by Anna Zaires
My shaking intensifies as he circles around me like a shark.
“—but I need to start molding you into what I want you to be, Nora. You’re already so close to perfection, but there are these occasional lapses . . .” He traces his fingers down my body, ignoring the way I’m cringing from his touch.
“Please,” I whisper, “please, Julian, I’m sorry.” I don’t know what I’m sorry for, but I will say anything right now to avoid this training, whatever it may be.
He smiles at me. “It’s not a punishment, my pet. I just have certain needs, that’s all—and I want you to be able to satisfy them.”
“What needs?” My words are barely audible. I don’t want to know, I truly don’t, yet I can’t seem to stop myself from asking.
“You’ll see,” he says, wrapping his fingers around my upper arm and leading me toward the bed. When we get there, he reaches for the blindfold and ties it around my eyes. My hands automatically try to go to my face, but he pulls them down, so that they’re hanging by my sides.
I hear rustling sounds, as though he’s searching for something in that bag. Terror rips through me again, and I make a convulsive movement to free my eyes, but he catches my wrists. Then I feel him binding them behind my back.
At this point I start to cry. I don’t make a sound, but I can feel the blindfold getting wet from the moisture escaping my eyes. I know I was helpless before, even without being blindfolded and tied up, but the sense of vulnerability is a thousand times worse now. I know there are women who are into this, who play these types of games with their partners, but Julian is not my partner. I’ve read enough books that I know the rules—and I know that he’s not following them. There’s nothing safe, sane, or consensual about what’s going on here.
And yet, when Julian reaches between my legs and strokes me there, I’m horrified to realize that I’m wet.
That pleases him. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the satisfaction emanating from him as he begins to play with my clit, occasionally dipping the tip of one finger inside me to monitor my physical response to his stimulation. His movements are sure, not the least bit hesitant. He knows exactly what to do to enhance my arousal, how to touch me to make me come.
I hate that, his expertise in bringing me pleasure. How many women has he done this to? Surely it takes practice to get so good at making a woman orgasm despite her fear and reluctance.
None of this matters to my body, of course. With each stroke of his skilled fingers, the tension inside me builds and intensifies, the insidious pressure starting to gather low in my belly. I moan, my hips involuntarily pushing toward him as he continues to play with my sex. He’s not touching me anywhere else, just there, but it seems to be enough to drive me insane.
“Oh yes,” he murmurs, bending down to kiss my neck. “Come for me, my pet.”
As though obeying his command, my inner muscles contract . . . and then the climax rushes through me with the force of a freight train. I forget to be afraid; I forget everything in that moment except the pleasure exploding through my nerve endings.
Before I can recover, he pushes me onto the bed, face down. I hear him moving, doing something, and then he lifts me and arranges me on top of a mound of pillows, elevating my hips. Now I’m lying on my stomach with my ass sticking out and my hands tied behind my back, even more exposed and vulnerable than before. I turn my head sideways, so I don’t suffocate in the mattress.
My tears, which had almost stopped before, begin again. I have a terrible suspicion I know what he’s going to do to me now.
When I feel something cool and wet between my butt cheeks, my suspicion is confirmed. He’s spreading lube on me, preparing me for what’s to come.
“Please, don’t.” The words are wrenched out of me. I know that begging is useless. I know that he has no mercy, that it turns him on to see me like this—but I can’t help it. I can’t accept that additional violation. I just can’t. “Please.”
“Hush, baby,” he murmurs, stroking the curve of my buttocks with his large palm. “I’ll teach you to enjoy this too.”
I hear more sounds, and then I feel something pushing into me, into that other opening. I tense, clenching my muscles with all my might, but the pressure is too much to resist and the thing begins to penetrate me.
“Stop,” I moan as a burning pain begins, and Julian actually listens this time, pausing for a second.
“Relax, my pet,” he says softly, caressing my leg with one of his hands. “It’ll go much better if you relax.”
“Take it out,” I beg. “Please take it out.”
“Nora,” he says, his tone suddenly harsh. “I told you to relax. It’s nothing but a small toy. It won’t hurt you if you relax.”
“Isn’t hurting me the whole point?” I ask bitterly. “Isn’t that what gets your rocks off?”
“Do you want me to hurt you?” His voice is soft, almost hypnotic. “It would get my rocks off, you’re right . . . Is that what you want, my pet? For me to hurt you?”
No, I don’t. I don’t want that at all. I give an almost imperceptible shake of my head and do my best to relax. I don’t think I’m successful at it. It’s just too wrong, the feeling of something pushing in there from the outside.
Nonetheless, Julian seems pleased with my efforts. “Good,” he croons. “Good girl, there we go . . .” He applies steady pressure, and the thing goes deeper into me, past the resistance of my sphincter, inch by slow inch. When it’s all the way in, he pauses, letting me get used to the sensation.
The burning pain is still there, as is the almost nauseating feeling of fullness. I focus on taking small, even breaths and not moving. After about a minute, the pain begins to subside, leaving only the disorienting sensation of a foreign object lodged inside my body.
Julian leaves the toy in place and starts stroking me all over, his touch oddly gentle. He starts with my feet, rubbing them, finding all the kinks and massaging them away. Then he moves up my calves and thighs, which are almost vibrating with tension. His hands are skilled and sure on my body; what he’s doing is better than any massage I’ve ever had. Despite everything, I feel myself melting into his touch, my muscles turning to mush under his fingers. By the time he gets to my neck and shoulders, I’m as relaxed as I’ve been since waking up on this island. If I hadn’t been blindfolded, bound, and sodomized, I would’ve thought I was in a spa.
When he removes the toy some twenty minutes later, it slides right out, without even a hint of discomfort. He pushes it back in again, and this time, the pain is minimal. If anything, it feels . . . interesting . . . particularly when his fingers find my clit and begin stimulating it again.
I don’t resist the pleasure those fingers bring me. Why bother? I would take pleasure over pain any day of the week. Julian is going to do whatever he wants, and I might as well enjoy some parts of it.
So I divorce my mind from the wrongness of it all and let myself simply feel. I can’t see anything with the blindfold, and I can’t put up much of a fight with my hands tied behind my back. I’m completely helpless—and there’s something peculiarly liberating in that. There’s no point in worrying, no point in thinking. I’m simply drifting in the darkness, high on post-massage endorphins.
He fucks me with the toy, pushing it in and out of me at the same time as his fingers press on my clit. His movements are rhythmic, coordinated, and I moan as my sex starts to throb, the pressure inside me growing with each thrust. Abruptly, the tension gets to be too much, and there’s a sudden, intense burst of pleasure, starting at my core and radiating outward. My muscles clamp down on the toy, and the unusual sensation only intensifies my orgasm. Unable to control myself, I cry out, grinding against Julian’s fingers. I want the ecstasy to last forever.
All too soon, though, it’s over, and I’m left limp and shaking in the aftermath. Julian is not done with me, of course, not by a long shot. Just as I’m starting to recover, he withdraws the toy and presses a different, larger object to
my back opening. It’s his cock, I realize, tensing again as he begins to push in.
“Nora . . .” There is a warning note in his voice, and I know what he wants from me, but I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can relax enough to let him in. It’s too much; he’s too thick, too long. I don’t understand how something that big can enter me there without ripping me apart.
But he’s relentless, and I feel my muscles slowly giving in, unable to resist the pressure he’s applying. The head of his cock pushes past the tight ring of my sphincter, and I cry out at the burning, stretching sensation. “Shh,” he says soothingly, stroking my back as he slowly goes deeper. “Shh . . . it’s all good . . .”
By the time he’s in all the way, I’m a trembling, sweating mess. There’s pain, yes, but there’s also the novelty of having something so large invading my body in this weird, unnatural way. I know people do this—and supposedly even derive pleasure from this act—but I can’t imagine ever doing this willingly.
He pauses, letting me adjust to the sensations, and I sob softly into the mattress, wanting nothing more than for this to be over. He’s patient, though, his strong hands caressing me, relaxing me, until my tears subside and I no longer feel like passing out.
He senses it when my discomfort begins to ease, and starts to move inside me, slowly, carefully. I can hear his harsh breathing, and I know that he’s exerting a lot of control over himself, that he probably wants to fuck me harder but is trying not to ‘damage me beyond repair.’ Nevertheless, his movements cause my insides to twist and churn, causing me to cry out with every stroke.
And just when I think I can’t bear it anymore, he slides one hand under my hips and finds my swollen clit again. His fingers are gentle, his touch butterfly-soft, and I begin to feel a familiar warmth in my belly, my body responding to him despite the violation. What he’s doing isn’t taking away the pain, but it’s distracting me from it, allowing me to focus on the pleasure. I never knew pleasure and pain could co-exist like that, but there’s something strangely addictive in that combination, something dark and forbidden that resonates with a part of myself I never knew existed.
His pace picks up, and somehow that makes it better. Maybe some nerve endings are desensitized by now—or maybe I’m simply getting used to having him inside me—but the pain lessens, almost disappears. All that’s left is a host of other sensations—strange, unfamiliar sensations that are intriguing in their own way. That, and the pleasure from his clever fingers playing with my sex, arousing me until I’m crying out for a different reason, until I’m begging Julian to do it, to send me over the edge again.
And he does. My entire body tightens and explodes, shuddering with the force of my release. He groans as my muscles clamp down on his shaft, and I feel the liquid warmth from his seed bathing my insides, the saltiness of it stinging my raw flesh.
“Good girl,” he whispers in my ear, his cock softening within me. He kisses my earlobe, and the tender gesture is such a contrast to what he’d just done that I feel disoriented. Is this normal kidnapper behavior? When he withdraws from me, I feel empty and cold, almost as if I’m missing the heat from his body pressing me down.
He doesn’t leave me alone for long, though. He unties my hands first and rubs them lightly, then he takes off my blindfold. I blink, letting my eyes adjust to the soft light in the room, and move my arms, bracing myself on my elbows.
“Come,” he says softly, wrapping his fingers around my upper arm. “Let’s get you into the shower.”
I let him tug me to my feet and lead me into the bathroom. My legs feel shaky, and I’m glad he’s holding me. I don’t know if I could’ve walked there by myself.
He turns on the shower, waits for the water to heat up for a few seconds, and leads us into the large stall. Then he thoroughly washes every part of my body, rinsing away all traces of lube and semen. He even shampoos and conditions my hair, his fingers massaging my skull and relaxing me again. By the time he’s done, I feel clean and cared for.
“Now it’s your turn,” he says, turning up my palm and pouring some body wash into it.
“You want me to wash you?” I say incredulously, and he nods, a small smile curving his lips. With the water running down his muscular body, he’s even more gorgeous than usual, like some kind of a sea god.
A sea monster, I correct myself. A beautiful sea monster.
He continues looking at me expectantly, waiting to see if I will do as he asked, and I mentally shrug. Why not wash him, really? It won’t hurt me in the least. And besides, as much as I hate him, I can’t deny that I am curious about his body—that touching him is something I find exciting.
So I rub my hands together and run them over his chest, spreading the soap all over his bronzed skin. He raises his arms, and I wash his sides and underarms, then his back.
His skin is mostly smooth, roughened in just a few places by dark, masculine hair. I can feel the powerful muscles bunching under my fingers, and I find myself enjoying this experience. In this moment, I can almost pretend that I want to be here, that this stunning creature is my lover instead of my captor.
I wash him as thoroughly as he washed me, my soapy hands gliding over his legs, his feet. By the time I get to his sex, his cock begins to harden again, and I freeze, realizing that my ministrations unintentionally aroused him.
He correctly interprets my reaction as fear. “Relax, my pet,” he murmurs, his voice filled with amusement. “I’m only human, you know. As delicious as you are, I need more than a few minutes to recover fully.”
I swallow and turn away, rinsing my hands under the water spray. What the hell am I doing? He hadn’t forced me to touch him. I had done it of my own accord. He’d asked, but I am pretty sure I could’ve refused and he would’ve let it slide. The dark undercurrent I’d sensed in him earlier this evening is not there now. In fact, Julian seems to be in a good mood, his manner almost playful.
I want to get out of the shower now, so I make a move to slide past him. He stops me, his arm blocking my way.
“Wait,” he says softly, tilting my chin up with his fingers. Then he bends his head and kisses me, his lips sweet and gentle on mine. A now-familiar response warms my body, making me want to rub myself against him like a cat in heat. He doesn’t let it go far, though. After about a minute, he lifts his head and smiles down at me, his blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Now you can go.”
Utterly confused, I step out of the shower, dry myself off, and escape into my room as quickly as I can.
Chapter 13
That night I learn about Julian’s nightmares.
After the shower, he joins me in my bed, his muscular body curving around me from the back, one heavy arm draping over my torso. I stiffen at first, unsure of what to expect, but all he does is go to sleep while holding me close to him. I can hear the even rhythm of his breathing as I stare into the darkness, and then I gradually fall asleep too.
I wake up to a strange noise. It startles me out of deep sleep, and my eyes fly open, my heart pounding from an adrenaline surge.
What was that? For a moment, I don’t dare breathe, but then I realize that the sounds are coming from the other side of the bed—from the man sleeping beside me.
I sit up in bed and peer at him. It looks like he rolled away from me in the night, gathering all the blankets to himself. I’m completely naked and uncovered, and I actually feel a little chilly with the air-conditioning running at full blast.
The sounds escaping his throat are muffled, but there is a raw quality to them that gives me goosebumps. They remind me of an animal in pain. He’s breathing hard, almost gasping for air.
“Julian?” I say uncertainly. I don’t really know what to do in this situation. Should I wake him up? He’s clearly having a bad dream. I recall him telling me about his family, that they were all murdered, and I can’t help feeling pity for this beautiful, twisted man.
He cries out, his voice low and hoarse, and flops over onto his ba
ck, one arm hitting the pillow only a few inches away from me.
“Um, Julian?” I reach out cautiously and touch his hand.
He mumbles and turns his head, still deeply asleep. If we were anywhere but on this island, this would be the perfect moment for me to try to escape. As it stands, however, there’s really no point in going anywhere, so I just watch Julian warily, wondering if he’s going to wake up on his own or if I should try harder to wake him.
For a few moments, it seems like he’s settling down, his breathing calming a bit. Then he suddenly cries out again.
It’s a name this time.
“Maria,” he rasps out. “Maria . . .”
For one shocking second, I feel a hot tide of jealousy sweeping over me. Maria . . . He’s dreaming of another woman.
Then my rational side reasserts itself. Maria could easily be his mother or his sister—and even if she’s not, why should I care that he’s dreaming of her? It’s not like he’s my boyfriend or anything.
So I swallow and reach for him again, suppressing the residual pangs of jealousy. “Julian?”
As soon as my fingers touch his arm, he grabs me, his motions so fast and startling that only a small gasp escapes me as he pulls me toward him. His arms around me are inescapable, his embrace almost suffocating, and I can feel him shaking as he holds me tightly against him, my face pressed into his shoulder. His skin is cold and clammy with sweat, and I can hear his heart galloping in his chest.
“Maria,” he mumbles into my hair, his fingers digging into my back with such force that I’m sure there will be bruises there tomorrow. Yet somehow I don’t mind because I know he’s not doing this on purpose. He’s in the grip of his nightmare and he’s seeking comfort—and I’m the only one who can provide it right now.
After a while, I can hear his breathing easing. His arms relax a little, no longer squeezing me with such desperation, and his frantic heartbeat begins to slow. “Maria,” he whispers again, but there’s less pain in his voice now, as though he’s reliving happier times with her, whatever those may be.