Ryke began to cut down the damaged cords. Meters long, most of them, and springy, knottable.
Prophet theories or not, deckers were willful, if honest. They were also arrogant and single-minded. The best people he knew really. So he shouldn’t hazard annoying her too much yet. Get her help to check the decker population for signs of someone with this portal talent, then he could run a little crazy and tie her to...things. Do shit. Sexy, hot stuff.
Afterward. After he had what he needed from her.
Everything was drifting, shattering.
Shattered goals. His goals should be the king’s, but a chasm was tearing between what the king and Gyle wanted, and what he did. This shouldn’t be.
These next few days were going to be difficult. People were going to die. His dick might too.
Chapter 19
The rectangular, black bars sliced the room into pieces. Above were crisscrossed bars from where he’d removed the top of this cabinet. The black gloves held her and she remembered how his hands had so precisely buckled them, and made sure her fingers were in their rightful place, as if he needed to get everything just so. As if she were a flower arrangement or a car he was polishing. She knew better than to resist. Gio shifted to her back then onto her side again when Ryke re-entered the room. He carried strands of something. Those had come from the room with the pool, and she shivered thinking of what he might do because he had that look about him. A look dedicated to making her squirm and cry.
In some ways, being locked securely in the cage made her feel safe, but not now.
With her hands in the gloves and the wrists buckled, she was close to helpless. Given half an hour, she might worm loose from the gloves – they resembled leather and hugged the skin of her arms.
Go away.
She willed it so, but he kept coming and squatted before her, looking in, blatantly studying her. Naked and with her arms held together, her breasts were pushed up and prominent. That her nipples wrinkled from the weird excitement engendered when he came closer? Shameful, yet this wasn’t her fault. None of it was.
That her shame made her excitement grow? That added a whole other layer.
“Now are you sorry you were spiteful and ignorant and lied?”
Spiteful? No. Though she had lied.
Gio licked her lips, considering if she should answer. Could that be worse than staying silent?
“Speak.” With the patience of a man who has nowhere else to go, nothing to do, he threaded a bundle of the cords through his open fist. The remainder of their lengths lay or slid across the floor near his boots, or over them, coiling like quiet snakes.
If he hit her with those...and she was sure he planned to, how would that feel? She almost wanted to see, to experience the sting. A few times he’d trialed such things on her ass or her back, but in a blasé way.
She inhaled and became aware of the scent of Ryke, for his legs and body were uncomfortably close to her face. She tried to wriggle her body backward except he put his hand through the bars and stopped her by pinching her left nipple.
A flat smile formed, but his grip remained.
She hissed, determined not to squeak. “I...wasn’t spiteful or ignorant.”
“From now on, I want you to use Ryke, regularly. I hear you. So you admit you were lying?”
“No, Ryke.”
There, she’d dared to lie again, and she almost wanted to see what would happen if he caught her out. If he hadn’t noticed the mechling taught weaponry, that was his own fault.
“And you’re still doing it.”
Then he undid the latches and locks on the two doors where they met in the middle, opening the entire front of the cage.
She’d been in a similar situation with Ryke many times. He’d threaten and do something to her. She’d suffer because there was no alternative. They both knew by now he couldn’t break her down enough that she’d give him what he wanted, and so...
Was this not futile?
Yet...
This was new. Coming here had re-colored the world, etched new boundaries, wiped away others.
The potential of his presence fascinated her and drove her to notice every detail of him, his moves, his muscles, the shift of his feet, the color of those mismatched eyes, the blue squiggles in his scars where they crept into his shaved blond hair. The tautness around those eyes.
She braced herself, yet her mouth softened.
He’d somehow made her want what he might be about to do.
Which was so very wrong.
She squeezed in reluctant breath after reluctant achingly slow breath, tamping down her desires, because she clearly should not let him know this.
It was the accuator. It had changed her. He’d said it could be addictive.
“What should I do to you?”
She was tempted to make a smartass reply.
His gaze bored in, paralyzing her, apart from her toes curling. He stroked his forefinger down her nose, and left it resting on what was her pouting mouth, because fuck she wasn’t going to give in.
He was the antithesis of a man she could admire or like or who was anything good. And he kept on looking and she kept on aching for his touch. Her body temperature was surely rising. Her face was hot, and sweat had already slicked her back. She was aware of being a woman and naked before this man she must hate with every single iota of her being.
There was power in hate. Hold onto that. Hold.
The tension stretched, building the anticipation and the small fear of what those cords might mean, depending on his intent.
“Being nice doesn’t mean lying to me is permissible. What was the lie?”
If she answered, she’d lose an advantage. She shook her head, hearing her hair rustle as it rubbed against the towel under her head.
Denying him was a bad move. Always was in the past anyway.
Why then, did she do this?
Because simply giving in would destroy her. If she didn’t resist sometimes with all her strength, a strength wrapped up in some inviolate wrapping paper inside a box buried deep in her soul, she was nobody.
Ryke reached in and made her sit up. The cage was high enough that her head didn’t brush the top. He placed the cords on the floor then took up one of them. “Open here.” He tapped her mouth.
Dry, she swallowed to wet her mouth first, delaying also, then she opened, slowly.
He threaded this first cord between her lips then around to the back of her head, three times, before twining the ends together somewhere at the back and tying the cord into the bars above. Twice he tightened the knot, pulling through more cord, watching as she had to rise on her knees a little.
If she relaxed the pull on her mouth was uncomfortable. A few seconds more and the pressure at the corners of her mouth began to hurt her and she flared open her eyes. Her tongue found the cord, since it was impossible to avoid. It was thicker than insulated Earth wiring.
Gio scowled. If she garbled out words he’d only laugh. Already his smile was fixated, intense.
She closed her eyes.
“No. No. Open those. Unless you want me to make them stay open.”
He mustn’t. That would ruin her eyes, dry them out. She opened, alarmed.
“Good. Let me see you like that while I do some more work on you.”
Work? What the hell?
He undid the buckles on her gloves and she twitched, considering pulling away, but mustn’t. Only by turning her eyes, not her head, could she follow his actions. By the wrist buckles, he attached one arm to the top bars, then her other arm, then he retrieved more cords.
“Will I stop at this? Will this teach you, Gio?”
Restrained by the mouth cord, she blinked, nodded imperceptibly.
Ryke tsked. “Somehow I think not.”
By now, they both knew this wasn’t about teaching.
He grasped her breast, fingers indenting, then he released her and she felt the cord circumnavigate her there and be tied...tight...tighter. He did th
e other breast. Fear made her grunt as he firmed the knots. Fear and his handling of her body were making her respond like some programmed sex doll.
His whole hand slid lower, over her taut stomach. When she arched away the mouth cord pulled. With his hand gripping her hip he made her be still, and he brushed his fingers lightly between her legs. Back and forth, parting the lips of her pussy, circling her clit then through her legs again, stirring her, slipping in her moisture. She couldn’t stop her pelvis tilting forward then back again, or the flinch and whimper when he pinched her clit.
“See. I’m nice.” He lowered himself and sucked on one engorged nipple, pulling at her there while he revolved a finger over her cunt then made a wobbly, thumb-and-finger path over her clit, squeezing the nub of flesh. He lifted his head, smirking while his fingers toyed at her, almost, almost fucked her.
Her thighs quivered.
“God,” she grunted, jerking, hissing when he squeezed her clit more. Or it would’ve been god if she wasn’t gagged. Instead it was partly spit.
“I’m being nice to your wet cunt.”
By then her breasts were pounding and swelling, the blood in her veins and arteries trapped within the circle of the cords. There was too much pressure. She whimpered a second time, felt his hand slipping over her pussy, idling near her entrance, over and around her clit, and repeat. Repeat. Again.
When instinct became too much, too compelling she bucked onto his hand, despite the savage pull on her mouth, forward and into his probing fingers. Too featherlight. She needed more. Already she wanted to come but he was playing there frivolously.
Her first moan was inaudible, or so she thought, except his fingers halted.
“There. I told you I was nice. I’ll leave you a while. Maybe I’ll sleep and come back later.”
Oh no. No! Frantic she strived to signal her distress, tugging at the bars above to free her hands. The several buckles he’d used at each wrist held, even though she twisted and strained. If her breasts stayed tied for too long the tissue might die. But he only swung shut both leaves of the door, locked them, and strolled away.
The cord tangling her tongue rendered her Come back into a garbled mess.
Her whimpers echoed in an empty room, but as her panting lessened, she realized a grim, embarrassing truth – she still wanted to come. The quietness of the room, the desertion, let her mind center on her how he’d restrained her, on the withering echoes of his warm touch, how he’d tied her in place, and she pulsed below. Desire blossomed, ebbed and flowed...expanded, in a malevolent, unwelcome occupation of her mind.
When he returned only minutes later, his boots thudding on the floor, she begged for release of both kinds with her eyes. He ignored her. Though he loosened the cords about her chest he then retied them, then fastened her legs so they were held apart a few inches.
“Again,” he said and he played down there with his slippery thick fingers.
Taking involuntary and jagged inhalations, with her eyelids fluttering and half-lowered, she knew every time her entrance clenched, and she hungered for those fingers to be thrust inside.
Her noises grew more frantic.
But...he only grinned and wiped her moisture on her thighs, in between his recreational dabbling, over and over, underlining how disgustingly aroused she’d become.
“You’re dripping, girl.”
Though he gripped her jaw, she ignored him.
Laughing, he locked the cage, then he walked from her, and vanished out the door. Again.
Alone, only now she felt the coolness on her inner thighs, and wondered if or how much she had dripped. Was he lying?
She swayed in position, trapped, consumed by what he was doing to her, had done, to the point where her thoughts whirled and concentrated on this moment and nothing else.
Cruel as well as nice. He’d hit the button dead center.
Chapter 20
Every time he went back to her he wanted to do more. Ryke leaned his upper arm on the door frame, forearm across his face, staring at his wired-up girl, at where she kneeled on the towels, cords strung from cage to mouth, from cage to her tits, and to her legs.
His fault. He’d undermined the foundations of his relationship with her by saying he’d be nice, not do this, not do that.
He’d both restricted and unraveled himself.
He was falling in knots and shreds at the same time as he tied and knotted more cords on her.
God, he loved doing this to her. It satisfied his needs more deeply than ever. She reciprocated too. He could see it, could feel it when he felt between her legs, could smell it on her. How she pleaded and moaned. Those other incoherent noises that grabbed at his balls and muttered dirty things to the part of him nobody should ever see in the light. That look on her face when he wound more cords on her, when he handled her. The softness. He wanted to fuck her ass, her cunt, stick his tongue on her, lick her everywhere – behind her ears, her neck, inside that hot, vulnerable, pretty mouth.
He could. He managed to, barely, hold himself back.
Unraveled? He was self-destructing.
Time to stop.
Except, before he released her, before he undid everything, he wanted a little more.
He threw the cage doors open fully and both doors bounced back when they hit their limits. He stopped them with a knee and his hip, pushed them away with his boot. Then he went to one knee before her. When he’d last walked away, after he’d extracted his hand from the mess her pussy had leaked, she’d been shaking, thighs flexing, mouth gaping, the vein in her neck bulging – seconds from coming, with her back trying to arch even though that made the mouth cord pull at her.
Now she was quieter, watching him watching her.
It hadn’t been more than a few minutes, so getting her ready to come again would be easy. Practice had made him good at arousing her. This would be about number five, number five almost-an-orgasm.
“One more?” He clasped her clit in finger and thumb, massaged her. Her mouth hung open already, eyes rolling upward.
Was that a whine?
He ceased though he kept his diabolical grip on her clit.
She showed her teeth. He kissed her gently while holding her below as well as smearing her mouth with his other girl-juice soaked fingers.
“More?” He combed her hair over her ear.
A whine sounded low in her throat.
He could get her off with his fingers but he wanted a closer view, so he lowered himself and wedged his face between her legs, pushed out his tongue and gently lapped at her while his fingers dabbled and delved. They weren’t quite inside her, but he teased her that he could do it, might do it, relentlessly. Licking, sucking, teasing, dipping his fingertips in where her slit gave way – a fraction of a fraction of an inch. Entering her, but not.
His fingers V’d, spreading her cunt.
Her legs trembled. Her sounds became guttural ones. Silence fell.
Her body erupted into spasmodic jerks that ended with her thrusting herself into his face. The wires dug at her thighs; the cage creaked. He smiled and kept on licking until she slumped and her moans changed to desperate whimpers to accompany the rush of her wetness dribbling onto his hand.
Then he stood, undid his pants, pulled out his cock and jerked off over her, squirting his cum on her face and breasts. He left it to travel down her tits and belly while he freed her from the web of wires. He lowered her and let her lie there, shivering, thighs pressing together as if she wanted more, though she’d blanked him out with her eyes.
Enough. He’d done what he shouldn’t have. A nauseous feeling arising from his lack of control of this situation welled up inside him. He showered then went to the first bedroom they’d used and lay on his back, sprawled out, thinking.
Fuck this.
Sleep refused to arrive, so he walked, randomly, exploring the house by default. More of the communication screens were working than he’d thought likely. He really should talk to Gyle, just reroute the conta
ct so Gyle couldn’t tell where he was...and he’d never had to contemplate deception with Gyle before.
He found himself with her again. In that room. She lay in the dark, since he’d switched off the lights. Desire arrived like a hammer then slowly built and he jerked off again, waking her, though she barely moved as the last of his cum squirted through the bars.
He’d leave her there. In that sordid nest. Damn her.
Anger had roused.
The pond room was the quietest, and the most threatening, somehow. It reeked of her and her secret purpose.
His work was paramount. His work, his duty. Instead he was fucking with her, if not into her holes.
Ryke rose, put his head back, studying the dead tree and how it’d invaded the roof. This was what she was doing. Invading him.
“I won’t tolerate it,” he whispered. Then he screamed it at the unseen sky. “I won’t!”
The words reverberated off the dead walls.
Only she was alive in here, and he, the man who’d thought he had his future plans written in stone and steel, and maybe a mechling that should’ve deceased decades ago.
He walked out and his erratic, rambling route brought him to her. She saw him this time, her head lifting from the towels she curled on.
Leaving her there was the right thing to do, yet he craved contact.
Cursing himself, he opened the doors and beckoned. “Come. You’re getting clean.”
He showered her, dried her, let her drink, then led her into the bigger bedroom. All in silence. She crawled onto the quilt, lay down on her side and he saw one eye looking back at him from the crumpled bedding. A lost creature, like he was.
Skin contact was a primitive need he’d shrugged off when his mother died. He hadn’t needed it. Didn’t need her. Or so he told himself as he dragged her to him and enfolded her smaller body in his.
“Go to sleep,” he said, though it surprised him when, after what seemed endless shifting about, she sighed and snuggled back into him.
This wasn’t spooning. It was something else. Something less needy. He, Ryke, King’s Own Lawgiver, had no use for emotional crutches.
Branded Possession (The Machinery of Desire Book 3) Page 13
