Debt Page 3

  “I am going to move my hand from your face, but don’t fucking scream. You scream and I will fuck you up. Do you understand?” he asks. His voice is deep and rich; it sends chills through my core. Not of terror, but arousal. I haven’t gotten a good look at him, but just his stature, strength, smell, and voice scream masculinity. Dominance. Ferocity. The things I tried to find but never could. I already feel in this moment a blazing in my core that I have never felt before and he’s barely done anything. Goosebumps raise on my arms and neck, my nipples tingle against the fabric of my tank.

  I nod my head frantically. He slowly slides away his hand.

  He’s here. I can say the word. I can scream it, but I don’t have to do it yet. I can do it at any point.

  And right now, for some inexplicable reason, I don’t want to.

  And that’s when I feel the thick rock-hardness pressing on my backside. I haven’t been with a man in so long, and there is something primal about this encounter. The way this massive man stands above me, his scent, the baritone of his voice, the feeling of his desire for me pressing into my back. There are no pleasantries, no small talk, it’s a man who wants to fuck a woman. Not just fuck her, but take her.

  I hold onto the safeword, it makes me feel safe. It reminds me that I still have ultimate control. But right now, at this moment, I want more.

  I press my ass against him, and crane my neck back. His firm grip on me loosens as I spin to face him.

  The glow of the fridge light casts on him and gives me a shadowy view of the mysterious stranger: he is as tall as I estimated, and he is well-dressed, in a black tailored suit with a white shirt, no tie. Through the unbuttoned top of the shirt, I can tell he is muscled. But I can’t see his face, because it’s covered in a ski mask. All I can see are two dark eyes staring back at me and two full lips peeking through the mouth hole.

  There is a moment of stillness. It may have only been a second, but the adrenaline makes everything feel fast and slow at the same time. Tentatively, I reach out to touch the mask and his large hand snaps up and snatches my wrist painfully, twisting it.

  “Ahhh,” I call out in pain. But the pain is fleeting, it’s more of a reminder than it is meant to hurt.

  “Shut the fuck up,” he says coarsely.

  And I do. I don’t say a word, but our heavy breathing fills the quiet air of my house.

  The fridge closes with a thud and the entire house goes dark.

  The leather glove slides up my stomach, over my hardened nipple, up my neck and roughly yanks my ponytail.

  Again I call out.

  His other hand covers my mouth. “Shhhhh.”

  The length of his erection presses against my stomach and again, almost involuntarily, I snake against it.

  “Is this what you want? You little fucking whore?”

  I bite my lip. I can stop this, I can make him go away. I can say the word I have rehearsed all week, convinced this was something I absolutely did not want.

  I nod.

  He pushes me against the fridge, the cold stainless steel contrasting with the warmness of his body electrifies me. I mewl, a combination of arousal and passivity to his overwhelming will.

  Then he bites my neck. At first it feels nice, like a love bite, and then he digs in hard, so hard, an alarming pain jolts through my flesh and instinctively, I flail my fists at him. He catches them, and twists them behind my back.

  The spot where he bit radiates with pain, so that I feel his mark on a spot where he isn’t even touching me any longer. The way he branded me with his mouth like that makes me hot. The dark figure drags me to the living room, bumping into a lounge chair as I fight to free my arms, and throws me down on the rug, face first.

  His hand presses on the small of my back to still me as I feel the cold blade touch my flesh. My almost passive acceptance up until this point makes way for defiance as I buck my ass against his crotch. I am surprised that I am able to move his solid mass, a side effect of the adrenaline coursing through my muscles. But he reacts by bearing his weight down on me, rendering me unable to budge. Frustration and anger boil through me. I wonder if I should say the word and end this. They fucked up, betraying my trust by bringing the implement I banned. Images of slits on my skin and blood pervade my thoughts and I gasp for oxygen, choking on panic, unable to push out air to form a word. Finally, a sound emerges from my throat.

  Just as I am about to scream something about knives, I hear the threads of my tank tearing as the stretchy material snaps away from my body, the knife cutting through it like warm butter.

  The drafty air runs over my exposed skin and in that moment I realize this is really happening. I am drunk, face down, and topless with a stranger I paid to fuck me. This is arriving at a point that I cannot simply write off as poor judgment, curiosity, or even a few glasses of wine. I am making a clear decision if I don’t put this to an end.

  But I still don’t want him to stop.

  He rolls me over on my back, my eyes have adjusted to the darkness and the street light sifting through the windows gives me another view of him. His suit jacket is now gone, and I have a better view of his body: the strong v-taper of his wide shoulders and narrow waist. His collarbone is chiseled and prominent. It’s not a feature I ever noticed on a man, let alone found sexy, until I notice his.

  He straddles me, heaving like a beast in heat, and it awakens a surge of tingling warmth that emanates from between my legs. The pressure builds. I need to be touched, to be relieved of the tension that is blooming from this area to the rest of my body.

  I reach out for his belt, accepting my role in this whole thing, and again he grabs my wrists. There is another moment of stillness, as I wait for what he will do to me, and then he slams my hands on the floor above me. He collects my wrists into one hand, while reaching down to my breasts, firmed with arousal, and pinches my nipple.

  I moan and gyrate my hips in response. I want his mouth on me. And I want him to remove the fucking mask.

  “Stay still,” he commands, squeezing hard on my wrists. I wince in pain, but it only makes me more sensitive to the brewing erotic warmth below my bellybutton.

  “Please, suck them,” I beg submissively. And instantly, I realize the other component that makes this so fucking hot: Yes it’s the primal, animalistic abandon of it all, but it’s also the anonymity: I can say whatever I want, because I don’t care what he thinks of me.

  He makes a throaty sound. One of hesitation. Tiff saw the face of her attacker, and I want to see mine. “I want your mouth on me. Without the mask,” I beg. “You can do whatever,” I say, my voice quivering from a vague sense of fear and an intense arousal. It’s me surrendering to his will.

  He leans over me, his hand still pinning my arms to the floor, his bodyweight straddled over mine, and there is just a hollow silence in the dark house. But after a few tense seconds, my ears train on the sound of our breathing, my eyes scan the outline of our chests, nearing and distancing with each inhale and exhale. It’s an a cappella song of sexual intensity and fear.

  Then without warning, he thrusts the mask up, wearing it like a hat, so that I can make out some of his face. It’s shadowy and hard for me to get a clear view, but I can tell he’s striking: an angled jawline, full lips, a Roman nose. My eyes wander down to his neck and the large, colorful neck tattoo that seems to pierce through the darkness of the room. A jumble of snakes, they come to life as the cords of his neck muscles tense and relax. Before my eyes can focus any further, he dives down, mouthing my breasts, his stubble scratching against my soft skin. He bites me again so that I writhe against him, both fighting and receiving him.

  “Fuck!” I call out. His mouth is all over my torso, savagely kissing, biting, consuming. I can’t tell what stings and what pleases me as he mixes softness with savagery.

  I want it so much that my body fights him, again trying to buck him off of me. I know it’s pointless, but I want him closer, I want his body on my body. Every action of mine receives an
equal but opposite reaction. The more I fight, the closer he gets.

  His body presses against mine, rendering me helpless, but I don’t feel helpless because I chose this. Despite what I told myself this week, a part of me that had been hiding, tucked away by civility and propriety, had the guts to break out. I tried to put her back in hiding, but this man on top of me is dragging her out, kicking and screaming. I want this big, rough man, taking my body for his pleasure.

  He pulls both of his hands away from me to unbutton my jeans and then he reaches for the knife. My eyes grow with fear. Do I say the safeword? Do I remind him that I requested no knives in the survey?

  I choose to wait it out a few more seconds and see what he will do. Now that the knife has already been used, it isn’t as threatening as it was in the mental images I had created. In fact, in this darkness, it glints, reflecting the amber light of the street lamps. Ironically, the most sinister tool is the only source of light between us. He slides the flat side of the knife under the open crotch of my jeans and then turns the blade up and out, cutting through the denim. Once there is a slash, he takes his two strong hands and rips the jeans effortlessly, tearing the fabric away from my body and exposing me to him.

  A flimsy piece of lace is now the only barrier between me and this intoxicating stranger. He uses the knife to pluck at the two strings securing the thong to my hips. They snap away effortlessly and he balls up the panties in his hand and squeezes my cheeks roughly.

  “Open your mouth.”

  I relax my jaw, as he uses his leather-covered hand to shove my panties into my mouth. It’s almost too much: the filth, the excitement, the trepidation. It’s like I am teetering on the edge of a building and losing my balance. It’s that heightened feeling of terror and excitement you feel as you fight to keep your footing, except, while that feeling usually lasts just a second or two, this is persistent and unrelenting.

  My eyes are again drawn to his tattoo as the pit of snakes wriggle on his neck. I want to bite him, I want to kiss him, but he won’t let me touch him.

  “Don’t move your fucking hands,” he says. I haven’t moved them since he pinned them overhead. His message was loud and clear long before he had to utter the words.

  I watch in heady, adrenaline-fueled lust as he pulls open his belt, and the leather-clad hand reaches in to pull out his cock. I catch myself gasping at its outline in the shadowy living room: it’s thick and long. This much I expected from rubbing up against him, but the shaft is smooth and symmetrical, the head is thick and pretty. It’s...beautiful. And it curves up. My god, it curves.

  I am an expert in creating toys to please females, and if there was ever a cock created by the hands of god to maximize a woman’s pleasure, it’s the one being held by the leather glove in front of me.

  He reaches down and grabs me by my ponytail, pulling me to a seated position. He glides the panties out of my mouth, like a magician would.

  “Lick it.”

  I hesitate, my head spinning from the constant level change, reminding me that I am still very drunk. He still holds his hard dick in his hand, just in front of my lips. With each deep breath I take, they graze his head before my mouth shrinks away from it. He tightens his grip on my hair, jerking my head ever so slightly in silent insistence.

  Until this point, this was a violent dance, with the stranger taking the lead. But that’s all it was. If I do what he asks—tells—me to do, I will forever be a different Mia. As open as I consider myself to be about my sexuality, I have also always been very responsible. This was more than irresponsible, this was reckless, this was careless...I would never see myself the same way again.

  I had moved inch by inch, starting with even keeping the card that Tiff handed me the night she told me about the service. And now, I look back to that day and I realize I am already miles away from the person who scoffed at the idea. Like bobbing in an ocean current, I had drifted into this man’s ferocious grip, and I didn’t even really feel myself moving. I am already here, so far away from someone who wouldn’t consider taking this man in my mouth. There is no going back.

  And then hesitantly, but obediently, I faintly stick my tongue out right at the very tip of his cock, and I taste the fluid of his arousal lingering on its tip.

  With each lick I am a little more generous. And he becomes greedier.

  “Suck it, bitch.”

  I snarl at that word. I hate that fucking word and he keeps using it against me. But the anger, it makes me more heated, more wanton, and I find myself pursing my lips around him. I’ll show him a bitch, he’ll be moaning my name. His hands reach back and his fingers comb through my hair, leading my head at the pace he wants.

  He wants. But I want too, so I suck vigorously, passionately, because I want to tempt him to give me more.

  The scent of his groin, a faint mix of soap and his natural pheromones make my pussy swell with need.

  I am all in.

  He guides my hands up, giving me permission to use them on his cock and balls. I cup and massage his balls with one hand as I use the other on his shaft.

  His mouth is closed, but raspy groans escape the back of his throat and I fear he might release before I have had any satisfaction.

  I pull away. I know he will anger, but I don’t care.

  I look straight into his dark eyes, soulless caverns, and I beg without saying a word.

  “You want me to fuck you,” he replies. It’s not really a question, it’s more of a confirmation.

  I don’t say anything, but I continue to plead with my eyes.

  He smirks, a smug, cocky smirk. Then he shoves my mouth back onto him and I continue licking, sucking, rubbing. He fucks my face with no concern for my comfort, shoving himself to the back of my throat. The ferocity only makes me desire his cock in my pussy even more. Then he pulls out of my mouth. He’s going to fuck me, but on his terms.

  He places his cool leather hands on my inner thighs and angrily pushes them apart. My initial reaction is to resist, a sheer reflex to the force of his movement, but my inner thigh muscles relent to his strength almost instantly. His face disappears below as I feel his tongue slide inside of me. I moan loudly, my legs react by trying to wrap around him, but he clamps down on my inner thighs with his fingers and the sensitive nerves in that area scream in pain.

  I mew like a cat in heat, as the alarming pain dulls into warm waves of wetness from my pussy. I can feel myself readying, but it’s more than readying, it’s as though my pussy is willing him, inviting him with slick warmth.

  The dark stranger runs a flat tongue up my entire opening, lapping up the juice he has summoned from my body. I shudder from the overwhelming eroticism of the act, the way he is tasting the fruits of his complete tyranny over my body.

  Then he eats me, with abandon, like someone who has thirsted for me for so long and is finally able to quench himself.

  It’s been so long since I have had the warmth of someone’s mouth on my pussy, and this feeling, this level of arousal and passion and heat is something I have never experienced. I bellow like an animal, with no name to call out, no true identity to ascribe to the person whose mouth engulfs my pussy. We aren’t even people, we are just sex. That is all we are to each other.

  He sucks on my clit, and though I am not supposed to, my hands reach down to him, squeezing the fabric of the ski mask that rests on his head as an explosion of relief and energy erupts from my clit. Pulses of electric warmth roll away from my core like a shattering earthquake.

  I call out horrible, filthy words as my hips thrust against his face. His tongue and lips continue to dance along my pussy as each wave becomes fainter.

  “We’re not fucking done.” His words vibrate into my sensitive flesh.

  Thank god. I need to feel that beautiful cock inside of me.

  He pulls me up to my knees, and I fall forward into his chest. It’s like a wall, and it reminds me how vulnerable I am. He handles me like I am a doll, like I have no substance, just useless fil
ling.

  Maybe that is what I am to him: a living, breathing sex toy.

  My eyes trail up to the tattoo and for some stupid reason, I try to kiss it.

  My neck is whipped back by a firm tug on my ponytail. “This is my last warning. Do not kiss me and keep your hands to yourself.”

  He stands and brings me to my feet by my ponytail, dragging me to my couch. The couch where just two weeks ago, Tiff told me about her experience. The stranger throws me face-first onto it, so that I am on my knees, my chest resting against the backrest.

  His hands roughly pull on my hips to prop my ass out. His swollen head rubs up and down my slippery slit. I bite my lips and scrunch my face from the agony of his teasing. I stopped thinking about the fact that this is a rape-for-hire as soon as my tongue lapped up his precum. I stopped considering using the safe word as soon as he put his mouth on my mound. All logic, common sense, and morality has escaped my thoughts.

  My house is a pit of snakes right now, like the tattoo on his neck.

  His fingers rake through the base of my ponytail. “Beg for it, you little slut.”

  My chest quivers. How did this happen? How am I here, begging my fake rapist to fuck me? But he’s got me in a corner: I can feel the warmth of his head resting against the hypersensitive lips of my pussy; the muscles of my inner walls clench around emptiness begging to be filled. My body won’t let me stop.

  But, I hesitate. How much more can he taunt me and degrade me? I have been thrown around, called a bitch, a slut, my clothes have been torn, bite marks linger on my skin.

  He slides it up and down again, slowly, teasing and enticing me.

  All of my muscles melt, almost dissolving me into a puddle on the couch as I purr. He pulls my hair again, awakening all of my muscles, making me taut and ready to receive his violence.

  His stubble flares the nerve endings on my cheek and his lips caress the curve of my ear, “I said beg.” His fist grips at the roots of my hair painfully.

  A throbbing deep inside of me stubbornly insists on release. It’s no longer a desire. It has become a need, absolving me of the burden of free will.