Obsession - Girl Abducted (17 page)
windpipe. His mouth trailed down to her breasts, which he lightly suckled and licked. Emily lay back, her eyes closed, enjoying the sweet sensation of such rare gentleness. She knew it would probably be followed with something rough, something painful, but right now she didn't care. He smelled so good, that hint of sandalwood and oranges. Emily remembered vaguely having heard that if you liked a man's smell, really liked it, you might be in love with him.
Supposedly, it was the love that made him smell good to you, or you fell in love because of the smell. She wasn't sure which way it was supposed to be. But it made sense, in a way.
Some primeval attraction based on smell that said, yes, this is the right one for me.
As he trailed down her abdomen, tickling her with butterfly kisses, Emily wondered, do I love this man? As his mouth found her pussy, and his hot, lovely tongue began to tickle and taste her she forgot the answer, she forgot the question.
Ahhh, was all she thought, as she fell back, enslaved by his gentleness as thoroughly as by his lash.
He tongued her clit as his fingers found her entrance, sending little shocks of pleasure and heat through her. His mouth was melting her with pleasure. It was so delicious, she wished it would last forever. As the tide of her orgasm rose inside her she gasped, "Please, oh! Mark, sir, may I—" Her request was aborted by his fingers moving inside her like a cock, thrusting with perfect timing as he sucked on her hard little clit. She knew she had to try, and from somewhere inside she found the breath to say, "...come?"
He didn't answer but she could no longer control herself, as she spilled over the edge of consciousness into blinding ecstasy. Mark continued to kiss her, fucking her with his fingers as she spasmed helplessly against him.
Emily's heart was pounding, the blood rushing to her head.
She wanted him to stop now, to let her rest and recover herself. But he didn't stop. Nor had he said she could come.
What should she do? Dare she admit that she came before he expressly said yes? But surely he knew that. There was no way to hide the pounding heart, the jagged breathing, the mottled flush on her neck and chest. He knew.
He knew and yet he continued, kissing and touching her as if he wanted more from her. She felt a wave of nausea sweep over her as his tongue paid too much attention to her over-stimulated body. She wanted to push him away, to close her legs. She wanted to, but she didn't dare. To push him away might lead to the whip, the cane, or worse, the cage. She moaned, low and feral, as the nausea began to shift into something less unpleasant. She felt a burning heat sizzling in her veins. Somehow she had come out on the other side of the sick feeling, and found herself responding again with pleasure, with intensity, to his continued heated attentions.
The sound of her breathing filled the room, each exhalation accompanied by a sigh or a moan. She was no longer Emily.
She was no longer enslaved or captive. She was sex. Raw sex. A cunt. Nothing but a cunt—her whole being centered on that hot, wet, sticky part of herself.
Vaguely, from a distance she heard someone screaming.
Her whole body was exploding—she saw stars whirling in
front of her eyelids. Who was screaming? She fell back, pushing his head away, unaware that she was doing so. She was unexpectedly strong as she wrested him from her, pushed him away, closing herself from any further stimulation.
The screaming had stopped but her heart was loud, roaring in her ears, hammering on her bones. She fell back and let the swirling mist cover her. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafted into her mind as the harem girls opened their slender arms to take her into their silken embrace.
CHAPTER Ten
Emily lay sprawled, her pussy open like a sticky wilted orchid. Her eyes had fluttered shut and her breathing had slowed. Mark gazed at her lovely naked body, her full luscious lips, her dark lashes shadowing her cheeks. "I love you," he whispered, so softly it might not have been spoken aloud.
She had responded with such intensity, such abandonment, to him. But was it to him? After all, what choice did she have? He owned her. He had stolen her. And if sometimes she almost seemed happy to be with him and content with her lot, what did that mean? She was his prisoner, with absolutely no choice in the matter.
Until recently, this had suited Mark. What did he care if his true love was there under duress? How else could he have possibly gotten her? The famous Emily Hunter would never have looked twice at some computer geek from nowhere. And even if by some miracle she had gone out with him, assuming he ever got near enough to her to even speak to her, she wouldn't have let him do what he wanted.
And what he wanted, no, what he demanded, was complete and utter submission. Certainly, she wouldn't have offered that, so it had to be wrested from her. It had to be claimed. She had to be taught. And hadn't he taught her well?
She obeyed him in almost everything now, as quickly and demurely as possible.
When she did disobey or fail to please him, he punished her soundly. She knew she deserved it—she never
complained or begged to be set free, like she had in the beginning. And why should she? She was adored. She was worshipped. In fact, that was the irony, now that he thought about it. He was the master and she was the slave, yet
he
worshipped
her
! He could kidnap her, control her body, demand her compliance, but he couldn't force her to love him.
Just the thought made him feel angry and impotent. What would be enough? He had pierced her cunt, he had marked her flesh with welts. He controlled what and when she ate—he even fed her. He bathed her, he groomed her, he watched as she peed in the bathtub, he watched her sleeping in his arms.
He could shave her head if he wanted to. He could put her in the cage and leave her there until she died if he wanted to.
He had complete and utter control over this woman. Yet, he wasn't satisfied. What more did he want? How far did he have to go until he would feel safe? For that was really it, wasn't it?
He would never feel safe, because she could never prove her love for him with her servitude. Precisely because it was forced. Precisely because he had taken her against her will. It wasn't a love freely given. It didn't belong to him. He had stolen it.
Mark felt his rage spreading like a poison in his veins, even though he knew it was an impossible situation. Because it was too painful, his mind shifted suddenly as he stared down at the sleeping young woman before him. The bitch had come before he said she could! And not only that, she came again, without even bothering to ask!
She would pay for that. She was nothing but a slut. Very well, he would treat her like one. Mark roused Emily with a sharp smack to her cheek. "Wake up, slut! You took your pleasure, without permission and now you will submit to mine! You act like a whore, squealing and moaning as you come. I'll teach you to be a lady! First, to shut that pretty little mouth for a while, we'll put this on."
Emily had been startled out of her endorphin-induced languor by his hand. She sat up, pulling her knees up to her chest, hiding her face. Mark yanked her head back and roughly forced the red ball between her teeth. He buckled the device around her head, more tightly than usual, forcing her jaws even wider apart. Emily was trembling, but she didn't fight him. When Mark was in one of these dark moods she tried to stay as still and obedient as possible. She had known she would pay for her pleasure. Fearfully she wondered how heavy that price would be.
Mark pulled Emily to her feet. He led her to the kitchen and roughly forced her to kneel beside him. He ate the dinner he had prepared for both of them but he offered her nothing.
How could she eat with a gag in her mouth anyway? She looked down, trying not to pay attention to the hunger pangs in her stomach. Her mouth watered against the ball gag as the smell of roasted chicken and potatoes assailed her nostrils. It was difficult to swallow the saliva.
When Mark was done, he lifted her again to her feet. He led her into the cellar, which could only mean one thing—the bar. Emily hated the bar. It cut into her pussy and ass and made her feel as if she were being split in two. Mark made
quick work of securing her wrists above her head to the chain in the ceiling. She was able to grasp the chains between clenched fists as he did so, in an effort to take some of the weight off her pussy. He raised the bar between her legs, ratcheting it up quickly until it lifted her by her sex off the ground.
Emily moaned behind the gag but her cries were muffled and Mark ignored them. "Since you are so focused on your cunt, that's where the punishment will focus as well. You stole two orgasms from me, slut. Now you'll pay me back." The pressure of the bar, holding her up by her spread cunt, was almost more than Emily could bear. But bear it she did.
She was distracted when Mark approached with a cane.
Her eyes filled with tears, pleading silently for mercy. "Those gorgeous tits should suffer too. The cut of this cane will remind you to ask permission for your pleasure next time, won't it?" Emily closed her eyes, tightly gripping the chain above her head. "Answer me!"
Slowly she nodded and down came the rod, instantly welting her soft flesh. He marked her with three swishing lashes of the cane on each breast. Emily sagged in her chains, her full weight now on her cunt, her hands limp. As he continued to welt the flesh of the woman he claimed to adore above all things, Emily drifted away, unable to handle the ferocious beating. When he finally dropped the white cane, Emily was not aware. She was far away, lost in cinnamon fantasy and silken dreams.
When Mark finally let her down, Emily fell forward, barely conscious. She lay almost lifeless in his arms as he carried
her to the bedroom. He knelt by the side of the bed, massaging her arms and legs—the flesh still cold and unresponsive under his hands. Emily's eyes were closed.
"Emily, hey. Hey, wake up." Had he left her there too long? Had he gone too far? But, thank God, she opened her eyes and smiled at him with one side of her mouth, that wonderful slightly lopsided smile that always filled his heart.
"You're gonna be fine. You just need a little massaging to get the blood flowing. I have a nice warm bath ready for you.
That will make it all better."
He loved soothing her, pampering her, washing away the wounds and the pain he himself had inflicted on her. It was what she needed, and what he craved. To torture and then to succor—a perfect, self-contained circle of love. Carefully he helped his slave girl into the tub and then sat back, watching her relax into the fragrant heat. He handed her a glass of ice water, which she drank before handing him the empty glass.
He had also brought in a bottle of red wine and two glasses.
He opened the bottle and set it aside for the moment.
Leaning over her, Mark gently washed her bruised, welted breasts with a soft cloth. She seemed to be in a daze, lost in her own world. "What are you thinking?" he asked.
"Me?" She looked surprised by the question. He nodded, waiting. Would she tell the truth? Would he know the difference? Slowly she said, "I have this dream. This place I seem to go to when—" she stopped, her eyes suddenly fearful.
"Tell me. I asked you. I won't punish you for your answer, no matter what it is. I promise."
She took a breath and continued. "When it's too much, when I can't take the pain, I sort of—leave. In my head, I mean. I have this dream about a harem. Dancing girls in silky flowing skirts. I go there and I'm one of them. It always smells lovely there—like cinnamon and exotic spices." She swallowed and pressed her lips together, looking down into the soapy water.
"What is it?"
"I'm talking too much," she whispered. He realized she had said more in that last few moments than she had in a week.
He liked hearing her talk—her voice was low and sexy, its cadence soothing. Why had he forbidden her to speak unless spoken to? Why did he wish to hear her now? Whatever the reason, he did.
"I'll tell you if it's too much. Go on. I like listening to you."
He poured her a glass of wine, as well as one for himself. She drank deeply and set the glass on the edge of the tub.
Perhaps emboldened by the alcohol she said in nearly a whisper, "I was also thinking that I like how you smell."
"How I smell?"
"Yes, like oranges and something woodsy—like sandalwood." She was biting her lip nervously, looking at him with uncertainty. Mark felt something inside of him shift and soften. It touched him on some profound level to know she liked his scent. He adored hers—rainwater sweetness with a hint of rose. He found himself unwilling to dwell too much on her comment. He would save it to think about later.
"Let's get you out of that tub so you can eat something.
You must be starving."
The idea had slowly been forming itself into his mind for some time now. He had done extensive research on the Internet into the process. He had come up with a design. He had begun to practice on raw chicken breasts. Today he was going out for a lesson with the body designer, as the fellow had called himself.
The design was simple—it was based on the two oval links that held Emily's wrist and ankle bracelets together. He had thought of doing something with his initials, but that seemed too obvious. Mark had purchased eighteen gauge galvanized sheet metal, which he had cut with tin snips. He had made several models, trying to get it just right. He practiced with the initial models, using a pair of large insulated pliers to hold the molded tin in the propane torch. He had to practice several times to determine the proper heating point of the metal. It turned red hot for a moment, then faded back to its original silver, keeping its shape beautifully. Practicing to determine just the right amount of heating, he pressed the tin against the flesh of the chicken again and again. After a number of tries, when the metal just reached the red point, he pressed it against the raw flesh, not too hard, but firmly, lifting it a moment later.