surprises me even more is how my belly clenches and the voice inside my head says no. I feel vulnerable, and I don’t like it. I wish I could walk away and go hide somewhere until I can compose myself but instead I’m stripped naked in broad daylight with nowhere to go.
He’s dressing but keeping an eye on me while he does. He steps into a pair of slacks and a shirt, buttons them around his trim waist, then threads the leather belt through the loops. “I’ll feed you before I go,” he says.
He walks to the kitchen and rustles through the fridge, taking out some waxed paper deli bags and a bowl of cut-up fruit. He makes me a sandwich, places it on a plate, places fruit next to it, and brings it to me.
“Eat,” he says. “Now. I’ve got no patience for bullshit, and I’m not sure when I’ll get back.”
My stomach growls with hunger, and I know what happens if I refuse, so I take the sandwich and eat it while he finishes getting ready. “Good,” he says. “Now sit up on the bed.”
I eye him curiously. What will he do to me to make sure I don’t escape?
When he opens the drawer next to me, I try to peek in, but he’s too quick. He removes a pair of metal cuffs and a length of rope.
“Pick,” he says, as if I actually have a choice.
“Cuffs,” I mutter. I reason they’re easier to walk in, less cumbersome.
He nods, scowling, and I wonder if it’s at me. But no, when he speaks it’s clear why he’s not happy. “I have surveillance cameras everywhere,” he says. “I’m watching from my phone. If you fuck up, I’ll know. If you’re good, I’ll note it and consider reading material the next time I leave. But if you try to escape? I’ll punish you.” He lets the words sink in. I nod. “Good,” he says, then to my surprise he reaches for my face and cups my cheek. “You really are beautiful.”
And then he’s gone. I shouldn’t like the praise, but the sick, twisted, broken bits inside me that never earned approval yearns for more.
I sit on the bed for what seems like hours. Cuffed to the bed, I can’t wander about the room. This must be what solitary confinement is like. Torture. I’m left with nothing to occupy my mind but idle thoughts, and after a while, it’s enough to make anyone go insane. I talk out loud, trying to remember how to count in Spanish. And just to amuse him in case he is watching, I go over every mathematical equation I can imagine, plus it gives me something to occupy me.
But with nothing to do, I’m sleepy. It’s warm in here, and I can pretty easily toss the blanket over my legs and actually get comfortable. I lay my head on the pillow and decide to take a little nap.
I wake with a start at the sound of the door opening. Is he back already? I have no concept of time in here, with no way to see what time it is. The door swings open, and I crane my neck to see, but my body tightens when someone else comes in the room. I don’t recognize him, so he’s not on Brava’s payroll. I have no idea who this guy is.
He’s on the shorter side and thin, clean-shaven with strawberry-blonde hair that hangs in oily strands. His pale blue eyes look watered-down, like a pathetic attempt at child’s watercolor. His skin is pale, complexion bland. A corner of his lips quirks up. “You are a pretty little thing,” he says. “And you look smarter than the usual.”
“Why are you here?” I ask. “Who are you? Were you sent here?” I can’t keep the panic out of my voice, and I know even as I’m speaking, this is stupid. I’ll seem weak.
He shuts the door behind him. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’m part of the circle you got roped into, and victim of a fucking cock block. So I need to get laid. Word is, you’re the newest recruit, so I figured I’d get mine while I could.”
Nausea rolls in my stomach like a tumbleweed, uncontrollable and wild at the same time bile rises in the back of my throat at the thought of being touched by this greasy, vapid man.
“I wouldn’t touch me if I were you,” I say with false bravado.
He shoots me a grin that makes me want to hurl. “Good thing you’re not me.”
He’s already undressing, like I’m his hired slut on his lunch break and he needs to get laid before his boss realizes he’s still on the timeclock. He stalks over to me while unbuttoning his pants, and he’s already got a rock-hard erection. Son of a bitch.
“He’ll kill you,” I say, and it’s the one thing that makes fear flash in his eyes, confirming my suspicion. It’s not an idle threat. My captor bathed Brava’s touch off me. He’s possessive and brutal, and this man knows it.
“Colt?” He asks. It’s the first time I’ve heard his name. “He won’t know,” he says, not even bothering to deny it. “I’ve been jerking off to your picture all night. I won’t be long.” He reaches for me, and I fight. With my hands restrained, I can’t punch him, but I can kick, and I do. I rear back, let my foot fly, and kick him right in the stomach. He grunts, falls back,
then he’s back at me, this time furious.
“Fucking bitch,” he says. He rears back, and I know he’s going to hit me, but I can’t use my hands to block the blow. He backhands me so hard my head snaps back and stars blur my vision. The pain cracks against my skull, my head instantly throbs. His hands at my throat and his body is over me. His breath smells terrible, and I want to push him off me just so I can breathe.
“You’re already dead. You’re already lined up to be sold and your days are numbered. There is no fight. You kick me again, I’ll beat you black and blue before I fuck every hole in your body.”
I writhe beneath him but there’s nothing I can do to get away. I’m cuffed and naked and he’s got the advantage. But if my captor tells the truth—and weirdly, he always has—he’ll see this. Will he rescue me? For a moment I tell myself my hopes are in vain. If he’s nearby and he saw this man come in, he’d already be here by now. He’s either too far away from me, or he sent this man.
Jesus, God. What if he sent this man in like a fucked-up “good guy, bad guy” routine?
The man over me strikes me again. I knee him, hard, which stops him for only a split second before his hands are at my throat, both hands this time, squeezing so hard I can’t breathe, can’t see. I’m thrashing beneath him but helpless. He lets my neck go and strips, shoving my legs apart and I gasp for air.
“No,” I gasp, trying to get away, but he’s too damn heavy and ruthlessly strong.
“He’ll kill you,” I repeat, hoping it’s the one thing that could save me, and in the second it takes for the man to freeze with the knowledge that I’m right, the door crashes open. It’s him. I should fear him more than anyone else in the world, but loyalty is unpredictable, and hope rises in my chest.
Like a furious animal, Colt roars before he attacks. He lunges at the man on me whose eyes go comically wide, then he lifts him up and throws him bodily across the room. He crashes into the wall with a sickening crunch of broken plaster and bones, but my captor doesn’t give him a second to recover. He lifts him up by the hair. The man howls. I don’t want to watch, but I can’t help it. He slams his fist into his ribcage and stomach, a flurry of brutal, savage punches.