by Ruby Laska
But she hadn’t chosen to have her life disrupted, hadn’t chosen to be spirited away like a refugee, even if her cage was gilded, even if she was surrounded by luxury beyond anything she’d ever experienced before.
She lifted her chin a little higher.
“Dangerous words, querida,” Ricardo said, his voice as rough as gravel over steel. “I’ll give you a moment to think, before you beg my forgiveness.”
Everything was still and silent, other than the drip of water from the faucet and the faint hum of the air conditioner. The air was steamy and fragrant with the soaps and lotions Chelsea had found in the bathroom, and a rivulet of water slid slowly down her face.
Deep inside her, the ferocious, unquenchable need awoke. It had never really been asleep, not since the first time Ricardo glanced at her with that smoldering, provocative gaze. But she usually managed to keep it contained in the hours and days when they were apart, at least long enough to work, to run, to eat and sleep, to take care of the everyday tasks of her life.
But here, in the protected aerie dominated by her lover, Chelsea was like a vibrating guitar string. He could set her off with a look, with a whiff of his scent, with an idle caress. The best thing for Chelsea would be for him to walk away, at least long enough for her to catch her breath, to get her bearings.
All she had to do was say she was sorry, and he would leave.
The need grew. Between her legs, her pussy swelled. Her nipples tingled, anticipating his touch. Blood rushed to her face, warming her cheeks with a blush; it rushed elsewhere in her body, readying her flesh for the dance that had been practiced since the dawn of time. It was too late for her to retreat now. Her mind wavered, but her body knew what it wanted. Without consciously meaning to, her hips jutted forward, her lips parted, her tongue darted out to moisten them. Her fingers twitched, longing to touch him.
“No,” she whispered.
The word no, to any other man she’d been with, was an end, a door closed. She’d said no as often as she said yes—and she’d said yes a lot, inviting a steady stream of men into her bed. When she was bored, she kicked them out. When their touch left her feeling lonelier than being alone. When her own company was less painful than their efforts to get close to her.
For Ricardo, no had an entirely different meaning. It wasn’t that he disregarded her feelings and needs—he’d been careful to make provisions for her care. She had a safe word, she could tell him she needed time to herself and he would respect that. She could tell him they needed to discuss their situation like adults, and he would engage her as an equal.
But this conversation was not about that.
He raised one eyebrow very fractionally. “I shall give you one more chance, my defiant little pet.” He rested his hand on the buckle of his belt. “But I should warn you—I can delay my departure slightly, if necessary. I will not allow your insubordination to go unchecked. Now. Are you sorry for your ill-considered remark?”
The ache in her pussy sharpened; a groan nearly escaped her lips. She caught it just in time. “No,” she said between gritted teeth. “I’m not sorry.”
His hand moved so fast she saw only the flash of his cuff links. He seized a hank of hair and pulled her head back savagely, exposing her throat to him, forcing her gaze to the ceiling. Her body went liquid with pain and desire, and the towel fell to the floor.
Ricardo used his free hand to seize one of her wrists and pin it against the cold tile. He stepped into the small enclosure with her, pushing her into the corner of the stall. He bent his head and kissed her gently from one ear to the other, without letting up the pressure with his hands. The pain searing her scalp and the bone-crushing force pinning her hand were a counterpoint to the soft caress of his tongue and lips and barely grazing teeth, and Chelsea moaned and writhed as her body struggled to sort out the sensations and, failing, demanded more.
Ricardo continued to kiss her, but when he reached the nape of her neck near her hairline, the kiss turned to a sharp, vicious bite. He kept it up as she moaned and struggled, suckling and biting as voraciously as any mythical vampire, until he finally let go of her and stepped out of the shower in one smooth move.
Chelsea resisted the urge to slide down into a puddle on the floor, her body vibrating with desire. When Ricardo offered her his hand, she took it and allowed him to help her from the shower. Then he took her by the shoulders and turned her gently toward the mirror.
“Look at yourself,” he murmured. “Look at my marks on you.”
He lifted her hair out of the way and she saw the purpling bruise behind her ear, the faint impressions of his teeth. She shuddered with excitement, tracing the outline with her fingertip.
“No one will know it is there, unless you want them to. But you will know. You will always know.”
He pushed her shoulders, gently at first, then more firmly, shoving her down until she was bent over the sink, her hips up against its cold edge. Her cheek rested on the smooth marble, a sensual contrast to the heat building inside her. Her arms extended on either side of her face, her hands touching the burnished brass fittings.
“Be still, my little putita,” Ricardo said, resting one hand on her ass lightly, cupping it as though he was testing a melon at the market. Chelsea squirmed against him, longing for his touch between the cleft of her ass, wishing he’d slide his fingers down to her dripping cunt.
Abruptly he lifted his hand, then brought it down firmly on her ass cheek. It stung more than it hurt, but the blow ignited nerve endings all over her body. With tremendous effort, she went still.
“Wait here.”
He left the room.
For the first few moments, Chelsea was motionless, her eyes closed, her breathing slightly elevated by her mounting desire. She focused on the lingering sensation of his hand on her ass, the sharp, gorgeous ache of it, and wondered if Ricardo would know if she quietly slipped her fingers down and pleasured herself. Just to bring a little relief. Just to feel the hot dampness with her fingertips.
She could hear him moving around in the other room, opening a dresser drawer. When he came back into the room, she was glad she hadn’t dared to disobey…in his hands was camera, which held even more promise than further corrective spanking.
“Good little one,” he said approvingly. “Staying still for me, with your gorgeous culo upturned in the air. Are you wet for me yet, I wonder?”
“Yes…Sir,” Chelsea said, watching him from under her lowered lashes, out of the corner of her eye. She could see his cock bulging against his pants, its gorgeous, huge outline only inches away. Close enough to touch, if she was given permission.
If she was given an order.
She shivered at the thought, but Ricardo had other ideas. He pressed buttons on the camera, then set it down on the sink in front of Chelsea so that she could stare at the screen, which was dark.
“You remember the night I first spilled my seed inside you,” he said gravely.
Chelsea caught her breath. “Yes.”
“And you remember what we did before.”
This time it was more of a moan. “Yes…”
“Tell me.”
“You—you tied my hands to the bed. Then you tied my legs so that I couldn’t move. You bent my knees and wrapped the ropes around them.” Her cunt spasmed at the memory, a shudder of anticipation. He had tied her legs to keep them immobile, but not together. Then he had spread them, giving him access between them. Later, he had done other things…and she had been helpless to move, to do anything except arch her back and cry out.
“What else?”
“You—you had a wand. A cane.”
“I did.” He nodded approvingly.
“You used it on me. Oh, God.” The thin polycarbonate wand had telescoped out to the length of his forearm. The tip was narrow and flexible, and as he demonstrated, striking his palm, it had made a small whistling sound. “You turned me over and you used it on my, my bottom…”
“You were very provo
cative, I recall,” he said. “Were you not?”
Something had come over her that day. Each lash of the cane had been intense, focused, unlike a blow from his hand. The pain had been exquisite, almost unbearable, and yet each time he questioned if she’d had enough, she’d taunted him by telling him it didn’t hurt. She’d wanted more. She’d needed more. “I…” She licked her lips, remembering the crisscrossing lashes that sped up as they came harder.
It was after that that he had finally taken her, entered her, fucked her until he came inside her. He had waited, he told her later, until he was sure. Until he knew they could not be without each other. It had taken many nights of dizzying pleasure for him to finally give in, and when he did, there was no doubt of the meaning of the act.
“What we have done cannot be undone,” he had said, when it was over.
The memory drove her wild with need. “I provoked you,” she said. “Yes. I was…bad.”
“You were a bad girl?”
He wasn’t touching her at all, using only his voice to tease her, to arouse her.
“I was,” she whimpered.
“A little slut? My own little, needy whore?”
“I was,” she gasped. “I’m yours.”
“Yes, you are.” He touched a button on the camera and the screen came to life.
There was an image of her from that night, the ropes binding her wrists to the headboard, red marks on her flesh where she had strained against her bindings. The ropes around her legs were visible, the intricate knotting digging into the smooth skin of her thighs.
And on her ass were two red crossed lines. Evidence of the first two blows with the cane, the shock of the new sensation.
“You remember?”
“I didn’t know you were taking pictures,” she said. “Not then. Earlier…”
“Earlier, when you were flat on your back, begging for it like the pretty little putita that you are? Begging you to ram my cock inside you, to fill you up, to breed you like a cat in heat?”
“Oh yes, yes,” she managed to choke out, as he continued to press the button. More images, each with another stripe or two, the flesh swelling around the angry welts.
Then he pushed the button one more time and her image on the tiny screen began to move. He’d taken a video, and Chelsea listened to herself cry out every time the can came down, watched herself beg for more.
“Oh God, oh God,” she chanted, shivering, her need too much. Her hand slid off the cool marble and down to her pussy, only to be savagely grabbed and slammed back down on the sink.
“No,” Ricardo said calmly. “Just watch.”
He made her watch the entire thing. It was only a minute, maybe less, and by the end her ass on the little screen was covered with deep red welts, every inch of it pink with blood flowing to the area under the skin. She was trembling, crying, begging. Mostly begging.
The video ended.
“How wet are you for me now, little one?”
Ricardo didn’t wait for an answer. He dipped a finger down between her legs, just far enough to graze her clit, to slide down to the opening of her pussy. She was drenched; she felt herself drip onto him. She tried to rub against his hand, but he pulled it away.
“How badly to you need to be used? To have your holes filled and fucked?”
“Badly,” she begged. “Please. Please.” Just like in the video he’d shown her, but even more needful.
It was like this with Ricardo, ever escalating, ever mounting higher and higher. She ground her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, and focused all her effort on staying still for him while he moved around the small bathroom.
Something smooth and cold touched the small of her back. Her eyes flew open and she looked into the mirror to see that Ricardo had the shower nozzle in his hand, a sleek white plastic object with dozens of tiny holes. He had disconnected it but not turned it on, and while she watched he rubbed the back of it against her skin, sliding it lower, down the crack of her ass until it rubbed against her pussy. Back and forth, slick with her juices, as she ground against it.
Then he turned it on.
At first it was only the vibration of the object as water sprayed between her legs to land on the floor. The bathroom had been fitted with a curbless shower, and the water drained toward the enclosure, but not before it sprayed her thighs and the wall behind her, and Ricardo’s clothes as well. He didn’t seem to mind.
She writhed against the plastic, imagining taking the vibrating head inside her, though it was far too big. Ricardo turned it over so that the spray was directed at her skin, and teased her with it, allowing only a few droplets to reach her clit. Chelsea heard the sounds she was making but couldn’t stop herself: “More, more, more.”
Abruptly he turned the spray off, and tossed the nozzle into the shower. Then he slid his hands between her legs and dipped a finger inside her.
“So hot,” he said. “So slick. Can you handle more?”
Chelsea could only moan in response, but the question had been rhetorical, as Ricardo forced two fingers inside her and worked them slowly in and out. Chelsea felt the outline of her orgasm taking shape. She could come right now. She could come in a great, shuddering gush of ecstasy right onto his hand.
But she wanted to wait. Wanted to see what he would do next.
After a moment Ricardo withdrew his fingers and reached for the toothpaste.
It was a new tube, the foiled surface barely dented. He rubbed the plastic cap along the outer edges of her pussy, and then slid it slowly inside her. She could feel the edge of the cap abrading her intimate flesh, then the wider shoulders of the tub entering her. He pushed the tube in and out, exquisitely slowly, her slick fluids making it slide effortlessly.
“Is this what you want, little slut? To be filled like this?...Or do you need more?”
“More,” she begged.
He tossed the tube onto the counter.
He reached for a slim bottle of hand lotion. Its diameter was only about an inch and a half, not even as big around as his cock, but it felt marvelous when he slid it into her. She found his rhythm and moved her hips, fucking the bottle, taking it deeper so that his knuckle brushed against her clit. The orgasm was a hazy presence, looming in her consciousness, ready to burst through at any moment that she allowed it, but she fought it. She didn’t want to come yet, didn’t want to come with the inanimate object inside her, no matter how good it felt.
“Good girl,” Ricardo murmured. “That’s it.”
Then he set the lotion on the counter, close enough to Chelsea that she could see the dewy moisture along its surface. That was her—her damp cunt, her greedy juices.
“More?” he asked quietly, his hand hovering over the collection of toiletries arrayed on a porcelain tray.
She moaned. She wanted his cock. She wanted to get up—her back was beginning to ache from the position she was in, and her face hurt from being pressed against the hard marble—but she wanted to find out how far he would take this. On the tray were cosmetics, brushes, a silver compact.
And a drinking glass, which his hand settled on.
Chelsea gasped. The glass was small—for such a vessel. But it was still more than two inches across the base, larger than any cock she had ever seen, larger than anything that had ever been inside Chelsea. It was finely pebbled, crafted by some artisan somewhere, someone who would undoubtedly be very surprised to know what was about to become of his work.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s too much.”
Ricardo ignored her and pressed the bottom of the glass against her opening. He massaged and rubbed, using her own slippery juices to ease his way, but it was just too large. He angled the glass so that it rubbed against her clit, and the sensation of the cool glass with its bumpy texture drover her higher, and she ground her hips, bucking and humping. He returned to trying to ease the object inside her, twisting and pushing ever more firmly.
Suddenly, with a fleeting sharp sensation, it breached her opening.
Chelsea gulped, the pain at first discomfiting—and then Ricardo twisted some more. The glass went deeper, the little nubs stroking inside her, pressed tightly against her pussy walls. Pleasure zigged and zagged, and Chelsea’s hands grappled at nothing, her toes curling in response to the sensation.
“Steady, now,” Ricardo said, and Chelsea gave in and let him guide her. He alternated twisting with pushing in further, stretching her from within, and the sensation of being filled so completely nearly pushed her over the edge.
“I don’t think I can wait,” she pleaded. “I’m going to come.”
“No, you’re not.” Ricardo slipped the thumb of his free hand into her mouth, and she lapped it eagerly, gratefully, hungrily.
But the distraction didn’t last long. When he’d managed to insert the glass all the way, he immediately began stroking it in and out. Slowly at first, and then increasing his speed, the textured surface massaging and stimulating while she was fucked by its entire massive girth.
Chelsea’s breath came in audible grunts until she couldn’t bear it any more, and pushed his thumb from her mouth. “I need you now,” she begged. “Please, please!”
She needed his hot, very alive cock inside her, not this inanimate thing; she needed his hands on her, their bodies joined. Without thinking she reached around and pushed his hand away. The glass slipped free, and Ricardo slammed it down on the counter so hard she thought it would break.
Then she was in the air.
He picked her up like a load of laundry and strode out of the bathroom. Then he tossed her on the bed.
“On your back,” he ordered her, stripping off his wet clothes. His cock sprang free, and Chelsea couldn’t take her eyes off it; she wanted to taste it, touch it. She wanted it jammed down her throat, she wanted to suck his balls into her mouth, she wanted his hand on her throat. She wanted everything he had ever done to her, all at once.
But before she could do anything but lie back, he’d seized her ankles and pulled her to the edge of the bed. Then, before she could catch her breath, he rammed inside her, lifting her hips in the air by her ankles.