by Anna Zaires
“What are you going to do? Please, Peter… what are you going to do?” Her words are muffled against the blanket as I grab a pillow and stuff it under her hips. It’s not enough, so I reach for another one, propping her curvy little ass higher. She’s wriggling, obviously afraid, so to prevent her escape, I keep most of my weight on her legs as I reach over to the nightstand to get a bottle of lube I keep inside.
Unzipping my jeans, I free my aching cock and lean over her, holding my weight up on one arm as I drizzle the lube over her wriggling ass, letting it drip down into the crack and trickle down to her folds. Sara gasps, struggling harder, and I throw the lube aside before penetrating her pussy with my finger. She’s hot and beautifully slick inside, the lube mixing with her own wetness as I push in a second finger, stretching her for me.
As I fuck her with my fingers, I roll my thumb over her clit, and soon, I’m rewarded with helpless little moans, her attempts to get away transforming into squirming movements to enhance her pleasure. Her hips begin to rise toward me, her clit grinding against my thumb with every stroke, and I know she’s on the verge. Not wanting her to come yet, I stop and grip my cock, guiding it to the pink, quivering opening of her pussy.
Wet heat engulfs me, slick walls gripping me tight as I penetrate her swollen flesh. My heart thumps heavily, my balls tightening as her inner muscles flex around me, milking me, stroking my cock. The feeling is sublime, and all my senses sharpen, even as my awareness of the outside world fades. She’s all I focus on: the sounds she makes, the way her body stretches to admit me… I can smell her arousal on my fingers, and I bring them up to her mouth, ordering hoarsely, “Suck them clean.”
She obeys, her agile little tongue circling my fingers as I thrust them into her mouth, and I fuck her with them as I press deeper into her pussy, wrenching a choked gasp out of her throat when the tip of my cock brushes against her cervix. She’s small and delicate underneath me, her slender body trembling as her bound hands press against my stomach, and the knowledge that she’s completely at my mercy intensifies my lust, my need to dominate and take her.
“Tell me who you belong to,” I growl, pulling my fingers out of her mouth to smear the wetness down her chin and neck. Wrapping my hand around her slender throat, I thrust in deep, making her cry out. “Tell me, Sara. Who owns you?”
She’s breathing so fast I can feel her rapid exhalations where I grip her neck. “Y-you do.” The words are barely audible as they leave her lips, and it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough.
Releasing her throat, I reach between her legs, feeling the silky flesh stretching around my cock, the gliding slickness of the lube mixing with her cream. Sara’s panting intensifies, her ass arching up as her moans grow louder, and my fingers travel higher, slipping between the pale, firm mounds of her cheeks.
“Peter… wait. Oh God, Peter…” My name comes out a choked gasp as I find the tightness of her other opening and press the tip of my finger in, ignoring the resistance of clenched muscles. It takes all my self-control to go slow, to not take her as violently as my body demands. I don’t want to tear her, don’t want to hurt her despite the darkness gnawing at my soul. The lube eases my finger’s passage as I penetrate her deeper, but she’s still too tight and I almost come as I imagine how tight she’ll be around my cock, how her ass will grip and squeeze me.
She whimpers at the discomfort of my penetration, but I don’t stop until my finger is all the way in and I can feel my cock through the thin inner wall separating her orifices. The sensation is dizzying, surreal in its intensity. It sharpens the hunger inside me, turns it even darker and more feral.
My beautiful caged ptichka.
It’s time I fully claimed her.
After tonight, she’ll have no doubts that she’s mine.
36
Sara
Overwhelmed, I clench my pelvic floor muscles, feeling the impossible girth of his cock and the stinging burn from that invading finger. Even with copious amounts of lube, it didn’t go in easily. I feel painfully full, violated and overtaken, and my breath comes in hard pants as I try to adjust to the strange sensation of being penetrated in two places.
To my relief, my tormentor withdraws his finger, only to have it return joined by another. The thick digits work into my ass slowly, stretching the tight ring of muscle with great care, but it still hurts, my body resisting the intrusion.
“Push out, ptichka.” His voice is a devil’s whisper, seductive and controlled, even as his cock throbs deep inside me. “Relax and let me in. You’ll like it.”
Panting shallowly, I try to do as he says, fighting the instinctive urge to clench harder. My bound hands flex behind my back, my fingers twitching as they press into my palms. Despite the stinging pain of the invasion, a part of me is curious about this, almost eager in some twisted way. Something about the very discomfort of this—the way my insides cramp and burn, the sensation of being forced and violated—resonates with that strange, submissive streak within me, with the craving for punishment my monster has awakened in me.
If it hurts, it’s not a betrayal.
If I have no choice, I’m not falling for the enemy.
“Yes, that’s it, my love… Now relax and breathe.” The two fingers are inside me now, thick and hard, the edges of his nails abrading tender tissues. It’s too much, too overwhelming, the sensations beyond anything I’ve known. My heart is like a fluttering bird in my chest, my breathing so fast it feels like I’m hurtling into panic. Only his voice keeps me present in the moment, that dark, caressing voice with its subtle accent.
“That’s it, my love… Relax…” His free hand strokes over my hip, the calluses on his palm rasping across my skin. “My pretty ptichka, so delicate, so sweet… It’ll feel better in a moment, I promise you, my love.” Crooning more endearments, he begins to move his cock in slow, shallow thrusts, and my heartbeat picks up further as the rocking movement rubs my clit against the mound of pillows.
The pleasure builds up slowly, maddeningly, the tension rising at a snail’s pace. The pressure of the pillow on my clit is far too light, his shallow thrusts too gentle. I’m too aware of the stinging fullness in my ass, and I moan into the mattress in frustration, pushing my hips higher, needing him to go harder, faster. I was on the verge before, and I’m almost there now, but I need more.
I need him to take me all the way and hurl me over, to give me both more pleasure and more pain.
“Peter, please,” I beg, but the perverse bastard stops and pulls out of me completely. Only his fingers remain in my ass, and in the next moment, he withdraws them too, leaving me aching and empty, on the edge and frustrated beyond belief.
“Peter,” I groan, but then I feel him reach to the side behind me, and more cool lube is squirted between my cheeks.
“Shhh,” he soothes as I clench instinctively at the feel of his massive cock pressing against that opening. “It’ll be all right, my love, just let me in…” He pushes harder, and the pressure on my sphincter grows more intense, the stinging pain worsening. He’s much bigger, much thicker than his fingers, and I can’t relax enough to let him in.
“Peter.” Growing panicked, I begin to struggle, tugging at the belt binding my wrists behind my back. “Peter, I don’t think it’s—”
The ring of muscle gives way with a painful pop, letting the broad head inside me, and a wave of dizziness crashes over me as he slides in deeper, the slickness of the lube easing his way. It feels like I’ve been speared, invaded in the cruelest way, and as he bottoms out inside me, his thick cock stretching me unbearably, I want to scream at him to stop, to end this. The fullness is beyond anything I imagined, and my stomach churns and cramps with nausea, cold sweat trickling down my trembling back.
Why was I so curious about this?
How could I have wanted this in any way?
Yet because I did, I remain silent, sucking in shaking breaths as I wait for the pain to ease. Peter is crooning to me again, stroking my back and hi
p—praising me for something, even—and soon, the pain does ease, the worst of the discomfort fading. The extreme fullness remains, however, and as his hand slips between my legs to find my clit, I start to tremble with a different kind of tension. It’s too much, the twice-thwarted orgasm and the merciless invasion, the feel of him where no man has been before.
“That’s it, ptichka,” he murmurs as I cry out at his light pinching of my clit. “Now you can have it. Now you can let it go.”
He starts to move inside me, carefully and gently, yet each stroke feels like a new invasion, my body wrenched open every time he pulls out and thrusts back in. It hurts and burns, but the steady pace does something, intensifying the throbbing tension in my sex. It begins to feel hypnotic, the rhythmic thrust and drag inside me, the pinching pressure of his fingers on my clit, and as I sink under the spell of the sensations, the tension grows, the pleasure coiling deep within my core.
“Come for me, Sara,” he groans, thrusting deep, and to my shock, I do, each muscle in my body spasming in release. The ecstasy is violent, explosive, the burst of tension so strong I scream. With my inner muscles tightening and releasing, the cock inside my ass feels even more invasive, but the pain just sharpens the sensations, makes the pleasure dark and burning hot. He groans, and I feel him jerk inside me, bathing my raw insides with his seed.
In the aftermath, there’s just ragged breathing—his and mine—and then he slowly withdraws, removing his belt from around my wrists before disappearing into the bathroom. I move my trembling hands to my sides but remain draped over the pillows, too shaken to get up. After a couple of minutes, Peter returns with a wet towel. I let him wipe the excess lube around my sore opening, and then I take the towel from him, holding it against myself as I get up on unsteady legs and make my way to the bathroom.
I need to wash up. Badly.
Peter considerately gives me a couple of minutes of privacy, then joins me in the shower.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly, blocking the water spray with his back, and I nod, my face burning as I meet his gaze. What just passed between us was so intimate and raw I feel like I’ve been peeled open. I don’t understand what it is about this man that brings out this side of me, why things that should’ve horrified me—like the streaks of blood on the towel I just used—turn me on instead.
“Good,” he murmurs, and in the dark steel of his eyes, I see a reflection of my own confusion, of the conflicting desires that make no sense. How could I want to be free of this man yet feel anxious to get closer? How could he love me yet want to hurt and punish me as well?
“Why?” I ask unsteadily as he frames my face with his large hands, his thumbs gently stroking across my shower-wet cheeks. Reaching up, I wrap my fingers around his thick wrists, feeling the strength of sinew and hard bone. “Peter… why are we like this?”
He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Because love isn’t always pretty and simple, ptichka,” he says softly. “Nor is it with whom you would expect. We don’t get to choose our hearts’ desires; we can only take them and pervert them, mold them into what we can survive.”
“I don’t—” My voice cracks as my throat tightens. “I don’t love you, Peter. I can’t.”
To my surprise, his lips curl slightly and he dips his head, dropping a kiss on my forehead before drawing me against him in a hug.
“You can,” he murmurs, one hand gently cradling my neck as the other one strokes my spine. “You can and you will. Someday soon, you’ll stop fighting, and you’ll see. Because it’s too late for you, ptichka—you’re as deeply ensnared as I am.”
Part IV
37
Sara
Over the next three weeks, I do my best to prove Peter wrong, to distance myself from him, but it’s a futile endeavor. Every time I erect any barriers between us, he breaks them down, and the perverse connection between us grows, aided by a physical attraction so strong it rips at the last shreds of my resistance.
Now that he’s had me every way, my captor knows no boundaries with my body, and our sex is more intense than ever—and our condom use ever more sporadic. I don’t understand how that happens, how my brain just shuts down at his touch, making me miss something so important. I don’t want a child with Peter—I dread the mere thought of it—but when he sweeps me up in his embrace, pregnancy is the last thing on my mind.
So far, I’ve been lucky, with my period coming last week as usual, but I know better than anyone that all it takes is one slip, one careless moment. And I’m not sure that Peter is being careless, exactly. He still uses condoms when I manage to remind him, but there have been no more morning-after pills—not after that one time.
“I’ve read through all the medical literature on the topic, and I don’t want you exposed to those hormones,” he stated when I begged him to get the pills for me again. “You’re extra sensitive—you said so yourself—and I’m not risking your health on the off-chance we might’ve gotten pregnant.”
And no matter how much I tried to reason with him, pointing out that I’m an Ob-Gyn and can assess the risks myself, he wouldn’t budge.
I’m beginning to suspect that Peter wants me pregnant, and that, more than anything, is what again turns my mind to escape.
This time around, I bide my time, carefully planning every step. I’m almost certain that Peter spoke the truth when he said the mountain is ringed by cliffs, but on our hikes through the forest, I’ve seen cliffs where the slopes are less sharp and the roots provide convenient handholds. The mountain is definitely inaccessible by car, and going up would be next to impossible, but a hiker who knows what she’s doing could possibly get down.
At least I’m hoping that’s the case.
I begin by deciding on the provisions and scoping out their locations. I can’t stash them in advance without getting caught, but I pay careful attention to where everything is stored. Rope, a sturdy knife, a backpack, nonperishable food, bottles of water—I keep a mental checklist of the essentials so that when the time comes, I can gather everything in a few short minutes. It helps that Peter and his men are neat to the point of OCD; everything in the house has its place, so all I have to do is remember where that is.
I also contemplate stealing a gun. The men are careful around me, stashing their weapons out of sight, but I’m pretty sure I could get my hands on something if I really tried. I haven’t tried, though, because by the time I learned where they keep them, I’ve gotten to know each of my captors and can’t imagine hurting them. The healing instinct is too deeply ingrained in me. I could probably pull the trigger under some circumstances—if my life was in danger, let’s say—but these men don’t pose a mortal threat to me. On the contrary, they’re nice to me, each in his own way. And taking the weapon to bluff them into letting me go would be stupid; they’d instantly see through my pathetic threat and take the gun away.
I’m up against elite ex-soldiers, not regular men, after all.
Still, I add the gun to my mental wish list, just in case an opportunity to acquire one arises before my escape. I might not be able to bluff Peter and his men into complying with my demands, but the same can’t be said for some Japanese farmer. I’d try the civilized approach at first, of course, but if I’m having trouble gaining access to a phone, I’m not opposed to waving a gun around—unloaded, of course.
As I work on these preparations, I also start keeping an eye on the weather, casually asking the guys for a forecast each day. We haven’t had snow yet, but it’s already October and winter comes early at this altitude.
The last thing I want is to get caught in another icy storm.
“I don’t like the cold,” I complain to Peter when we return from a walk one day. “And I especially don’t like it when the day starts off at one temperature, and by evening, it’s twenty degrees colder.”
“Poor baby,” he croons, taking off my jacket to rub my arms. “Come, let’s take a shower and get you nice and warm.”
I let him warm me up wit
h a hot shower and two orgasms, and the next day, I resume complaining about the weather—that way, no one will think it strange if I keep asking for a daily forecast.
As I’m doing all this, the guys are engaged in planning of their own. After a long break to throw the authorities off their scent, the team agreed to take on another job—a highly paid, highly dangerous assassination of a politician in Turkey.
I’ve been trying not to think about it, because each time I do, I get so anxious I can’t eat or sleep. After what happened in Nigeria, just hearing the word “job” raises my blood pressure.
“Why do you have to do this?” I ask Peter in frustration as mid-October—the client’s deadline to complete the job—draws nearer. “You said yourself, it’s especially dangerous out there for you these days. You got paid millions—millions—for that Nigerian banker. You can’t have gone through all that money so quickly.”
“Of course not, but we have to think ahead,” Peter says. “Aside from some of our more expensive toys, our hackers cost a fortune, and we need them to continue evading the authorities—and searching for Henderson.”
Shaking my head, I take a breath and head into my recording studio, both to distract myself with music and to avoid another argument. Because if Peter is inflexible about the necessity for these jobs, he’s absolutely immovable on the topic of Henderson—the one man still remaining on his list. The one time I cautiously brought up the possibility of forgetting the general and moving on, Peter shot me down so harshly I haven’t been inclined to try again.
“He personally issued the order for the Daryevo operation,” my captor snarled, his handsome face so twisted with rage it was unrecognizable. “He did this”—he shoved the phone with pictures of the massacre at me—“and I’m not going to rest until he and anyone who’s helping him are rotting with the worms, just like the corpses of my wife and son.”