Torment Me (Rough Love Part One) (2 page)

“You’re a fucking asshole,” I said.

“That doesn’t sound very classy. I thought you catered to a finer clientele.”

“I do, usually. I cater to clients who’d never destroy a Lanvin suit.”

His hand replaced the cold metal of the scissors against my neck. He squeezed a little. I could feel his body against the front of me, clothed, not naked. He smelled rich, like power and money. I felt his lips against my ear.

“The only thing you like more than this designer top, Chere, is the feeling of me cutting it off when you can’t do anything about it.”

“That’s not true. And you can’t
do
this. You can’t bind me with zip ties and use scissors on me, and make me wear this black leather mask.”

“I think I can.”

“You’re not supposed to.”

“Your pimp didn’t say anything about limits. He said I could do whatever I wanted for two hours. Oral. Anal. Fingerfucking. Pussy fucking. Mindfucking. Clothes cutting.” His hand left my neck but he was still close. I reeled from his heat, his presence. “Don’t be scared,” he said. “You’re going to like it. Or remember it, anyway.”

“Jesus.”

When I sucked in a breath, my bare breasts brushed against the fabric of his shirt. I tried to picture how I looked, sprawled back in the chair with my clothes cut open, and how he looked in…whatever he was wearing.

“Why are you still dressed?” I asked, trying to gain control. “When’s this fuckfest going to commence?”

“Are you horny? You want some cock, Chere?”

“Yes,” I snapped.

“Too bad. You don’t get my cock yet. You might not get it at all. You’re kind of a bitch.”

A bitch? That hurt my feelings, and clients didn’t get to hurt my feelings. Clients were nothing, men to exploit. Cocks to service. Whatever. Fuck him. I inched my thighs together as far as I could and sat there, and tried to blank my expression so he wouldn’t see he was getting to me. We were what, fifteen minutes into this scene? I felt wrung out already.

“Oh, no.” He pushed my knees apart again. “You don’t close those legs unless I tell you to. Answer
Yes, Sir
.”

“Yes, Sir.”
You fucker.

He slapped my cheek. Fucker
slapped me
. “Try again. Nicer this time,” he barked.

I swallowed and leaned my head back. “Is this some kind of BDSM shit?”

“This is kinky shit, yes. I’m waiting.”

“Aren’t we supposed to negotiate first?”

“I’m waiting.”

“Yes, Sir,” I said, like a pussy. “But we’re not supposed to do BDSM scenes, not without talking about things in advance.”

“We’re talking, baby. Otherwise you’d have a gag in your mouth.”

The way he said it, I could tell he really, really wanted to put a gag in my mouth, which was
so
not what I wanted. The only BDSM I’d ever done with clients was the kind of BDSM where they’re the bad boys and I’m the mistress in shiny latex, standing over them with a novelty whip. I didn’t know how to do this kind of BDSM. I didn’t know how to
not
be in charge.

I felt his body move in front of me. He took off one of my shoes, then the other. “All right, if you want to talk, let’s talk,” he said. “Ask me your questions.”

“What are you going to do to me?” That was the number one thing.

“I’m going to fuck you, I promise. I know you want my cock. Patience, Chere.”

He kept using my name, rubbing in the fact that he knew it while I didn’t know his. Worse, he kept insulting me. What the fuck? I was Miss Kitty, whore extraordinaire, and he was paying dearly for the privilege of being with me. I wasn’t used to being mocked by clients. I tried to think of some equally cutting response, but I didn’t know where to aim. His confidence seemed all-consuming. If only he was ugly. If only he was toadlike, I could deal with him so much more easily. Maybe he was. I didn’t fucking know!

“Can I please take this thing off my eyes and look at you?”

“No.”

I could pretend he was ugly and toadlike, but somehow I knew he wasn’t. He wouldn’t talk and act this way if he wasn’t beautiful as sin.

“What do you look like?” I pleaded.

He sighed, long and loud. “You’re not getting what you want, Chere. You don’t get to know what I look like. You don’t get to know my name. You don’t get anything but what I want to give you. Cock, yes. But first, a little pain.”

“I don’t like pain!”

“Good.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “It’s more exciting to me if you don’t like it. But don’t worry, I won’t do anything to you that you can’t bear.”

My whine triggered answering laughter. He liked that I hated this. He wanted to give me
cock
and
pain
. Sicko. Henry was going to hear about this crazy fuck, and Mr. W wasn’t ever going to date an escort in this town again.

“No one ever hurts you?” he asked. “None of your clients?”

He was stroking my leg again, and my pussy.
Ahhh.
Fuck. “No one hurts me like this,” I said. “No one zip ties me to chairs and cuts apart my favorite outfit.”

“Does anyone ever hurt your breasts?”

I jumped as he slapped first one and then the other, and pinched my nipples between vicious fingers. I tried to writhe away. “Oww! No. No one ever does that.”

“I’m doing it.”

“Fuck you.” The expletive popped out, because my nipples
really
hurt.

“
Fuck you, Sir
sounds more polite.”

“Oh, God, stop, please.”

He stopped, but my nipples went on aching. He got up and started rummaging again. I hated that rummaging sound. I hated him.

No, that’s a lie. I was excited. And scared shitless of what might come next.

“Let’s try this,” he said, moving closer to me. He grabbed my breasts, or more accurately, my nipples, pinching each one between his fingertips. It felt bad and good at the same time, thrilling and sexy and yet threatening as he pulled and tugged at them. He let go, and I felt a brush of fingertips. Then I felt the most excruciatingly acute pain, like hot metal skewers being poked into the tender tips of my breasts. While I flailed in my zip-tie bonds, he held me down and afflicted my other nipple with the same ungodly pain.

“What did you do to me?” I screeched. It felt like he’d pierced my nipples, which was so, so against the client rules. “Ow, fuck.
Oww.
Oh, God, am I bleeding?”

He chuckled. “I only put nipple clamps on you. You’ve never worn nipple clamps? Aren’t you a prostitute?”

Oh yeah, I’d worn nipple clamps before—the sparkly, decorative ones that barely pinched. “It hurts. You put mega clamps on me. I’ll have to go to the hospital.”

“They’re just clamps. I’ll take them off in ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes!”

“The pain will be more bearable by then. Of course, as soon as I take them off, you’ll feel a totally different kind of pain, which is part of the fun.”

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, motherfucker.

“I told you, Chere. I won’t do anything you can’t bear. Hey, that rhymes.”

Motherfucker was rhyming while my nipples screamed in agony. Moving made it worse, so I sat as still as I could, rigid and trembling.

“God, that’s beautiful,” he said in a soft voice. “I’m a sadist, as you might have guessed. I like hurting women, but only as much as they can bear. I don’t break them. Well, not very often.”

Oh, that was comforting.

“Can’t you make me feel good at the same time?” I asked. My pussy was wet as anything. It was clenching as hard as the damn nipple clamps. Where was his cock? I wanted him to put it in me and get himself off, because once the clients got off, the scene was usually over.
Please, God, don’t tell me this guy plans to torture me for the whole two hours.

I heard a zipper going down, clothes hitting the floor.
Thank you, God.
I felt his cock against my lips, and the tang of a candy-flavored condom. My hands made fists as I opened wide. And wider. Jesus. He had a big fucking cock.

“That’s right,” he said as I moaned at his entry. “What a professional. And a cock works great as a gag in a pinch,” he added, tweaking one of my aching nipples.

In a pinch. Ha, perverted and funny.

He drove straight for the back of my throat. When I resisted, he grabbed my hair and made me take it anyway. I protested, making huffing noises when I came up for air.

“You’re not allowed to kill me,” I gasped.

“I’m not killing you.”

“You shouldn’t— We haven’t negotiated anything. Not nipple clamps, not scissors, not deep throati—”

He shoved his cock back in before I could finish my sentence, and I choked and teared up behind my blindfold.

Okay, I could survive this. I’d sucked a lot of cocks, all sizes. I’d had a lot of men shove deep into my throat in the throes of passion. It happened all the time, but I wasn’t usually blindfolded and bound.

Still, in some sick way I wanted to please him. I wanted to make it good for him, and I swear to God, I usually don’t care that much. I mean, I care about getting the client off, because that means we’re finished, but I don’t usually
care
.

He didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t physically capable of saying anything. I felt powerless in a way I’d never experienced before. I got the feeling he wasn’t fucking my face because it felt good for him, but because it felt scary for me. He yanked my hair when I tried to lean away from him, pulled it so hard I yelled, at which point he shoved his cock right back into my open mouth. He was so badass, so good at this. My throat hurt. My hair hurt. My nipples were killing me.

I wondered what he looked like. I wondered so hard.

I started to drool and imagined it dripping down onto my cut-open blouse. I couldn’t stop the drooling any more than I could stop the tears leaking out of my eyes behind the leather mask.

When I was sure I couldn’t bear for him to drive into my throat one more time, he pulled out. I felt his shoulders against my knees as he crouched to free my ankles. Snip, snip, goodbye zip ties.
Okay, fuck me now. Please be quick.

But I knew he wouldn’t be quick. He liked playing with women. He enjoyed tormenting them. I’d learned over the years to read clients like books. The title of W’s book was
Take It, Bitch.

He removed the clamps next, then grabbed my thighs, yanked my legs apart, and tilted me back in the chair. While my previously-numb nipples came alive with the biting pain of re-invigoration, he drove inside me balls deep.

And I can’t say how, or why, but after he drove into me two or three times, I experienced the most powerful orgasm of my life. It was a shaking, twisting, sobbing,
protesting
orgasm, because there was no way I enjoyed this. There was no way that pain and pleasure could mix so exquisitely, while he filled me up with his rough, thick cock. No way. Oh God,
yessss…

His mocking laughter barely registered as I gritted my teeth and rode out the aftershocks. I was lifted out of the chair and carried, still impaled, still orgasming, across the room. He pushed me back and I braced to hit the floor, but I landed on the bed. He came over me, driving my bound hands down into the mattress. I fought to escape him; my pussy felt too hot and sensitive to have him inside. But the more I fought him, the more powerfully he fucked me.

“I want you to come again,” he said.

I shook my head. I was still recuperating from the previous orgasm, still trying to deny the scintillating pleasure lighting up every nerve.

“Yes,” he said in his commanding voice. “Again. This isn’t over until you do what I want.”

“I can’t come again.”

“Why not? You like pain. You like force. You like getting your throat fucked.”

“No!”

He was wrong. I didn’t like those things. I was Miss Kitty. Meow. I liked being petted. I liked pretty things. I liked calm, sensual encounters where sex-starved men worshipped me and eased their cocks into me and contentedly got off.

Unlike them, he was intense. Demanding. His cock invaded me while his fingers played over my clit. I may have mentioned this earlier...he knew his way around a clit. He used the perfect touch, not too hard—because I was still sensitive—but not too soft. I threw my head back and shook it back and forth.
Meow, motherfucker. This is not me.

But that didn’t matter, because I was going to come again. My pussy felt like a living, blooming thing, like it had been dead all these years and he’d just now brought it to life. He was the Resurrection Man. Or the Erection Man.

I writhed on the bed, trying to fight him, because when I fought him, it felt that much more exciting.

“Come on. Come again, damn it.” He slapped me, a firm, stinging crack across my cheek. It hurt way more than the first time he’d slapped my face. It also made my second orgasm explode.

I think I cried
nooo
, but he said
yes
, and kept a grip on my shaking thighs. It occurred to me that I was experiencing the most powerful climax of my life, and I still had no idea who was inside me, or what he looked like, or why the hell he found it necessary to slap my face.

While I pondered this craziness, he cupped my cheeks, put his fingers right over the place he’d slapped me, and kissed me.

My pussy still pulsed around his cock, and now his lips were on mine and his tongue was in my mouth, and my hands were bound behind my back, and it was like he was inside me everywhere, making me feel more female and excited and sexual than I’d ever felt in my life. In my dark, blind world, his pleasure and scent transformed me. His rough kisses grounded me, but made me feel like I was flying at the same time. I didn’t want the blindfold off anymore. I wanted it on. I wanted to hide and exist in this world forever.

I trembled while he came, because he fucked me so intensely. He didn’t make any sound at all, just ground against me and pressed his cheek to mine. I felt completely possessed by his fucking, and strangely pleased that he came so hard.

Fuck.
I lay still, breathless, satisfied, knowing there might be more, but not really caring.
Whatever. I’m yours. Whatever your name is, whatever you look like.