“No, Sir.”
“Shut up. Did I permit you to speak?”
I shake my head, and I’m swatted hard on the ass with the flat of his palm. It’s such a brutal blow, and such a surprise that I almost lose my footing, but Ares grabs my shoulder and pulls me back. My heart thunders against my ribcage like a frightened bird, desperate to get out. He runs his hand down my abdomen and grasps the clit clamp, tugging its little chain hard, too hard. It slips off. All of the blood in my body rushes to that one little bundle of nerves. My legs threaten to give way, my clit tingles, and my sex tightens. I cry out.
“I love it when you moan, my little whore. It’s painful, and yet so, so sweet, isn’t it? Having all the blood rush back in, sparking those already sensitive nerve endings?”
“Yes, Sir,” I whisper on a moan as he runs his tongue along the curve of my neck and takes my earlobe between his teeth, biting hard.
He fingers the clamp on my left nipple playing with the little crocodile clip, teasing, as always. He pulls one off and then the other, and my breasts ache as the blood rushes back in.
“Walk. Now.” His voice is thick with lust. It wraps around me like a shroud, warm and velvety.
Still, it’s not enough to sooth my aching flesh. “I don’t think I can, Sir.”
He chuckles in my ear. “You’ll be fine, Pet. One foot in front of the other.”
I take the first step, fully aware it’s a step closer toward my own torture. That’s all this is: torture. He won’t let it be anything else.
God, what the hell is wrong with me? He stole me, he abuses me, he does unspeakable things to me . . . and I love it all.
A bird may love its owner, but it will still fly free of its cage if given the choice. I had the choice, and like a fool, I didn’t take it.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, Ares pushes open a huge oak door and ushers me inside. The room is frightening. It looks more like a torture chamber out of the 1800s than a modern-day sex dungeon. There’s a St. Andrew's Cross in the middle of the room, not unlike the one in our room upstairs. A wrought-iron cage sits in the corner, a table to one side with gleaming black leather cuffs for the hands and feet, a sex swing, and several rings bolted into the support beam.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He presses his front against my back, eliminating the space between us. My heart races as I feel his erection through his suit pants.
I shiver. “Will you hurt me in here, Sir?”
“Of course.”
“Will you make me cry?”
“I usually do.”
I steel my jaw, because the way he talks about my pain, my torment, is just cruel. “Then what are you waiting for?”
“An audience,” he whispers, his tongue darting out to lick the space where my shoulder meets my neck. I close my eyes, bring my arm up behind his head, and slide my fingers into his hair as he devours my flesh. My body is electric, on fire, and buzzing with need. His words terrify me, and yet I’ve never been more turned on. “On the cross, little one.”
I drop to my knees and crawl without being told to. Ares makes an appreciative “mmm” sound as I make my way to the solid piece of furniture with an intentional sway to my hips.
“Cock tease,” he says, as he walks to the far wall. I grin and stand, my arms using the cross for support. “No, Pet. I want your cunt facing the room.”
“Y-yes, Sir.” I turn around, dreading the fact that his audience will be privy to everything, because when he’s touching me, I can hide nothing.
“Good girl.” Ares opens a drawer in a huge cabinet. He pulls out several bundles of black rope. My eyes light up. He chuckles, unraveling one of the coils. “My little rope bunny.”
He unfastens the clasps on my lingerie and I step out of it. He crouches down to help free my legs from the leather straps that have tangled up around my ankles. With the lingerie gone, he spreads my legs, leans forward, and licks my pussy. A moan escapes me, and I flinch when he grabs my ankle and places it over his shoulder, sliding his tongue deeper inside me, his mouth eating my pussy as if it were his favorite meal. I buck and writhe against his face.
When I open my eyes, Master Texas and Israel watch us from the doorway.This is his audience? Heat floods my cheeks. I squeeze my thighs together, but Ares pushes them apart again, and when I meet Israel’s gaze, the young man’s eyes burn with ire.
Texas chuckles, his rotund belly bouncing with the movement. “If I’d known you were quite so famished, Master Muerte, I would have offered you more to eat.”
Ares stiffens and glares up at me before wiping my juices from his mouth and chin. “There’s always room for dessert.”
“Indeed,” Texas says, dragging a wing-backed chair from the corner of the room and setting it just a few feet in front of me. Ares straps my ankles into the cuffs at the base of the cross, then he goes to work, binding my breasts with a long length of cool black rope. As I watch him wrap, tie, yank, and tuck, I realize the silken rope is flecked with gold. Some kind of delicate wire. When my breasts are trussed and tied, Ares takes my arms and secures them in the cuffs attached to the top of the cross. I’m spread-eagled, bound, and entirely at his mercy in front of two complete strangers.
“Israel?” Ares glances at the slave kneeling by Texas’s feet. His jaw is set, but his tone is playful. As playful as my mean and unnecessarily cruel Sir gets.