by Maren Smith
“How did he fuck you?”
“Are you looking for pointers?” She snapped back, nipples aching, not at all liking this public airing of her very private personal life.
Releasing her breasts, he grabbed a fistful of her hair with one hand and the other shot straight down the front of her pants as easily as if she weren’t wearing any at all. Hannah yelped, twisting her hips back reflexively, but he was already between her legs and his pinching fingers fastened around a much more sensitive nubbin than either of her nipples had been.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod!” she blurted, not only launching right back onto her tiptoes but coming just as close to him as he cared to bring her. Her whole body tensed, her thighs locking in the fight not to move, even the slightest wiggle turning the pressure of his hold into pain.
He cocked his head, gazing down into her eyes, his own cool, his mouth unsmiling. “Do you really think I require sex advice from some fumbling, high school senior?”
She shook her head.
“Say, ‘no, Master Sam’,” he coaxed, backing her one slow step at a time toward the padded sawhorse.
“No, Master Sam,” she moaned, wincing with every movement.
“How did he fuck you?”
She trembled in his hands. “In his truck,” she admitted, and when his fingers tightened sharply, hastily added, “M-Master Sam. Oh!”
“Cheap bastard didn’t even rent a limo? I’d have at least fumbled you in style.”
She was insane; Hannah had to fight not to find that touching. She almost wanted to thank him.
“Tell me,” Sam said, his tone once more easing into something gentle, coaxing. Seductive. “When he touched you here—” His fingers relaxed their uncompromising hold and began to caress; Hannah gasped, arching even higher than when it had hurt. “—did he touch you like a lover or like he was carrying a football across the finish line?”
He? He who? Her hips suddenly developed a life all their own. They rode his circling, circling—oh God!—fingers, every muscle in her belly and legs tightening until they shook from the strain. She moaned. “I-I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he countered, a shadowed smile beginning to curl his handsome mouth once more. “You can and you will. Did you cum for your fumbling front-seat lover?”
“No,” she panted. He rolled her clit, stroking until she was pulsing, swelling, coaxing it from its protective hood. Her moan was so guttural and so loud; humiliation burned her, but it was a secondary fire that couldn’t compare with the heat unfolding under his hand. “Please,” she begged without any clear idea of what exactly she was begging for.
He was merciless. “Why not?”
If it weren’t for his fist in her hair, she’d have turned away. Humiliation mounted on humiliation. How many people were standing in the shadows, watching his hand rubbing between her legs and her rolling her hips to rub back? How many were listening to her moan? Her eyes watered. “I-I-I don’t know. I just…didn’t.”
“Did you tell him you did?”
“He—oh! Please, oh!—he didn’t ask. I-I-I want to s-stop now.”
Without warning, he withdrew his hand from her pants and slapped her pussy. The impact was soft, though it didn’t feel that way. Her hips jolted and suddenly the padded top of the sawhorse was under her ass, supporting her when her legs tried to give out. She tried to snap them shut, but he had already moved between them, leaving her nothing to do but clasp him between her shivering thighs. For the first time, she dropped her hands, grabbing onto his shoulders when he struck lightly a second and then a third time. The sound, even through her jeans, was mortifyingly wet.
“We stop when I say.” Back down her pants he went, no longer content now with just her clit but shoving until he touched the source of her heat, her wetness. He cupped her, claimed her, held her tingling, aching pussy in the palm of his rubbing hand and, without preamble, thrust first one finger, then two, then three—stretching her in an instant to what was almost too much—and shoving to get deeper inside her, writhing them, stroking, seeking…and finding.
Hannah sucked a hard breath, the sharpness of the pleasure that rocked her as unexpected as it was unfamiliar. She shouted, and she didn’t even care in that moment who heard her. “Oh, fuck me!”
It came out of her so hoarse and alien, at first she barely recognized it as her own voice. Sam only laughed, husky and low. “I’m not going to ask either,” he murmured in her ear. “Do you know why?”
He released his hold on her hair and wrapped that arm around her waist, pinning her to him, forcing her bucking, writhing hips to ride his thrusting fingers while the pleasure grew sharper and harder and infinitely more imminent. Her hands on his shoulders became claws; her cries were coming constantly now, each fast on the heels of the last though she tried so hard to smother them behind tightly clamped lips and gritted teeth.
“Because there’s going to be no mistaking it when you cum,” he said with a grin. “Do it for me now. Right now. Fucking cum. Milk my fingers with your pretty little pussy.”
His hand pumped harder, trapped by the confines of her jeans, slapping up between her thigh, and then he shifted his hold, his fingers applying direct stimulation to the spot way up inside her and his thumb coming to rest right on top of her clit. He did not rub; he pressed in instead and it was that pressure culminating upon all the rest that undid her.
Her whole body seized under pleasure so intense it felt more like pain. She shouted, another guttural animalistic sound so raw and deep that she felt torn by it. And still his fingers thrust, forcing the spasms to roll hotter and higher, faster and harder, until all she could do was cling to him just to keep from being swept away in this earth-shaking tidal flow that felt at once so impossibly good and yet so dangerous.
She didn’t even realize she’d bitten him until she felt his teeth sink into her shoulder in turn. The pain amplified the weakening, rolling flow of her orgasm; the copper-sweet taste of him in her mouth submerged her instantly under a climax so forceful that all she could do was hold onto him and scream. His flesh absorbed her cries. His growling laughter in her ear was the sound she convulsed to, again and again, until she simply couldn’t, not one time more.
“Good girl,” he breathed against her skin. “Good, good girl.”
His hand remained between her legs, still stroking, but softly now, soothing her, bringing her gradually back to herself. She was shaking so violently. If it weren’t for his arm around her waist and the sawhorse propped up under her bottom, she never would have found the strength to stay upright.
The heat of his mouth pressed a lingering kiss upon the mark his bite had left on her shoulder. His teeth hadn’t broken her skin; she couldn’t say the same about hers. She pulled back from him slowly, staring in shaky dismay at the tiny drops of red beginning to bleed in through the cotton of his shirt, turning the dark fabric even darker where light from the lamps hit him.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered. She hid her mouth behind both trembling hands, but his taste remained hot and sensual on her tongue. She tried not to savor it, but the flavor—so salty, so masculine…so very, very him—overwhelmed her.
Sweeping his shirt off over his head, Sam looked at his shoulder. He lightly touched the bright red crescent, dipping his fingertips in the drops of red that welled up to bead upon his skin. He looked at them, he looked at her and hunger flared hot in the depths of his dark eyes.
“My bag is on the first shelf by the door,” he said, not taking his eyes from her and yet Hannah instinctively knew it wasn’t her he was talking to. “Please, bring it to me.”
If she hadn’t already been shaking, that look alone would have made her start. She tried to pull back from him, to cover her naked breasts, the peaks of her nipples still so tight and hard and begging to be touched—by him, only by him; she shivered.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she whispered.
Sam didn’t move, not until a whisper of movement from the mouth of the stall annou
nced the arrival of his bag. Marshall, the same blond man from the Castle, entered long enough to pass a canvas duffel bag to Sam.
“Put your hands behind your head,” he told her. “And don’t move from that position.”
He moved away from her, but only just far enough to set the bag on the ground. To run never even entered her mind. Shaking, the sting of tears flooding her eyes, she obeyed instead, folding her hands across the back of her head and lacing her fingers tight together while she watched him hunker down and unzip the bag. What he withdrew sent the first few tears spilling over her lashes and sliding down her face.
She shook her head as he unfastened the link of leather wrist, waist and ankle restraints, all neatly hooked together. “Please,” she begged. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he soothed, coming back to her with those restraints in his hands. He buckled her into them one arm and then one leg at a time, and Hannah simply sat there, propped on top of the sawhorse, watching him do it with those stupid, useless tears falling down her face.
“Please,” she begged. “I didn’t mean to—”
He caught her chin, his long fingers caressing her cheek as he made her look at him. “I am not going to hurt you,” he repeated. “I am going to bind you, because it makes me happy to touch you in ways you’ll want to try and squirm away from. I am going to spank you, not because of anything you’ve done, but because I enjoy it. And when I finally have your ass so hot and red that even the softest caress of my hand leaves you mewling and writhing, then I am going to fuck you. Hard. Until neither one of us has the strength to move afterward. Do you remember your safewords?”
She nodded hesitantly, not sure if knowing what was going to happen made it any more comforting or not. “Yes, Master Sam.”
The look in his eyes turned challenging. “Do you want to use one now?”
She thought about it and she thought hard, but in the end, she shook her head. For all that it did scare her to wear these restraints, knowing that when they were used, she wouldn’t be able to get away if—if? He was going to spank her!—she needed to, for some reason, stopping this all now left her feeling sick in the pit of her stomach. It was like he was testing her, and she didn’t want to fail. She…she didn’t want to disappoint him, as crazy as that seemed. She had disappointed so many people, she didn’t think she could handle one more.
“Good girl.” He stroked her hair, drawing her by her cuffed wrists until she climbed down off the padded sawhorse and stood a little unsteadily before him.
As childish as it made her feel, she couldn’t help asking, “Is it going to hurt a lot…when you spank me?”
“I think you’ll survive.”
As cryptic as that was, it actually made her feel better…right up until he positioned her in front of the sawhorse and began to unbutton her jeans. While technically men could have sex with their pants on, it was somewhat more difficult for women. So in the back of Hannah’s mind, she knew she had to have known this point was going to happen eventually. But now that the moment had arrived, all she could think about now was that he was going to see her leg. He was going to see it, and then he would look at her, and he was going to be repulsed.
This was a mistake.
Hannah grabbed first her pants and then his hands. Sam retaliated as if he had been expecting it. Fishing a double-ended clip out of his bag, he promptly wrestled her arms behind her back and, ignoring her cry, clipped her cuffed wrists together.
“Wait,” she begged.
He peeled her jeans straight down her legs, past her scars, past her knees, all the way to the dirt floor. “Step.”
He didn’t even seem to notice her cuts.
He would soon enough.
She began to cry, she was so ashamed.
He took her ankle in his hand. “Step,” he repeated, and because she didn’t see where she had many options at this point, she did. One leg at a time, he striped her clothes away. First her pants and then her panties, until he left her standing in nothing but tears and the wrist and ankle restraints. Not only did he look at her marred thigh but, his head tilting slowly to one side, he lowered himself onto one knee and touched it too.
“I’m sorry!” She wept. She tried to turn away, to hide in the only way she could now, but he wouldn’t even let her do that much. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m better now, I swear.”
It wasn’t until Sam snapped back his head to stare at her that she realized there wasn’t a hint of revulsion anywhere on him. If anything, the way he’d been looking at her, touching her, his fingertips skimming so feather-light across her healing wounds, it had bordered on reverence.
Now, however, the look he wore bordered somewhere between incredulousness, outright confusion, and a touch of dawning anger. “What do you mean, better? Better than what?”
She shook her head, at a loss for what she was supposed to say. “Better,” was all she could think of at first. “Better… than before. I’m normal now. I won’t ever do it again.”
Sam stared at her, dark, silent, and for the first time since she’d met him, for just a moment, she thought he might be unsure. Then, somewhere beyond the lights outside the stall, someone whispered. It was the whisper that snapped him out of his thoughts. He stood up so suddenly, Hannah jumped back, crashing into the sawhorse and nearly lost her balance.
He caught her arm and then rounded on the light. “Do your fucking talking somewhere else!”
He stalked the lights, but all Hannah saw was Sam walking away. The devastation was all but blinding. She bent to grab her clothes, but forgot her hands were cuffed. She struggled to get out of them and almost fell all over again. If she could have got out, she’d have run.
“I’m sorry.” Blinded by tears and the light, she tried to duck past him and out the open stall door. Babbling, not even caring about her clothes, she’d have run naked and cuffed all the way to her car if he hadn’t caught her. “I’ll go. You don’t have to tell me, I’ll go. I’ll go.”
He grabbed her arm and then her head, pulling her in hard against him.
“Shh,” he said again. As angry as he’d been just a second ago, now there was only calm in his voice and tenderness in his hands. It was a devastating combination; it broke her. Hannah cried in a way she had never cried before, not when her father put her into the hospital, not even when he refused to let her come home again afterward.
Guys weren’t supposed to like emotional women; Sam didn’t seem to care. He pulled her with him back to the sawhorse, drawing her in to stand between his legs as he sat down and held her just as close as she would come until the storm of her misery was expended. She had nothing to blow her nose with. Her hands were still bound, so she couldn’t have even if she did. She did her best trying to sniff the grossness back, but she was not a pretty crier and as soon as he let her go he was going to get a world-class view of that side of her too.
A man’s hand drifted into view from over her shoulder, offering tissues.
Sam took them. “Thank you.”
When he leaned back, so did she. He wiped her face and then her nose, and then held a fresh side of the tissue wadded up against her. “Blow.”
“I can do it myself if you’d let me,” she grumbled.
“I haven’t spanked you yet,” he reminded. “Blow.”
She blew. It was loud, disgusting and it should have been humiliating. The fact that it wasn’t really only convinced her that she’d hit the wall on that front and simply couldn’t feel anymore. Sniffling again, she started to step back but Sam pointed at the ground between his splayed feet, snapped his fingers once, and she crept in to stand exactly where he indicated.
“Tell me what happened.” Folding his arms across his chest, he looked at her and waited.
Hannah blinked twice, sniffled once, and fidgeted, her fingertips only just able to touch the scars on her forearm. “I cut myself,” she said, stupidly stating the obvious.
“Did you like the way it felt?�
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“I—” she hesitated. “Not at first, I don’t think. It hurt…at first.”
“You don’t like pain?”
“I’m not that crazy,” she tried to joke, but it felt very hollow and neither of them so much as cracked a smile.
“Is it the blood you like?” Stated so boldly, so acceptingly.
She looked at him, her breath hitching in the back of her too-tight throat. “Yes,” she whispered and braced herself for the way he would surely have to look at her now. “I always have, even when I was a kid. There’s just something about the look, and the taste, and the texture of it on my…my tongue.” Her face flushed hot. If she could have reached her arm, she’d have clawed it. “The smell even. I-I can’t describe it. I just…I wanted to see…”
“Did it arouse you?”
She flushed even hotter. She couldn’t look at him at all then, except that he wouldn’t allow her any way to distance herself. She jumped when his fingers combed into the folds between her legs, slipping up into all that hot wetness, feeling that welcoming embrace closing tight around him as he invaded her. “Yes,” she whispered, hot and uncomfortable and yes, aroused, though she didn’t understand it. She wasn’t happy or relaxed. There were too many people here, all of them seeing how…not normal she was.
“Why do you say you’re better now?” He stroked her, and though she wished she could, there was just no stopping the way her body reacted. The slick walls of her pussy contracting to hold him, shivering at his touch.
“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say about suicidal people?” She countered unhappily.
“Is that what they told you? That you’re suicidal? That you’re sick?”
He’d asked a question, he expected an answer; she couldn’t make herself give him one. She couldn’t even make herself look at him now. “Isn’t that what you think too?”
Pulling his hand away, Sam stood up. His arm slipped around her shoulders, drawing her in until her forehead came to rest on his shoulder. He was so warm, so strong, like a rock. Her rock.
