by Skye Warren
Only it seemed he didn’t want me. Not back then and not now. But it didn’t matter, because no matter what happened with those girls, no matter what happened with Tyler, I wasn’t getting out of this alive.
Chapter Seven
Carlos was surprised to see me in his study bright and early. Most times, if I got a beating, I spent the next few days making myself scarce, slinking around like a kicked stray dog. It helped to make sure my wounds were healed before he got another go at me. And the extra time meant he could work out whatever anger was left on other people.
But there I was, dressed in my sluttiest clothes, and that was saying something. A bikini probably would have been more conservative, but Carlos would recognize it for what it was: an apology. Groveling.
Appreciation filled his gaze as he studied me. Not appreciation for my curves, which he’d seen clothed and naked and every which way, but for the blush of shame tinting my skin. It was a long walk from my small room to his study, and I’d passed more than a few suggestive leers and pinching fingers on the way.
He didn’t open his arms to me or pat his knee. He didn’t even open his fly to make me suck his cock. Never a good sign.
“What do you want?” he asked with the indulgent amusement of a man sure in his victory.
“I’m sorry I bothered you yesterday. I want to make it up to you. Please, Carlos.” I didn’t have to make my voice sultry, it was already hoarse from screaming. I wasn’t a good enough actor to feign the fearful tremor or submissive posture, but I didn’t have to be.
This small action, approaching Carlos this way, was about the ballsiest thing I’d ever done. Maybe no one else would see it that way, but I didn’t think too many other people had an appreciation for just how badly this could go for me. It was like approaching a rabid dog. All the caution in the world wouldn’t protect you if you stuck your hand in its mouth.
“You want to make it up to me?” he asked.
“Yes, Carlos.”
“You want to be my whore?”
“Yes, Carlos.”
“You want to be my pet?”
A lump caught in my throat.
I’d told Tyler that Carlos thought of me as a dog. His pet. Tyler had thought it was an analogy, a play on words. He’d been wrong.
About six months ago, I’d gotten the idea to leave. Well, I’d had it sooner than that, but I finally decided to act on it. I’d looked up a shelter and packed a few things. I made it a few blocks over before Leo caught up to me. Carlos had him beat the shit out of me, again and again, but that was the punishment phase. The first phase.
Then there was atonement.
I had to get myself out of the doghouse, figuratively and literally. He made me his puppy, his bitch. I crawled around on the hard concrete, only allowed to bark or whimper. At least he put a dog bed on the cold floor for me.
I thought I’d ingratiated myself to Carlos within the first couple of days, but he kept me at it for almost a week just because it amused him so much. The worst part of it, to me, was that on the floor, anyone was allowed to touch me. Anyone could fuck me. Hurt me.
Strange men, rough men, regularly came through the warehouse headquarters. I hadn’t appreciated how much Carlos protected me from them until he no longer did. They weren’t allowed to mark me, which was a relief, and they had to use protection, but nothing in the world, no leash or food bowl could put me in my place like being fucked by ten guys in a day against my will. Not that I had put up a fight, of course. I wasn’t that stupid.
But in all, it went easier than it could have gone. Carlos had a soft touch when it came to subjugation. He latched a collar onto me. I whimpered helplessly, and already I could see him softening toward me. He spanked me. He fucked me. He told me to pee in the corner. Then he shoved my face in it. At least he didn’t make me lick it up.
That was how I spent my day, chained to a desk. There were worse ways to spend an afternoon. At least I could look outside, enjoy the sunlight through the tinged glass panes. Hell, I really was becoming a dog.
I was only nervous about other guys touching me. Sure I traded in sex, but I clung to the illusion that I had a choice about my partners. Carlos called me picky, but I didn’t like being forced.
A lot of the guys leered at me when we passed in the halls and touched me when they had half a chance. They were willing to use me for sex if given the opportunity. Trunk, in particular, seemed to have a thing for me.
He’d fucked me more than a few times the last time I’d been a puppy. He wasn’t into pain, that much I knew, but he did like anal and he was a big guy. At first he put it in without any lube which was excruciating, but I wasn’t allowed to talk. I couldn’t even beg him for lube. I whimpered and whined—all natural, by the way. At some point the whole animal act really embedded itself in my bones, so communicating by wordless sounds came naturally.
He got the idea, though, when he was done and his dick was covered in blood. The times after that, and there were many in only a week, he’d used plenty of lube, thank God. But he was still a big guy, and it was going to hurt no matter what.
He came to me later and apologized. It was weird but also…nice. That was a whore’s version of Hallmark. I’m sorry for reaming your ass.
Trunk practically panted when he walked into the office and saw me bound and gagged. He knelt down in front of me, working at the bindings. Well, sure, even he’d have a hard time getting his dick in a pretzel. No. I didn’t want this. I never had, but somehow it seemed to matter now. My body seemed worth something, more than a bed and clothes anyway.
“Shhh.” Thick fingers pinched at my skin, working at the knots. “I got you.”
Clever Carlos. Every tug of the rope trapped my breasts tighter, cutting off the blood. I already couldn’t feel anything in them which meant there’d be a hell of a lot of pain when I was released. Between my legs, the abrasive rope scrubbed at my inner lips and clit. The point of it all was to punish me if I squirmed, but Trunk was making it worse.
He pulled a knife from his pocket. Instinctively I shrunk back.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
Thick tears slid down my cheeks, tears of pain and shame and maybe even rage. The way they thought they owned my body was bad enough. Worse was the way I believed it too.
“Just hold still.”
The fast-paced click of shoes on concrete was the sound of my white knight. Trunk pushed me back down onto the floor. Spit hit my butt cheek and was smeared into my asshole. I tensed. Was he trying to do it quickly? He would never finish in time, but the start alone would hurt so badly. I wanted to scream like the animal they had made me.
When the blunt head of his cock pressed against the very, very closed place, I heard Carlos’s voice snap, “Get away from her.”
“I’m sorry, jefe.” Trunk immediately backed away. “I thought—”
“I don’t pay you to think. Get out.”
Trunk acted surprised, and frankly, so was I. Maybe it was just another mind fuck. I was so used to the horror, the humiliation, that it completely threw me to have Carlos act as my defender. Maybe this whole Tyler thing had thrown Carlos as off balance as it had me. It was like he couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted to be Tyler’s mentor in the art of slave training, or fight him for possession. Or both. The same qualities that made Tyler a worthwhile student also made him a threat.
Just when I felt relief about the whole thing, Tyler stepped into the room. It was the slight falter in his steps, the tightening of his mouth, and the veiling of his eyes. They told me that he hated seeing my like this and that when he told Carlos I looked fuckable, it was a charade.
As if to dispel any misconceptions that he’d gone soft, Carlos used me extra hard that night. I’d been expecting it, but it still hurt. No matter how much you brace yourself for the pain, it always comes as a shock. He fucked me in all three places which was unusual for him, but maybe he was inspired by Trunk’s near miss earlier. I was thoroughly battered,
from both the fading bruises of earlier and the new ones he inflicted in bed. Then he fell asleep, into the kind of deep sleep that was exactly what I needed.
I pulled the small gadget from the corner of Carlos’s closet where I’d slipped it. Then I pressed it to his limp thumb, every second like an eternity, imagining a thousand painful deaths. He didn’t stir, not a single eyelid. All men looked more vulnerable in their sleep. Some whores I’d met, older women who’d passed through as camp whores, said it was during sex when men were most vulnerable, tempted as they were by women’s bodies and their own pleasure.
But those women had never had sex with Carlos. He wasn’t tempted by women’s bodies or by his own pleasure, not really. He just wanted to humiliate. The whole torture angle was just a bloody cover on the mind fuck that he really got off on. That’s why one of those blank-eyed whores never worked. It’s why none of the slaves they were importing, no matter how pretty, would last for him. They come from some godforsaken shithole places that didn’t even care when their girls went missing. The position of sex slave to a rich guy was actually a step up.
Carlos wanted his girls from here because we expected freedom. It was ingrained into us, the expectation for respect and equality, making it that much harder to give it all up. He wanted a woman to hope for happiness through all the pain. Deep, soul-searing pain was his kink.
The joke was on him. It had been a long time since I’d expected anything else.
Chapter Eight
After a quick stop to freshen up in my bathroom and dress in actual clothes, I went to Tyler’s room. It should be a quick drop-off. He probably needed to get the thumbprint to whatever tech guys were going to work on it.
And I had no business fraternizing with a man who would break my heart. But it was only business, not pleasure. What a crock. It was the only pleasure I’d had all day, the sight of his tense face when he opened the door.
I opened my mouth to tell him that I’d gotten the print, to stop feeling like an idiot, but he pulled me inside before I could speak, jamming his mouth onto mine. It was rough and bruising, which should have been par for the course, but somehow felt totally unfamiliar. Like he wanted me, not a body. Like he claimed me and cherished me at the same time.
“God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he murmured against my skin.
Tears took me by surprise, springing into my eyes and falling down my cheeks. I had made it through a full day of humiliation and pain not shedding a single tear. Why should I cry when he was kind to me?
I didn’t want him to be sorry. I didn’t want to cry.
“I got it. The print,” I said, my voice thick with emotions I didn’t want to name.
“Good.” He looked miserable, not pleased.
It was better this way, with Tyler knowing exactly what I was and what kind of sick shit I did for Carlos. It would help me keep my own feelings at bay, now that I knew he was disgusted by me. Though the thick ridge pressing into my stomach said he was anything but disgusted.
I should have been appalled. Or offended. Anything but horny, but there it was.
I wasn’t that familiar with arousal, which was weird, considering. I knew what it looked like on a man, how it felt and how it hurt. But I was cold as stone. Even now it wasn’t heat that buzzed through me. More like longing. Uncomfortably like hope.
I dashed that thought quickly, but suddenly, I wanted to fuck him. We could call it lust. We could call it convenience. I was feeling just wired up enough, just careless enough to initiate it.
Of course it would hurt. If he so much as breathed on my body in the state it was in, it would hurt like hell. But that was sex. I was used to it. I just wanted to see if maybe, possibly, it could be different with Tyler. I wanted to know what it would be like to have sex with a guy I …well, the man that I had come to care about. I could be honest here and now, riding this adrenaline high. God knew time was running out.
And the fact that he didn’t love me back, that he knew I was a disgusting whore, that was all the better. He wouldn’t get wrapped up in a fairytale that didn’t have any hope of coming true.
Still with my back to the door, I dropped to my knees in front of him. My knees screamed in protest, bruised as they were, but I ignored them, putting my hands to the bulge, unbuttoning.
“Christ.” He grabbed my hands, held them still, but didn’t move them away. I could feel his indecision tightening his grip, as if he wanted me but wished he didn’t. I knew all about that.
A frisson of shame raced along my skin, sharpening my arousal. He didn’t want me. It couldn’t be more clear. But the vision, the fantasy, held me enthralled. Maybe I could have it. I didn’t need it to be real. I only needed tonight. I’d make it good for him.
“Please.” I looked up at him, begged him. “Just pretend. Pretend you love me.”
“Oh, hell,” he said as his eyes closed. He looked like he was in pain, real pain.
“Only for tonight. I won’t expect more.”
“It shouldn’t be like this for us,” he mumbled, but his hands loosened just a fraction.
“I’ll do what you ask,” I whispered. “I’ll get out when Carlos leaves. I’ll go to Zachary.”
His eyes snapped open, and I knew he understood what I just offered and all that it implied. That I had planned on getting myself killed, despite what he had said about running off to Zachary. But if I could just have this, this pretend fairytale night, then I would do what he wanted. I’d live.
I could only hope the trade would be worth it in the end.
“Come.” He picked me up off the floor, and I thought he was rejecting me, but it was only the blowjob he rejected. With a solemnity more appropriate to a funeral, he led me to the bed and laid me down. I tried to hold back my gasp when my back touched the bed, but he heard it anyway and turned me gently onto my stomach.
I groaned. This wasn’t part of the dream. Lovers didn’t do it doggy-style, did they?
But this wasn’t doggy style. This wasn’t anal. This wasn’t anything I was familiar with, as he breathed feather-light kisses along my hairline and down my jaw. His hands trailed after his mouth, as if he were desperate to touch me all over, everywhere. I luxuriated in the illusion.
My hands scrabbled at the sheets and held on as his mouth dipped lower, down the back of my neck. Shivers rippled all the way down my spine, pain and pleasure.
“Mia,” he said softly.
I moaned, unable to speak but praying it wasn’t over. Praying it would never end.
“Mia,” he repeated. “You’re beautiful. You are.”
His finger drew the silhouette of my face, starting from the bridge of my nose, down to brush across my lips. I believed him, not out of vanity, though I’d been told that enough times to think it was true. I was thankful he thought so. Thankful my appearance brought him pleasure.
Slowly, so slowly, he peeled the clothes off me, tenderly lifting each limb as he did so. He kissed each place, each patch of skin he uncovered. God, he was so good at this. He was so good at pretending that I couldn’t imagine the real thing feeling any better.
He skipped over the bruises and the welts, only sucking in a sharp breath or muttering a curse at the worst ones. That tarnished the illusion, the fact that my body had to be so broken for this. But I was running out of time with him. We had to do it now or we never would.
His fingers found me wet, already bucking into the blanket. I’d come plenty of times. And with men, too, not just by my own hand. People thought that whores didn’t get off, but that wasn’t true. Carlos would make me come if he thought it would increase my humiliation. Trunk had made me come, too, back when he’d taken me anally, though it hurt more than felt good when my ass clenched around his thick cock. Even as a child….no, I wouldn’t think about that. Not when Tyler’s hands were on me, in me. I only had this one time, already slipping through my fingers, to replace all of those memories.
As he pressed a certain spot, I cried out and pushed my hips down hard.<
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“Yes,” he said. “Just like that, baby. Take what you need.”
I did, pushing and moaning in rhythmical gulps of pleasure until I shuddered in his arms. I lay there, sated. Yes, this was what lovers did. Maybe the position was different because of my back, but what he’d done with his hands was all about giving, not taking. Foreign and beautiful, like some Asian scroll I could marvel at but never understand.
He wasn’t done with me. Though I felt boneless, he propped me up against the headboard so that I faced it and held on. Then he maneuvered his way underneath me so that his head was beneath my cunt. The first touch of his tongue, the first touch of any tongue there, sent a shock through me. It wasn’t even lust at that point. It was like the cool kiss of silk or the warmth of chicken soup. It was everything luxurious and comfortable all at once.
His tongue touched every part of me as he moaned right along with me. The pressure climbed and held right at the edge, until a firm suck on my clit sent me over. It wasn’t flying. It was like sinking, unable to breathe but not caring at all.
I wriggled back to life, sure that I needed to get off him, to thank him profusely for what he’d done, probably with my mouth. But his hands clamped down on my thighs, holding me there, and with soft, small licks, he built me up all over again.
Again and again, he made me come. I was adrift in pleasure, tossed by its waves and drowning down, down, but unable to care. Something tugged me back though, a shudder in the body beneath me, an urgent sound interspersed with the moans of arousal. I glanced back to see him gripping his cock. Not the fist of bringing himself off, but a harsh, tight thing that turned his knuckles white. He was holding his orgasm at bay in a way that had to be painful, just so that I could keep doing this. So that this could be about me and not his pleasure. He knew exactly what I needed. He knew everything.