by Lana Sky
“Look at yourself.” He’s strong enough to cup my hips and lift me right off the floor, spreading my legs so that I can see our reflection in the mirror. His straining cock weeps from the tip, dusky and swollen. The pink flesh it aims for doesn’t look anywhere near wide enough to take all of him though. He’s too damn big. “Watch.” He jerks his hips and sinks inside me anyway. Up this close, I can see his muscles chord as he works his way in, battering through any resistance. “Watch your face change,” he growls into my shoulder as I bite a cry back. “Those fucking greedy eyes.”
I look away, staring at the floor when I feel another slap on my hip.
“Look.”
The woman he’s fucking is a goddamn whore. Her brown eyes are glazed over. Her mouth is open, releasing tiny gasps as her body jerks back and forth. She’s too pale. Too needy. Too desperate. When I look into her eyes, she’s not thinking about money.
When he’s in to the hilt, my arms go limp, and without the support, my cheek hits the counter. I lie here, letting him ride me. Use me. Fuck the living shit out of me. Too much. Not enough. I’m shaking, my mouth watering, my toes curling.
Maxim is all I know. Inside me. Around me. Huge, relentless, and powerful.
“Beg for it, kotyonok,” he commands before I even know what it is my body seeks. It craves it. Needs it. If he doesn’t—if I don’t—I’ll go insane.
My inner muscles clench down, gripping him so hard that I feel every pulsing ridge of his length, every strained and throbbing vein. All of it slammed up inside me.
All mine.
“Fuck, not yet.” He punishes me with his full weight, bearing down, ramming in before I can savor a full dose of clarity. “Beg.”
“Please—”
His hips swivel, and this new pain takes me higher than the fucking ceiling. Higher than any hit of heroin or cocaine. So damn high I won’t ever come back down.
Ruthless, Maxim sinks his nails into my hips, extending the pain, making me float. “I need to hear you say it.”
Hearing him need anything from me—it shatters my mind. My soul. I’m pieces of a person falling at his feet, and he shoves them back together however he sees fit. Any control I had fucking disintegrates. A stranger takes over my throat.
“Please, please, please—”
“Please what?” He pets me, running his hand along my hair. The gentleness contrasts with his next bruising thrust. I’m a rag doll at his mercy, cherished and abused all at once. “Speak to me. Beg. Umolyat.”
“Let me come.”
He bellows out more words I don’t understand while using his thumb to reach between us. Flicking. Rubbing.
Shit.
My back bows, arching my hips into him, riding him, every last thrust. I can’t speak. Can’t moan. Can’t move. I suffer his invasion. I let him break me into pieces. When he comes, the pressure spills over as he yells out, biting into my shoulder. I scream. Sob. Whimper.
And then all sound dies off as he jerks inside me, spilling everything he has left to give. So much. Never enough.
I’m numb when he pulls out, leaving a warm, thick trail down my inner thigh. Only now does it strike me that he didn’t wear a condom.
“This is how it will be from now on, kotyonok,” he tells me, his voice gruff as he uses his grip on my hair as leverage to pull himself upright. “I am clean.”
I’m not brave enough to even question that.
Other fears cloud my thoughts, washing away the oblivion he fucked me into. Like the fact that I’m not even sure if I’m up to date on birth control—the one selfish thing I always tried to save money for. “I’m not—”
“I had you injected with a serum on your last night here,” he says. He looks at me expectantly, and I have to assume he means some kind of contraception. “It is effective in only a few days. You will not get pregnant. That is the one thing you never have to worry about me inflicting upon you.”
He steps away from me, his cock somehow still semi-hard, and I don’t know what shocks me more. The raw pain in his voice? Or the fact that he had me injected with a hormone-altering drug without my permission? Or the fact that he came inside me and I’m not disgusted. I don’t feel disgusting.
Just exhausted. Sore. Empty.
“Don’t break on me now.”
I feel his breath on my neck, his fingers gliding through my hair. He grabs a lock of it and tugs my head until I face him from over my shoulder.
“You aren’t finished yet.” He nods to his cock, which is still glistening.
Oh. I suck in air to find the strength to sink to my knees, twisting around.
He palms his cock with one hand, angling the tip of it toward my mouth. “Clean me off. Every last drop.”
I part my lips, creeping closer on my hands and knees. Watching me, he narrows his eyes, his breaths coming faster. Harder. I don’t swallow him whole this time. I lick. Every drop. Every bitter, strange, musky flavor that coats him.
He lets me work quickly without having to savor—for now. His posture doesn’t relax until my tongue captures the very last drop. By then, he’s already erect again, dripping precum from the swollen head.
“That’s enough.” He runs his fingers through my hair, pushing me away from him as his fingers curl around his shaft, stroking it again.
I just stare as a tortured groan builds up in his chest. His knuckles turn white and his cock jerks, spraying cum into the air. On me. I know better than to flinch away. I just sit here on my knees and take every last spurt, letting him paint me with them. Mark me.
He growls when the final drop splatters my chin, satisfied, and adjusts his pants, redoing the clasp. “Now, you are clean,” he tells me, snapping his fingers for me to stand.
When I do, he leads me to the door of my bedroom. The moment he opens it, I know that something has changed. The bed is still there beneath the black canopy, the white sheets neatly made. But attached to each post of the bed frame itself are four black strips of leather secured by delicate silver strings.
Chains.
Chapter 11
Maxim approaches the bed and gently thumbs one of the straps open. It looks like a bracelet: a bracelet with a metal clasp.
“Come here.”
I have no choice but to step toward him, swaying on my feet. I can’t tear my eyes away as he lifts the cuff, allowing me to see every inch: the silver buckles to lock it shut, the silken lining, the sturdy, ebony leather around the outside.
“Lie down.”
The mattress creaks beneath my weight, definitely softer than before. The slight change proves more than anything that this bed was rarely used for fucking in the past. One night and our bodies have already made an impression in the padding.
“Lie back.”
Impatient, Maxim arranges me himself when I don’t move quickly enough. He pushes me down and steers my ankles toward the foot of the bed. When he seizes the wrist closer to him, he secures it into a cuff, snapping it tight. He moves toward the ankle next and binds it too, his jaw clenched in concentration while his seed dries over my skin. When the other ankle is secure, he finally turns his attention to my last remaining limb. I sense his hulking shape from the corner of my eye, watching me writhe as much as the bindings will allow.
He curls his fingers around my free wrist and lifts it. “You so much as think about getting free and you will be punished,” he tells me as his thumb brushes the back of my hand. “You will wait for me, until I return. You will think of me. Only me. Do you understand, kotyonok?”
“Y-yes.” I have to force the word out.
Maxim grunts, unconvinced. His fingers lift my chin, tilting my head back against the soft pillow beneath it. “This is not punishment,” he says softly, nodding to my outstretched limbs. “This is a gift. I want you to savor how good it feels to be clean.”
I hear him drift down the hallway, his footsteps steady and sure. Hours pass, though I sense him wandering the rooms of the suite: eating, sculpting, doing whatever
else it is he does as the hours trickle away deep into the night. My muscles are already cramping from misuse when I finally sense him approach my door again—but he continues past it, toward that room at the very end of the hall.
Left without a distraction, my mind plays a dangerous game; it pictures him inside that lifeless, black room. How he might strip down in the silence and climb into the massive bed alone. Oddly enough, I can’t imagine him actually sleeping. Just waiting, lurking beneath the covers.
Fear alone doesn’t explain why my stomach bunches into knots at the thought of it. His body vulnerable, his eyes shut, that face set like a statue’s.
My loose hand twitches, the fingers flinching against my stomach. He told me to think of him—only him. By the time I lose sensation in my toes, I’m in danger of breaking that one rule.
I have to pee. So badly that my stomach hurts, my legs straining against the cuffs, desperate to clamp together. I know better than to wet the bed. The only way to buy more time is to use my fingers, sliding them down between my legs, rubbing the flesh of my pussy.
Only like this can I remember my task: think of Maxim. Just him. Only him. Nearby. Around me. Inside me. Always.
But the wrong reaction takes over; the air I breathe in becomes laced with gasoline. Every touch is a match, fanning the flames higher. I writhe, trapped and helpless, a slave to the motions of my hands. It’s like I can hear him inside my head, commanding me, taunting me.
Only me, kotyonok. Only me…
I gasp as the doorknob to my room twitches—then the door flies open. A monster draped in shadow lurks behind it. His eyes hone in on mine, bathed in the glow of the hallway as he inhales sharply, tasting me on the air.
I drop my hand, but it’s too fucking late.
Muscles ripple beneath his skin as he steps forward, his fingers flexing. “I said you could think,” he tells me softly. “I never said you could touch what is mine without permission.”
Fear paralyzes me. I just lie here, staring up at the ceiling beyond his head as he approaches. I don’t dare look at him directly. I can’t.
“Do you need something from me?”
The question makes me flinch as his nails tease my tender flesh. Need… My pussy clenches.
“I—”
“Spit it out,” he scolds, but the anger isn’t there. He almost sounds amused.
“I have to use the bathroom.”
He nods and turns toward the cuffs on my ankles. I hold my breath as he slowly—slowly—undoes the clasps on the right one before deliberately moving over to the next.
“Give me your hand.”
I raise my free wrist, but my stomach drops when he lifts the empty cuff. I know better than to argue, even as my bladder threatens to rip its way out of my stomach. He snaps the latches closed, but then his fingers grab the chain, following it all the way to the nearest post of the bed frame. I crane my neck to watch him unhook the loop securing it, using the free length like a leash. He lets it fall and dangle beside me over the edge of the bed. Then he casually strolls around to the other end and does the same to the opposite cuff.
“Up, kotyonok.”
I can’t scramble to the edge of the bed fast enough. I stand on throbbing legs, but I hesitate to move without permission. Permission he doesn’t give, not even when I sense him beside me, his breath heavy on my neck.
“Put your arms behind your back.”
I obey, wincing as they throb at the awkward angle. Cold metal brushes my hip as he gathers up the dangling chains, linking them together before grabbing the loose end. “Come.”
He nudges me toward the bathroom and watches me sit on the toilet. Just when I’m about to let my body relax, he shakes his head…and then leaves the room.
I never knew my body could be in this much pain. My eyes sting, filling up with moisture no matter how quickly I blink it back. I curl my toes, kicking them against the floor. My nails claw at my wrists. Control. Control. I need to keep it.
But that’s impossible. Maxim has all of it.
He doesn’t go far, just into the bedroom before the closet. I can see his shadow sway against the wall as he thumbs through clothing and shifts hangers. When he finally returns and nods, I nearly cry with relief.
The desperation to pee is enough to wash away the embarrassment of having him watch. Having him listen. When I’m finally finished, he comes up beside the toilet and gestures for me to stand. I expect him to unhook at least one of my wrists so that I can wipe myself.
Instead, he does it for me, snatching a wad of toilet paper and dragging it between my legs without warning. Once. Twice. There’s nothing sexual in his touch, which somehow makes it worse. Once done, he flushes it and washes his hands in the sink.
“Kneel,” he tells me, jerking his chin toward the tub.
This one is smaller than the other. There’s only enough room for me to sit lengthwise, so I tuck my knees beneath my chin. He runs the water lukewarm this time, letting it get as high as my breasts.
I don’t know what to expect when he leaves me here and returns with a rag and a bar of soap. It smells: spicy, flowery. Roses?
I don’t ask and he doesn’t say a word as he runs the rag over my skin, cleaning every inch of me. My back, my shoulders, my belly, my hands, my face. He even wets my hair, combing it with his fingers before lathering it up with shampoo. As the water drains from the tub, he towels me dry while I sit on the edge of it. Then he dresses me in the clothing I assume he got from the closet.
I can tell, even before he begins to drag a pair of black, lace panties up my legs, that these items aren’t like the others. They’ve never been worn. They don’t carry any other smell. Just his. Just mine.
The bra matches the panties—black lace—and I find myself staring down at it as he adjusts the straps. I’ve never owned a full set of underwear before. Not one cut from the same cloth, tailored to fit only me. It’s not really a good feeling to know that I’m the first one to wear these clothes, including the red sleeveless blouse and the black skirt he dresses me in next. It’s like being the first convict to sit in a brand-new electric chair.
More people will come after me. Even as the various pieces are tightened to fit my body, it’s not out of love or kindness. I won’t ever own a single goddamn stitch.
“Stand, kotyonok.”
When I do, he directs me over to the mirror and somehow finds a brush to tackle my hair with. He’s surprisingly gentle—surprisingly good. He tames my damp, wild curls in no time and slicks them back to reveal my bruised, bitten neck. I’m stupid enough to breathe out a sigh of relief when he finally unhooks the cuffs from my wrists and leaves them open on the sink.
It isn’t until I follow him out into the living room of the suite and spot the black box resting on the couch that I realize my mistake. It’s square, with a red ribbon draped over the top. Maxim opens it for me, displaying a dark leather circle on a scarlet pillow within. A chain of gold dangles from a hook set in the center of what looks like a longer cuff at first.
Make that a collar.
“Raise your chin.” He lifts the collar and sets the box aside. He loops the leather around the back of my throat, fastening the clasp without tearing his eyes from mine. “Beautiful.” He steps back, fingering the length of golden chain. It nearly reaches my waist, swaying back and forth with every move I make.
“Come.” He starts for the entrance of the suite, pulling the door open as I stagger at his heels. When I’m close enough, he snags the length of golden chain to steer me after him. There is no one in the hall beyond his suite to witness or in the private stairwell he takes to the garage.
Once we reach that infamous black car, he ushers me into the passenger’s seat this time, fastening the seat belt over my chest. I just stare as he circles around the car and takes the wheel, sitting tall in the driver’s seat.
It’s overcast and dreary, I see once he pulls out onto the street. Rain falls, splattering the windshield, creating a strange, muted b
ackdrop as the car drifts through the thick of traffic. He never switches the radio on. Never speaks. The silence seems to suit him just fine, so I take his lead and keep quiet.
I try not to wonder where we’re going—keyword being try. Dread sinks in anyway, making my throat contract against the collar as my breathing picks up speed. Wherever he’s headed, it’s out of the city, over a bridge. I watch the buildings grow progressively smaller and then disappear altogether. In the blink of an eye, we go through a tunnel and enter a world of shadow and trees. Swaths of land pass by, but after maybe twenty minutes, Maxim turns onto a deserted stretch of road, following it deeper into the woods—though, despite all appearances, this place doesn’t seem too far off the beaten path. The road is paved, for one, and the farther down it we go, the less untamed the wilderness seems and more beaten into submission.
I don’t know what to make of it all until I finally catch sight of a structure at the top of a hill. I must gasp or make some other noise, because I sense Maxim’s gaze on the skin of my throat.
“You are impressed, kotyonok,” he says with the hint of a laugh.
Maybe I am: a building rises from the foliage as if formed from the shadows. Given that, before this, my idea of classy consisted of the nicest department store in the mall, I don’t have many words to describe it. Just that it’s big. Beautiful. Foreboding—the shiver racing through my body insists on that part. Made of black stone, the place resembles a mansion, but I doubt that its true purpose is just as someone’s home. Maybe it’s the way Maxim is dressed: a sleek black suit and a blood-red tie. I doubt he’s on his way to a house call.
So it’s not just a mansion. With every inch we travel toward it, its silhouette looms bigger, square in appearance when seen from the front. I think it’s at least three stories, stretching nearly double that length over the expanse of the hill. If Dracula suddenly developed Maxim’s flair for sleek, modern design, he’d probably build this place. Turrets twist at the sky, while huge glass windows reflect the muted backdrop of the forest, adding hints of emerald to the ebony façade.