The Found: A Crow City Novel

by Cole McCade

  She didn’t understand at first. Until his hands on her body showed her; until he bent her over, guiding her to press her cheek to the sheets with her ass in the air, bent over her knees. Heat burned fierce in her cheeks; fiercer still when he stroked those long-fingered hands down her body, down her thighs, hooked under her knees and pulled them apart. Baring her. Spreading her. She was practically on display, and she whimpered, shifting restlessly.

  “Shh,” he whispered again. And again, leather—encircling her ankles, encircling below her knees. Then something hard pushed between her legs, resting on the bed; she heard a faint snap, and then that hardness was pushing her legs apart like a steel strut, the bands under her knees strapped to some kind of bar and preventing her from closing her legs. Then another between her ankles, keeping them splayed wide, before he carefully loosened the leather around her bad ankle to give it room to flex.

  His hand curled above her calf, resting possessively; with the blindfold turning her world black he was like a demon haunting the dark, speaking in tongues to lure her. “Does it hurt, firefly?”

  Yes, she almost said, even though it didn’t. The only thing that hurt was the pain of her pounding heart, beating fit to burst apart with fear and confusion and a damnable and awful curiosity. She didn’t understand what he was doing to her. Why. Why he was tying her up in this position; why it made heat pool low down in her gut and tremble against the flesh exposed by her spread, trembling thighs.

  “No,” she answered. Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else, tiny and broken. “No, it…it doesn’t hurt.”

  “Good.”

  Nothing else. Just good—and then something was slipping around her neck, the familiar constriction of a collar, and she breathed in sharply as it buckled firmly against her skin, then pulled. The slither and rattle of a chain, and then taut pressure and…oh. Oh God. He’d clipped the chain to the bar between her knees, and now she couldn’t even unbend from this position, trapped this way and at his whim.

  As if she ever wasn’t.

  Something pressed against her lips: something slippery and round, and she instinctively shied away.

  “Open for me, bella,” he whispered. “Don’t resist. Open for me.”

  It was a command she couldn’t deny. And after a moment she hesitantly parted her lips; he eased the round, slick, thick thing into her mouth, smoothness gliding against her lips and past her teeth to rest on her tongue, filling her mouth wide enough to stretch without hurting, wide enough to keep her from speaking. A gag. He was gagging her, fastening it behind her head, and she made a muffled, whimpering sound against the round ball in her mouth, her tongue fluttering helplessly against the underside, obscene in how it moved against the rubber. This was mortifying, humiliating, degrading, even more so when he ran his hand over the curves of her body like stroking a prize animal, his touch a thing of shivers and raw heat.

  “Good girl, firefly. Breathe. Do not panic. Now…let’s see how much you can endure.”

  “Endure?” she tried to gasp, but around the gag it came out as “nmmfrrr?” and nothing else, and then she couldn’t even get that much out when something pressed against her folds. Something shaped like his cock but cooler than flesh; something made of slick smooth plastic. She bucked her hips but couldn’t move, trying to flinch away from it and succeeding only in wiggling her ass. She cried out a protest against the gag, but there was no stopping him. That slick head nudged and teased against her, dragging through the wetness on her skin…then plunged inside, filling her in a single smooth stroke.

  She screamed, the sound muted and muffled and trapped in her throat. There was pleasure in this—pleasure and violation and confusion, and she squirmed and struggled but couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but kneel there with her face pressed against the sheets and her ass in the air and her legs spread and this thing inside her, its coldness touching the soft-bruised, swollen places inside her and stretching them open again until she throbbed. But he wasn’t done—not when his heat leaned over her, enveloping her, his arms wrapping around her, his hands cupping her breasts, squeezing, kneading, rolling, pinching and tugging her nipples until she bucked and arched and writhed. Then something bit down on first her left nipple, then her right, something with little metal teeth that gripped hard enough to barely sting, unrelenting and trapping her nipples at the perfect peak pressure to leave them pulsing, tingling, hard, aching. Willow whimpered, jerking her shoulders, arching her back, the chain running down her body rattling and pulling taut against the bar between her knees with a loud clatter.

  “Priest!” she gasped, only nothing escaped but a moan, a muted whimper, that couldn’t quite form words. His touch left her. His heat left her. There was only the pressure of his hand against the base of the sex toy thrust inside her, twisting it, spiraling it until it licked her insides with a sinful, carnal tongue, stirred itself into her wetness until she was dripping inside and out.

  Then, oh then…

  Then he turned it on.

  Another twist, a flick of a switch, and a shock went through her, sharp and electric. A muted buzzing rose—and shook all the way through her flesh, vibrating and quivering and burying deep. Pleasure ripped through her with an impact so violent it was an assault, tearing through her senses, the vibrator heating under its own power until it became a living, burning thing squirming inside her, nosing into her depths and burrowing deep. She screamed around the gag, the rubber rolling on her tongue like the head of a cock filling her mouth, her body bucking and writhing and rioting beyond her control, her legs shaking. She barely felt Priest’s weight lifting off the bed, when her entire world centered on that pulsing monstrosity quivering between her thighs and the bite of little sharp dragon teeth against her painfully hard nipples.

  This was cruelty. This was torture, as harsh as a thousand lashes coming down against her back; the pleasure was a demon possessing her, wrenching through her, tearing her back and forth between extremes of too much and not enough. She couldn’t last. She couldn’t even try, when every unexpected shock ripped her apart. And when she came it was whimpering, mewling, with wet lips clenching tight around the invading monster, rocked through with every vibration that cut her so deep and trembled all those empty needy spaces only Priest had filled before.

  Gasping through her nostrils, she slumped, waiting for Priest to turn it off, to take it out—but he didn’t touch her. That awful thing still shook inside her, rattling her with aftershocks that made her twitch, cringe, instinctively trying to close her legs against the onslaught of too much sensation, but she was trapped and it wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop, and all her writhing and struggling did was push the base of the vibrator up against her clit until it soaked those electric, thumping shocks into her too-sensitive flesh and pushed her to the edges of sensory overload. She choked out a pleading cry against the gag; this was too much, not a second’s respite to let her come down from her raw nerves, ripples rolling through her in waves and trying to drag her under into the drowning, molten dark again.

  She screamed again, but the gag stole her cries, stole her voice, until she couldn’t beg stop, no more, I can’t stand it, too much. Her body spasmed uncontrollably, tight contractions rocking through her, forcing her to move to the rhythm of the vibrator’s jolts. It ravaged her, pulsed her, pushed her to frenzy levels she would do anything to escape, teeth of fire biting into her and making every burst of sensation unbearable. She was too hot inside, as if she’d absorbed that mechanical heat into her flesh, burning her, branding her, and shame flushed her face with flame as wet trickles spilled down her inner thighs, pouring and warm and slick. She wanted it out of her—and she tried to angle to make it slip free, but with her ass forced up she couldn’t trust gravity…and when she tried locking herself up inside, squeezing down, forcing it out, she only clamped down and rushed herself with a deeper burst of quivering, molten heat.

  She fell apart. She fell apart in a whimpering, shaking, struggling mess as
another climax crashed over her and dragged her into its undertow, stealing her breath and taking command of her body from her until she could only thrash weakly against her bonds while tremors raked every inch of her body and her cunt pulsed with a too-soft, too-slick soreness, her clit swollen and untouchable.

  But it was still touching her.

  Still vibrating.

  He wasn’t stopping it.

  And she doubted he would. Not when the sadist was probably enjoying this. With a sobbing moan, she buried her face in the sheets as the smallest motion made the vibrator slide deeper, its sculpted head and folds and veins stroking against her and choking another cry in her throat. He wanted to watch her suffer with pleasure. Wanted to watch her writhe, wanted to see her undone, overcome, shaken apart until she was a complete slave to this, able to do nothing but arch and whimper and dissolve into hedonistic lust.

  And she had no choice in the matter, because she had given that choice up to him.

  That was her last coherent thought before pleasure seized control. Before a particularly hard jolt of the vibrator sent shocks rolling out all the way to her fingertips and her toes, left her rolling her hips, mewling and licking against the gag, straining to pull away only for her bonds to jerk her back as if pulling her against the thrusts of an invisible lover. And like an invisible lover this thing gripped her in unseen hands, whipped her to a frenzy, drove her into heat until she was little better than a rutting animal taken over by the consuming need to mate. Again—again a climax crashed through her, forced on her in sharp shuddering vibrations, searing through her folds, her clit, clenching up tight inside her. Again she hardly had a second to breathe before she was winding up tight again, her sensitivity like dynamite to a struck match, going off over and over and over again until she thought she would pass out.

  She didn’t know how long he kept her like that. She didn’t know how many times she screamed his name against the gag. She didn’t know how many times she came, until she was soaked and dripping everywhere, until she couldn’t stand another moment but still the convulsions, the tight bursting rushes, wouldn’t stop. She lost all sense of time, all sense of self, sobbing brokenly in muffled gasps and her tears soaking into the blindfold. It wouldn’t end. It would never end. This was hell, and the punishment handed down to her for eternity. This was all she had ever known, and all she ever would know:

  Pleasure and pain and helpless submission as one, unwanted and yet desperately craved, forced and yet willingly taken.

  Yet slowly the pain—the biting whip-lashes of sparking fire—began to ease; the vibrations began to slow, weakening. The batteries, she realized numbly. The batteries were running down…and then stopping. Stopping, leaving the vibrator dead inside her, that melting sensation so deep but that heat no longer shivering, and she sucked in gasps of air through her nostrils as relief left her sagging, keening softly. She hurt everywhere, trembling and sore, but please…please God let it be over. She didn’t even know if Priest was there anymore, or if he’d wandered off to leave her in agony, but please let him come back, end this, let her rest.

  But there—oh God yes, there, his heat, his warmth prickling her skin in the looming, painful silence. He traced his fingers down the dip of her spine and she nearly screamed, her entire body overextended, overused, until the smallest touch inflamed her. His fingers followed that path over the cleft of her ass, and then…and then oh thank you thank you thank you he gripped the end of the vibrator and pulled it out, slipping it free from her with a deliberate and malicious twist that made her entire body buck against the restraints, but still at least she was empty, that thing no longer filling her, hurting her. She sobbed in relief, slumping again, as his presence withdrew. There came a faint click, something mechanical. Then he was back, and his gentle touch snared in the blindfold and lifted it from her face. She opened her eyes hazily.

  And found herself looking right at herself.

  He’d set up a video camera on a tripod right at the edge of the bed. The playback screen on the camera was folded out, and the footage played back: Willow writhing, Willow arching, Willow trembling in rippling spasms as she came, her mouth stretched sluttishly wide and red around the gag, the sounds of her own muffled whimpers and cries spilling from the speakers. She stared in horror, her eyes wide. That…that wasn’t her. That couldn’t be her. That expression on her face, her features slack with tortured bliss, so completely lost in the sickness of what was being done to her…no. No. That wasn’t her.

  With a despairing sound, she closed her eyes and turned her face away—but Priest sank to kneel at her side and threaded his fingers into her hair, pulling hard enough to remind her he could pull so much harder.

  “Look,” he commanded.

  “Nnn!” she cried around the gag. No! He forced her head up, facing the camera, but she squeezed her eyes shut, fresh tears rolling in burning trails down her cheeks. She wouldn’t look at herself like that. Wouldn’t see herself that way. Priest growled low in his throat.

  “Open your eyes and look.” Pain sparked in little prickles that her body confused with pleasure, and she inhaled hard, opening her eyes. “Look!”

  She couldn’t escape it. Her body on display on that screen, the way she twisted, the way her body flowed. Like she was sex inside a human skin, sultry and liquid and lascivious, possessed by a coiling demon thing. The way her own wetness gleamed on her thighs, dripped from between her legs, pooled on the bed in dark, damp stains. The way she bucked her hips back as if begging for it. Her eyes burned, vision blurring as those tears became a spate.

  What was happening to her?

  “This is you. This is who you are,” Priest said softly, that grip on her hair loosening to a gentle stroke. “This is the base, wanton creature you’ve been hiding from.”

  He stroked down her back. The heat of his body slid against her, moved behind her, until he leaned against her upraised ass, her spread thighs, her exposed and dripping cunt. She hissed in the back of her throat as that slightest touch made her clench up inside with dread. Dread and wanting, desire so deep she was steeped in it, soaked in it.

  “Depravity can be beautiful, firefly.” Reverent, the way he said the words. The way he spoke of her as she stared at the rapture glowing on her video captured face. “And you are beautiful in your depravity. If you must feel shame, take pleasure from even that. But never once think this is something that makes you lesser.”

  Priest…she tried to say, protest or plea, she didn’t know. She couldn’t think. She was dizzy and fogged and completely hazed and lost, and then there came that near-angry rasp of the zipper and he was pressed against her, fitting his cock to her slickness, pushing against her swollen, abused folds. She couldn’t stand anymore. She couldn’t do this again, overtaxed and overstimulated and terrible.

  But when he rolled his hips forward…she rocked back against him, as unable to help herself as an addict with a fresh shot of the headiest drug she’d ever tasted.

  He was thicker than the vibrator. Longer. Hotter. And he stretched her in ways no toy ever could, sinking into her so deep, and she screamed; on the video her mirror self echoed her scream, squirming against her bonds, and Willow squirmed in tandem, Priest’s cock moving inside her with a rawness that left her undone, until he grasped her hips. Held her still with that brutal grip. Arched over her.

  And took.

  Every moment with that hateful toy had been to prime her for this. To force her to a trembling edge, seconds from falling over. To leave her in a position of shameful, delicious subservience, made even worse by the fact that she was naked and exposed while he was fully clothed. To strip her so bare she could hide nowhere, nothing she could deny, no way to escape submerging into every moment of this. No way to escape losing herself in every inch of him, every surging, flowing thrust, every time her flesh parted and folded around him as if she was trying to fit herself to him, wrap herself around every ridged, delicious shape marking her from within. Intimacy struck as deep a
s a kiss, claiming and slow. There was nothing but this: his husky, heated breaths, the molten glide and crash of their bodies meeting, her muffled cries and that video. That video that she couldn’t tear her eyes away from, when every time that tiny mirror image of her cried out she spoke for the pleasure that robbed Willow of her senses and her will.

  He took her high. He brought her low. He took his time, drawing out every moment, teasing her to the peak only to slow and draw her back until she was whimpering with frustration and ready to burst. There was something off in the cadence of his breaths, in the rhythm of his thrusts, a shudder and halt that surged faster and then hitched, caught, slowed, and she realized…she realized he was close to losing control. That just as he’d torn control from her, his desire was breaking his self-control, breaking his ability to restrain himself, breaking his ability to resist.

  And she was doing that to him.

  This monster, her captor, the man who held complete and dominant control over her pleasure, her life, was close to losing himself because of her.

  The realization was a slug of pleasure to her gut, and she tightened, only to scream again as he seared and branded her, too thick for her to stand. He groaned, a ragged sound of sheer agony, and dug his fingers harder into her hips. Dragged her back against him. Slammed their bodies together, that control giving way to madness, building faster, higher, flesh crushing to flesh and friction building to the point of flame.