Torment Me (Rough Love Part One) (13 page)

I didn’t know how I could possibly feel more sorry than I felt at that moment. I felt hated and abused, and mocked. I wanted him off me, and I wanted to hurt him. I wasn’t getting anywhere trying to knee him in the groin. Women doubtless tried to do that all the time. I did manage to pry my wrist free and smack him again, square in the face.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he growled. He used force and body weight to manhandle me onto my stomach. “You’re a stubborn little bitch, you know that?”

“Get off me. Get off!” He was holding me down with all his weight. I could hardly breathe, but I used the breath I had to try to buck him off me. A moment later, he hooked his right arm around my neck.

“Stop fighting,” he said. When he clenched his muscles, blood roared in my brain.

You’re the one who needs to stop
, I wanted to cry.
You need to stop being mean. You need to stop hurting me.
I could feel his cock hard and thick between my legs. My vision blurred, from tears or panic, or lack of blood flow.

“Don’t kill me,” I whispered.

“I’m not going to kill you. I’m trying to get you under control.” His arm loosened but stayed where it was, a hug and a threat. His weight crushed me, and his rough voice rumbled in my ear. “I know you’re all pouty and hurt because you didn’t get enough attention, because I didn’t fawn over your pretty dress and your fucking lingerie. You’re not getting what you want, are you?”

“I want you to get off me!”

“And I want you to let me fuck you without all the feelings and drama.” His voice was sharp as a sword, stabbing through me. “You’re nothing to me,” he said. “You’re my prostitute. You don’t get kisses and compliments unless I feel like giving them to you. You don’t get to look pretty. I don’t want you to look pretty. I want you to open your mouth when I tell you to open your mouth, and open your legs when I tell you to open your legs. Do you understand?”

I managed to yell “I hate you” before he tightened his arm around my neck again. I pressed back into his chest, trying not to pass out. I understood what he was saying. I understood that he was paying me, and that I was his whore, and that this was his show, but I didn’t see why he had to be so obnoxious about it. One of my shoes dropped to the floor with a thunk. I kicked off the other one, not caring where it landed.

He spread my legs wider with his knees, and shoved a hand between my thighs, gathering moisture from my pussy. I was so wet, and I was afraid it was because I liked this. I didn’t want him to be right.

“Now,” he said, “you’re going to take it in the ass where it hurts, instead of your wet pussy where you want me, or your whore mouth where you could have had me.”

I shook my head no, but I knew he didn’t care. He was already pushing inside me, using only the slickness he’d gathered from my pussy. I groaned and squirmed but his knees had me open so wide, splayed on the bed. One of his hands trapped my wrists under my stomach, and the other, of course, was still wrapped around my neck.

He gave a long, low sigh, made a guttural, animal sound of pleasure as I trembled under him. My ass hurt, pried open once again by his oversized cock. But there was nothing I could do. I was literally held down from top to bottom, and from inside where he impaled me.

“I know you don’t want this, but it feels so good to me,” he said. “You’re so tight, and it feels like fucking heaven when you fight me.”

I didn’t want to fight, not when he’d enjoy it, but when he started moving in me, it was like I had no choice. Fight or die. Fight, or admit that I liked being held down and brutalized this way. I clenched around him and he growled.

“That’s right. Do I hurt inside you? That’s what I want. You don’t get what you want. That’s how this works. You don’t get to come today, bad girl. You’re just gonna lay underneath me and get fucked, and fucked, and fucked.” He punctuated each word with a balls-deep thrust.

“Please stop,” I said. “I don’t like this. It doesn’t feel good.”

“That doesn’t matter, does it? If you don’t get to come?”

His scent surrounded me, the scent I had come to equate with W and sex and terror. I dreamed about the smell of him sometimes, in sex-soaked reveries and nightmares. I hated that he would probably find that funny or pathetic. I dreamed way too often about the feeling of him fucking me and hurting me.

When all the fight went out of me, when I’d been fucked just that long and hard, he finally released my wrists. He unwrapped his arm from my neck and used it to brace himself over me. I didn’t want him over me. I wanted him closer to me. I needed comforting. I needed to be touched and given pleasure as he reamed out my ass, so I slid my hand down and fingered my pussy. I was still so wet.

“Don’t you dare make yourself come,” he said. “Not today.”

“I want to,” I whined.

“No. I’ll beat you into next week if you make yourself come after I told you not to.”

I didn’t hear what he was saying, or maybe I did and I just didn’t want to believe him. I was so hot by now, so wrought up with anger and lust. His pounding thrusts had driven my clit against the bed over and over, and I felt like a big, seething volcano of need.

“Don’t,” he said once more, but he didn’t pull my hand away, and I couldn’t stop rubbing my clit. I wanted to come with him inside me, while I felt so full and used. I could feel him start to come. I heard it in his breathing and I sensed it in his jerking thrusts. I thought he wouldn’t notice if I climaxed at the same time, if I was really, really quiet. Oh God, it felt like heaven when I let the orgasm come. I clenched around his cock, gritting my teeth to stay silent. Everything inside me clenched and vibrated, and if I could have, I would have cried out with pleasure.

W pulled out of my ass while I was still pulsing through aftershocks. I didn’t care. I’d already floated away. I might as well have been wearing my blindfold, I was so lost in my little world. My hand curved over my pussy, petting it, soothing it.

“You don’t understand yet, do you?”

His voice was rough with anger. His fingers wove into the hair at my nape, and he wrenched my head to the side.

“Don’t hurt me anymore,” I said. “Leave me alone.”

“What the fuck did I tell you?”

“Not to come. Not today.” I yowled as he pulled my hair harder. I was starting to regret that orgasm I’d stolen, shattering as it was. “I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

He got up off the bed, grabbed his pants and pulled the belt from the loops while I ran toward the door. He caught me and shoved my face against the wall.

“Please don’t,” I cried, as he yanked my wrists behind my back. He cinched them together with the belt, and dragged me toward the bed with the tail. When I resisted, he wrapped an arm around my waist and carried me. I kicked and wriggled, but his arm was like a steel band. I wasn’t escaping him.

There was an orchid in a medium-sized pot by the window, staked to a long bamboo rod for stability. With his free hand, he yanked the rod out of the pot as we passed it. The bamboo was at least as thick as my finger.

He threw me face down over the edge of the bed, so my ass was in the air. I tried to yell
no
, and
help
, but he solved that problem by pressing my face into the covers until I stopped.

“Are you done fighting me?” he asked. “Because we can go again.”

“Fuck yo—” I tried to yell, at which time my face was shoved into the covers harder. This time he held me there until I ran out of breath, and I had to flail to be released.

“I told you very clearly not to come, didn’t I?” he said. “And you did it anyway. Stop fighting, because you earned this punishment.”

He yanked my hands up and braced his knee on the small of my back. The bamboo rod landed with a thud across my ass cheeks.

Owwww. Ohmygod.
My legs kicked up as a sizzling line of heat exploded across my flesh. Before I could come to terms with the agony, another stroke landed above it, and a third stroke below. He stifled my howl of pain in the blankets, pulling my hair again. No, no way, the orgasm wasn’t worth this. If I knew I’d be getting this, I wouldn’t have done it.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The throbbing lines of torment built on top of one another, as he whacked a lattice of hell from the top of my ass to just above my knees. The blows came one after the other, and the only thing that kept me bent over the bed was his kneecap wedged into my back. I scratched at his leg, whenever he gave the belt enough slack for me to do it. “Please, stop,” I gasped.

“Beginning to regret that orgasm now?”

“Yes! I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry.”

“Next time I say no orgasm...” He gave me the hardest whack yet, so hard I couldn’t even find the breath to scream. “Then I mean no orgasm. Remember that next time.”

He left off, went back over to the orchid and jammed the bamboo rod into its former place. I watched this with a kind of traumatized wonder. No one would ever guess, looking at that potted flower and stake, that it had been used to cause someone so much pain.

“Oh, the tears,” he said, throwing up his arms. He went back to the table and downed the rest of his drink. I took the opportunity to finally curl up into that ball. My hands struggled within his belt.

“Let me go,” I sobbed. “Undo my wrists.”

“In a minute.” I felt the bed give as he came to lie behind me. “You need to calm down first.”

“I can’t. My ass hurts. And you’re not supposed to mark me! My other clients—”

But I wasn’t seeing any other clients. Now I understood why. It wasn’t because I was special, or because he couldn’t get enough of me. It was so he could leave all the marks he wanted on me without ruining some other man’s date.

“Stop crying,” he said. “You’re the biggest fucking baby.” He turned me to face him and looked at me a moment. I must have appeared a mess. I must have looked like I wanted to murder him, but that didn’t seem to matter. He tugged me closer and kissed each of my cheeks, slowly, lingering over the moisture of my tears.

After that, he finally reached behind me to undo his belt. He had to lean over my body to work the buckle. His cock was flaccid now, and his skin slightly damp with sweat, a post-sex man, not a monster. I had to restrain myself from seeking comfort in the curve of his neck.

“Finally,” I said, when he released me.

He ignored my irritated exhortation, pulled my hands in front of me, and inspected my wrists. They were red, but the skin wasn’t broken. He lifted them and placed my palms against his stubble-roughened cheeks.

He stared at me, and I stared back at him. What did he want? Why did he think it was okay to go from flat-out rape and torture to these post-sex gazing sessions? These gentle caresses lying beside each other on the bed?

“Something’s wrong with you.” I spread my fingers over his cheek where I’d slapped him earlier. “You’re a horrible person.”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t frown. He only covered my hands with his. “I know I’m a horrible person. Do you want those kisses now?”

Damn him. Yes, I wanted them, and I hated myself for wanting them, because he wasn’t nice. He was horrible.
I know you’re all pouty and hurt because you didn’t get enough attention, because I didn’t fawn all over your pretty dress and your fucking lingerie.
It was all true, and I hated that he said things like that to my face, that he called me on all my faults and insecurities. He made me feel awful.

And then he held me and kissed me like this.

His fingers eased along my neck, gentling me, collecting me as his lips played over mine. When I responded to his caresses, he pulled me closer and upped the violence, nipping me, biting my lower lip.

I opened my hands on his chest, needing this closeness and connection, even though I knew it for a lie. He was so handsome, so sexy, and he could sweep me away so easily if he wanted to. It wasn’t fair. Every session, he tormented me and tied me into emotional knots, and then kissed and caressed me afterward, like that took away everything he’d done to me. It didn’t.

His kisses weren’t sweet, or passionate. They were lies. I turned my head away so his lips ended up on my cheek. I closed my hands and drew them away from his chest.

“What?” he said.

“I don’t want to kiss you.”

“I’m paying you, and I want to kiss you.”

“You’re mean to me.” I hated how childish and whiny I sounded. He made me feel childish and whiny and ridiculous and desperate for his small gifts of affection.

“I don’t understand you,” he said with mock annoyance. “Last week you were mad because I raped you. Now you’re mad because I choked you, beat you, and sodomized you. I don’t know how to make you happy.”

“This isn’t a joke. It’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not funny. It’s sexy. You enjoyed everything we did today.”

I moved to get up and he pulled me back down. I fought, hitting out at him, but as usual he was one step ahead of me, deflecting and trapping my hands.

“You need to stop hitting me,” he said in a stern tone. “I mean it. I’m paying you. Show some respect.”

I gazed into his eyes, trying to see the humor, the irony. Trying to understand. “Are you for real right now?”

“I’m very real, and I’m very honest. Why won’t you be honest and admit that you like these scenes we do together? The world won’t end because you lose yourself in a little rough sex. I don’t hurt you. I don’t
really
hurt you,” he qualified, when I gave him a look.

“You hurt me every time.”

“Sexy games. I’m a sadist. It’s what I like.” He touched my cheeks, dragged my face up to his. “And I like you because you fight me,” he murmured against my lips. “Even when you submit, you fight me. That’s a hard thing to find. Do you know how happy I was when I found you, Chere? After our first session at the W, I went home and masturbated so hard I almost injured myself, and then I called your pimp and set up our next date. I couldn’t wait to see you again. You made me so happy that day. You make me so fucking happy every time you struggle and fight me.”

I gazed into his intent blue eyes. His sadistic blue eyes.