He pulls me back by the hair so I'm arched over the counter, and my breasts are jutting towards his face. He suckles at my nipples, roughing them with his tongue, biting hard enough to make me cry. The place where he cut me sears like a brand, making me wet for him.
Pretty soon, I'm wheezing, short of breath, caught between lightheaded agony and bleak arousal. Every movement increases the pressure of his cock against my clit, and oh my God, I want him inside of me.
And he knows. I can see he knows as he lifts his head and squeezes my jaw in his hands, resting his forehead against mine so he can look into my eyes.
“You've stopped struggling,” he says. “What's the matter? Don't you want to keep me primed for the main event?” He grinds his hips into me, roughly, and I slip dangerously as my knees give out. Even though I made him come earlier, he's already hard again. “You wouldn't want to disappoint that wet pussy of yours.”
“No,” I say faintly.
“That's right,” he says. “No. Might as well enjoy it. Nothing you can do or say will make me stop.”
Which isn't quite true. We both know there's one thing I can say that will make him stop. Which begs the question: why didn't I use my safeword the moment he used his knife on me? Or when he made me lick come off the dirty floor?
“Although enjoyment hasn't really been an issue for you, has it?” He swipes his fingers over his crotch and holds them up. The leather is shiny and wet.
Is Tristan trying to force me to use my safeword? I'm furious—and scared. Scared that he'd push the lines so far to make me do what he wants. Scared that I'd let him. Scared that part of me wants to see how far I can push him.
Far enough to make him lose control?
I stare him right in the eyes. Those beautiful green eyes that can look so warm, but are now absolutely freezing. How can this Tristan exist alongside my Tristan? Is a dichotomy of being that great even possible without a total fracturing of self?
“Stop looking at me like that,” he says coldly—but I think I hear a catch in his voice. A snag of human emotion.
“No.”
But Tristan has a solution for that, too. He spins me around, and bends me over the counter so we're no longer making eye contact. I can't even look at him now. Can't see what he's doing.
A few seconds later he frees himself from his unzipped fly and his cock rubs between my legs. The counter in front of me blurs. Regardless of what thoughts might be going through his head, he's enjoying this. His erection is proof enough of that
But then, I'm not exactly hating this myself.
I grit my teeth when the head of his cock slides partway inside of me. “Still not quite wet enough,” he says. “Making me do all the work.” He slides his fingers between my legs, and remembering how rough he was last time, I buck, trying to throw him off. “Fucking eager, aren't you?”
“Stop that, you bastard.”
“It's your fault it hurts,” he says. “You know you want it. You just can't let yourself enjoy it.”
He knows exactly where to squeeze, how hard to touch, when to ease down and when to speed up. He knows my body better than I do in that regard. So it doesn't take him long to get me as wet as he wants me to be. He sticks his finger in my mouth and says, “Clean yourself off me.”
Salty come. Sour leather. It's all I can taste and smell. When I've sucked his finger, he pulls his hand out of my mouth and puts it on my hips. Each thrust causes the counter to dig painfully into my abdomen, and my breathing picks up, and I can feel that telltale sign that I'm close. There must be something wrong with me, because no normal person would get pleasure from this.
This is wrong. This is so wrong.
I feel disgusting. Lower than low.
But I don't say my safeword.
I don't say anything at all.
I can feel Tristan's breath on my bare shoulders. The mask is forcing him to breathe through his mouth, and not his nose. He's panting angrily, and his fingers are digging into my butt hard enough to hurt.
“You have a tight little snatch.” He runs his finger down the strap of my thong, moving it aside. I tense as his finger circles my anus, causing a tickling, tingling feeling. “But I bet I know what's even tighter.”
“No!” The alarm in my voice is not feigned. “Don't you dare,” I say hoarsely.
“What are you going to do?” He teases the puckered skin, and my hips jerk against the counter as he thrusts into me hard. “How are you going to stop me?”
Twilight. Say Twilight.
I say nothing.
“Out of ideas?” His mocking voice burns my ear. “Too bad.” He slides off his glove, then, and sticks his bare finger into my mouth. “Bite me, and I'll use your nipple like a twist-tie. Now suck. Get my finger nice and wet. Suck it like a cock.”
When I do, coating his finger with a thick layer of saliva, he slides his finger out of my mouth, and begins to ease it inside my ass. His thrusting grows shallower as he leans back to allow himself better access.
I whimper.
“Such a sweet ass.” He rubs between my legs. My breathing hitches, and his finger slides in further. “It clenches so tight. Maybe when I'm tired of fucking that pussy of yours, I'll have some fun with your ass instead.”
I feel like I'm flying apart. Like my body is turning into a mosaic of contrasting sensations, and I don't know what to feel.
His finger slides out, and then back in, keeping time with his cock. I am weeping openly, my soft cries interspersed with gasps, and moans, because he is also massaging my clitoris. His other hand is bare now, and the sensation is more than I can bear.
“I can't take anymore. I can't. Please—”
“You're awfully wet. Are you sure you don't want this?”
I'm not sure of anything anymore.
He crooks the finger in my asshole and my hip bangs sharply against the corner of the table.
“Tell me the truth,” he says. “You do want this. You wanted all this. That's why you were waiting for me on that bed, in that schoolgirl getup. You were waiting for me, ripe and ready, like low-hanging fruit, wanting to be plucked—” he slides his finger back in “—and fucked.”
My mind is like a hive of angry wasps, each sting injecting a heady rush of pleasure. It buzzes through my veins like poison, and I cannot get enough.
“Yes,” I sob. “I want you to fuck me.”
“And you'll do anything I want.”
“Yes,” I say hoarsely. “Anything.”
“Then fucking take me to the hilt.” And his final thrust pins me up against the counter like an insect to a corkboard, and as he pulls his finger out of me, I come with a cry, and Tristan growls, “Now I own you forever.”
And then—
And then—
A crescendo into silence.
Chapter Thirteen
I wake up and feel as if I have just run—and lost—ten marathons. Everything is so sore: a deep-fried ache that seems to penetrate my very muscles. It's like I've contracted an exotic flu.
Something bats at my nose. I feel the tickle of whiskers in my face and turn away. Garfield? For some reason, his presence here surprises me.
Didn't I lock him in the bathroom?
“Shoo, you pest,” a low, male voice rumbles. “Let her sleep. What do you want? Food?”
…Tristan?
Garfield's meow cuts off into a hiccuping squawk. Tristan must have picked him up. I hear the rattle of kitty kibble being poured into a bowl, the sounds of contented crunching.
“Dumb cat,” he mutters softly. The mattress depresses behind me, and a hard, warm body presses up against me from behind. Lips brush against my cheek, and a hand runs up and down my bare thigh.
And I remember—
I remember Tristan threatening me with a knife—tying me up with my knee socks—making me suck him off and lick up his come from the floor when I spat it out—fucking me from behind as if we were little better than two animals in the woods—thrusting a finger into m
y ass—
Oh my God. He's still here.
I shoot up in bed, and all my bruises from last night start aching at once. I let out a raw sob.
Tristan is sitting up, and he is the very picture of concern. My eyes drop to his bare chest and then away. He's shirtless—because I'm wearing the black shirt he was wearing last light. The one he wore while he did those things to me. Terrible things, things that I enjoyed far, far too much. I bet if I lower my head, I'll even smell like him.
He cups my chin in his hand. “Are you all right?”
I pull away. How can he even ask me that? How can he be so kind after what he did to me? How can he be feeding my cat and stroking my hair after pinning me down by the back of my neck with his boot and making me lick the floor? And why does thinking about that incident make me feel so hot?
What's wrong with me?
“Kelly.” He leans over me, sending a pang shooting through my sore groin. Now I know how addicts feel. Even when they're hurting, even when they know that they should stop, they just keep going and going. “Talk to me.”
His touch ignites fresh memories that blow up behind my eyes like fireworks, as last night speeds through my head like a pornographic montage on fast-forward. “I don't want to,” I say breathlessly.
“Too bad.” He rubs my arms with slow, smooth motions. “I'm not leaving until you do.”
I try to punch him. Not one of the friendly punches we've exchanged in the past—no, this is a full-on deck. One that could do actual damage if it makes contact with his face.
He grabs my wrist, and holds it down, at my side. I struggle and jerk, but he won't let go, and I suck in my breath because I start to remember other things—
Throwing up. Emptying my stomach of his come. Throwing up again at the sight of the gross mess in the toilet bowl. Tristan holding my hair, rubbing my back, whispering soft, gentle words into my ear (“I'm going to fuck you so hard, you're going to bleed come”).
“No.”
“Kelly.”
My lower belly buzzes with a lazy warmth and I grow rigid, trying to work myself free from his hold. But he really is that much stronger, because I cannot. I cannot.
“Let me go.”
“Not until you stop trying to hit me. It is very important in BDSM to denote clear margins between playtime and regular time. Boundaries are key. If you don't have boundaries, the relationship can easily become abusive.”
“Fine.” I glower at him. “I won't hit you. Even though you deserve it.”
“And I,” he says magnanimously, “will let you go, even though I do not.”
“How could you do those things to me?” I whisper. “How could you make me want…that?”
“You wanted to try it.” He draws nonsense patterns on my thigh. “Didn't you enjoy yourself?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Nobody in their right mind should enjoy what you did to me.”
Tristan stops caressing me. “You said should. Does that mean you did—and feel guilty about it?”
“Cut the psychoanalysis crap. You cut me.” I clap a hand to my shirtfront. “You made me lick your semen off the floor. You stuck your finger up my ass.”
I think we both know that this isn't exactly an answer.
“But you had an orgasm when I cut you,” he says patiently.
“That's not normal,” I hiss.
“What is normal?” Tristan asks, sounding a lot like Morpheus from The Matrix in that moment. I half-expect him to launch into that famous monologue about electrochemical signals. My thoughts are that frenetic. “You didn't use your safeword. If it bothered you so much, why didn't you say 'Twilight,' Kelly?”
He has a point. He made me feel so uncomfortable. Why didn't I use my safeword?
“Why didn't you say 'Twilight' when I pushed you to the floor?”
“Stop it.”
“You could have indicated that you wanted me to stop at any time.” He goes on ruthlessly. “You could have said your safeword when I put my foot on your neck. You could have said it when I told you to start licking, when I told you to lick it all. But you didn't, Kelly. You did exactly what I told you.”
I start crying again. He lets me go for a few minutes, and then pulls me towards him again.
“There are plenty of people who get off on humiliation,” he says. “Being humiliated. It can be liberating, having someone force you to do what you're too afraid to ask for yourself. Maybe you're a risk-taker at heart, but for whatever reason, you don't allow yourself to take them.
“Maybe you're highly sexual, but for whatever reason, you've been repressed.
“Maybe you just like the adrenaline high you get when someone tells you to bend over.” He pauses. “As for your ass—it's a very tempting ass, and as your Master, it's my job to push your limits. That's why you have a safeword. To let me know when I've pushed too far.”
He pauses.
“Do you think I've pushed you too far, Kelly?”
I don't know. I glance at the clock. It's 12:30 P.M. I've been asleep half the day. “Shouldn't you be at work?”
“I took a sick day—don't change the subject.”
He gets out of bed, taking me with him, and I am relieved that he's wearing boxers.
“Why did you take a sick day?”
“Because someone I care about didn't feel well,” he says, with emphasis on “care.” He gives my butt a gentle push towards the direction of the bathroom. “Take a hot shower. I'll cook you something. It'll be ready when you get out.”
I brace myself for a mess, but I still stagger back in shock when I pull off Tristan's shirt.
My body is covered in bruises.
With a shaking hand, I prod one of the discolorations on the side of my throat, and shudder a little at the sting; it's almost as violent as the bite responsible for inflicting it.
On my shoulder are teethmarks, and it burns every time I move that arm. The wound glistens with antibiotic gel. Or what I hope is antibiotic gel, and not some sort of infection.
My nipples are swollen and several shades darker than normal. I touch the left one, the one he twisted, and it throbs dully.
Then there's the scab where he cut me with the knife.
My abdomen is bruised from where it cut into the Formica when he screwed me against the counter. This is the lightest bruise, mostly a pink with a bit of yellow. The bruise on my hip is far nastier looking—that's where I banged it on the counter's sharp edge while jerking around.
My cunt and clit are sore, as well. Every time my labia rub together, a searing pain shoots up from my groin all the way into my bladder, making it feel as if I desperately have to pee. I think my clit might actually be bruised—Tristan was certainly rubbing and pinching me hard enough down there, and the leather from his heavy gloves added extra friction. My asshole stings—it feels tight, and burns, especially when I accidentally clench it. My father would probably call it “firehole”—it's similar to the feeling you get after having the runs from eating too much spicy food.
Showering is going to make the Spanish Inquisition seem like an ice cream social.
The hot water might as well be acid because of how much it stings. I keep my thighs pressed together to protect my private parts from the water, but when I bend to retrieve the shampoo, water drips from my back down into my anus, and the sting makes my eyes water. I freeze for several minutes, not daring to unclench my ass. Not until the pain goes down from a 6 to a 4.
I get out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel. I don't wear Tristan's shirt, because that would show, at least on a subliminal level, that I am okay with what he did. I don't want him to feel as though he still comfortably owns me. I leave it discarded on the bathroom floor and waddle towards my closet.
I can feel Tristan watching me out of the corner of his eye, but I pretend he's not there and let the towel drop as I pull on a nightshirt. I don't bother with underwear. I know the chafe of it will drive me mad, and not in a good way.
“Hey there
, beautiful girl.” Something in the frying pan sizzles. “I made you an omelet.”
“I'm not hungry.” Seeing all those bruises he's inflicted on my body has made me lose my appetite. My skin looks like raw hamburger, left out to rot in the sun.
He plops the omelet on one of my plates. Garfield is sitting on the floor at his feet, watching the transfer of the omelet with interest. “Sit down and look hungry,” he orders. “Your cat gets it.”
I glare at him.
Tristan grins at me. “Oh, I get it. You want me to feed it to you by hand. Does that sound about right?”
“No, I want you to leave me alone.”
He switches off the stove and walks over to me. I try to dodge him, but he is faster, and swings me around so that I'm in his arms, with my back pressed against his chest.
“I'm not going to do that.”
“Why?”
“Because you're obviously confused and upset right now, and I'm not going to leave you to go through all that alone.” Tristan rests his head against mine. “When a Dom takes on a sub, he's not just taking on a lover. He's also giving up his time, his patience, and his affection, to be a teacher and a guardian, as well.”
My heart knocks against my chest.
“If it's based on affection, then why do I like it when you hurt me?”
“Why do you need a reason if it feels good?”
I don't have an answer for that.
“Sit down and eat,” he says. “It'll make you feel better.”
I pick up the fork and begin to eat robotically.
Tristan sits across the table from me, watching me eat with one hand supporting his chin. I keep my eyes lowered; it's a little scary, how much the sight of his face affects me. How looking at him sometimes makes me feel as if my chest is about to burst.
“However, given your reaction to the last scene, I think it might be a good idea to take a break for a little while—give your body some time to recover.”
Bound to Accept Page 14