I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve anything now except to waste away here, to decay into my surroundings until there’s nothing left. Others might call it self-pity, but I know it for what it truly is.
The punishment I deserve.
I’m hard, my cock pressed against my belly, straining with the need for release. A few nights ago, I woke from a dream of Anastasia with my thighs sticky with cum, my efforts to keep myself from any pleasure forfeited by my body’s needs. It was only enough to keep my lust at bay for a little while—I’ve denied myself for too long, and now I’m aching again, desperate for more. I have no one else here but me now, no one else broken except myself. There’s no one left to tease, to touch, to torment, or punish.
I don’t need to reach for the picture—it’s burned clearly into my mind’s eye by now—but I do anyway. I fumble for my bedside drawer with one hand, my other wrapping around my cock, a tortured groan tearing from my lips at the simple pleasure of flesh touching flesh. Even knowing that I won’t allow myself release, my thighs are already tensing, my toes curling in anticipation, and my balls heavy and aching. I slide my hand down to cup them, moaning—
A heavy banging on my door brings me up short, freezing in place as I resist the urge to curl in on myself in the bed. It comes again immediately, and I let go of my throbbing cock, gritting my teeth with rising irritation.It must be carolers or some shit like that,I think angrily, frustrated at being roused from my rituals of self-torment.Fuck off.
I lay there for a moment more, hoping they’ll get the hint and leave, but the banging comes again. It’s more insistent this time, and I fling my covers back, grabbing the robe crumpled on the floor and throwing it on before I stalk out into the hall and down the stairs.
“Fuck off!” I shout, vocalizing the thought that rings through my head every bit as loudly as Christmas bells, and I hear the knocking once more as I reach the bottom of the stairs.
“For fuck’s sake—” I throw open the door, ready to drive away whoever is on my doorstep with a growl and a few angry curses, when I come up short, freezing in place.
There are no carolers on my doorstep. Instead, what I see is very different.
There’s a vision kneeling in front of my door. A woman like the one out of the old fairytale, with hair black as night, skin pale as snow, lips red as blood. Even with her eyes covered in a red silk blindfold, I can see she’s stunning, dressed in red silk and lace lingerie—a corset that covers her breasts, pushing them up to their best effect despite their small size, her pale skin showing through the panels of lace that go down to her hips. She’s covered there by red silk panties, but only just, her legs in stockings that cling to her thighs, a red lace garter belt holding them up. Her feet are bare except for the stockings, and over all of it is green silk rope binding her wrists and ankles, around her slim throat and waist, down between the apex of her thighs, where I can see now that the panties are split in a thin slit, the knotted rope pressed directly against her pussy.
My erection had begun to fade, but it comes back instantly at full strength, so hard that it feels like my cock might break if I touched it. The ache is almost unbearable, and I have a sudden, visceral image of grabbing a fistful of her dark hair, nudging my robe aside, and plunging my throbbing length between her red lips.
She looks as if she’s been gift-wrapped in an elaborate Japanese shibari design. I have a hint of who has sent her here before I even reach for the red envelope dangling from the rope coiled around her throat like a collar. I’ve only experienced something like this once before, at an opulent party thrown by Kaito Nakamura, where there was an array of women tied in various shibari designs, all positioned in various ways for the pleasure of the men at the party. It was by far the most erotic sight I’d ever seen, the most impressive party I’ve ever been to, and the most times I’ve come in one night—all of which Kaito was very aware of. I have no doubt he kept that in mind when he sent this girl to my doorstep.
A wave of unsettled dizziness washes over me as I reach for the card. Nearly uncontrollable lust wars with my guilt and shame.You don’t deserve this. You can’t have her. You broke your last pet, even more, you lost her, you lost her—the words rattle around my skull, hurting, making me want to scream as I reach for the card with numb fingers, the girl absolutely still in front of me until I tug it away from her neck. When I do, she lets out a muffled, helpless whimper that cuts me to my core, muting my arousal for only a moment as I wonder what state she’s in. She must be drugged, to be kneeling so calmly, and I can see from the bluish tinge to her skin that she must be cold, too.
Instinct takes over, and I reach down, scooping her into my arms.Cruel, cruel!My mind screams at me.Lusting over her while she freezes on your doorstep. Monster. Beast.
Cruel.
Broken.
Monster.
My head hurts. The words feel as if they’re slamming into the inside of my skull, screaming at me. I hold her stiffly as I step inside and kick the door shut, walking down the hall to carry her into a guest room—a different one from the one my little doll lived in. My Ana.
I don’t want to hold this girl too closely. I’m already too aroused by her, and I feel ashamed of it. I’d burned every other picture I owned, every memory of any woman who had ever been here besides Anastasia. I’d been devoted to her, the only woman I truly loved since Margot died. Even after I’d returned, my little doll lost to me, I’d told myself that I was steadfast in that devotion. That if I could not have her, I would have no one.
And yet, just the sight of the shibari-tied stranger on my doorstep has me rock-hard and aching.
Traitor. Monster. Fool.
The girl whimpers again as I lay her down on top of the bed. I can see that she’s very slender and thin with soft curves where her waist nips in, accentuated by the corset. She’s on her side, unable to lay on her back from the way her wrists are tied to her ankles, and I start to fumble with the knots, wanting her untied. As pretty and erotic as the shibari is, I want her to be comfortable more. I feel that tug in my chest again at the thought of her drugged and tied, the need to free her, to protect her.
It reminds me of what I felt at that party in Russia, when I saw Anastasia tied up like a ballerina in a music box on display for the party guests. When I’d been willing to pay any amount of money to take her with me, instead of letting her be thrown to the piranhas that Alexei had planned to sell her to, letting them strip the flesh from her bones.
I don’t know if there’s anything wrong with this one, if she’s broken or damaged in some way. I don’t know why she was given to me. I just know that I can’t leave her bound and helpless any longer.
I yank at the knot on her wrists, and it tugs on another rope, the one that runs from the loop around her waist, between her legs, and connecting to her wrists. The knot in the rope slides between her thighs, and the girl lets out a low, muffled whine that shoots straight to my groin the instant that I realize what’s happening.
The knot is pressing against her clit. She’d been tied to ensure that any movement brought her bursts of pleasure, adding to her drugged state.How long has she been tied like this?I wonder, my cock instantly hard again, slapping against my abdomen with the force of my returning erection.Has she come like this? How many times? Does she know?The thoughts tumble over themselves, my cock throbbing, pre-cum leaking from the tip as I suck in a breath and try to regain control.
I smell the scent of her skin, soft and warm and feminine, the citrus perfume clinging to it and underneath the tang of her arousal. I know then that if I dipped my fingers between her thighs, I’d find her wet, but even my fevered, lust-addled brain knows very well that doesn’t mean she’s willing.
There’s a reason I never touched any of my pets until Anastasia. Why I never tasted them, never forced them to touch me, never fucked any of them. They never trusted me, never wanted me, no matter how much I tried to show that I only wanted to piece them back together. That I only wanted to protect and care for them.
I have never forced a woman. I never could. The image of my stepfather forcing Margot in front of me, again and again, in the barn stall where he found us is burned into my mind for the rest of my days. I still have nightmares about it, even if they’re more often replaced by others these days. Even the thought of taking this girl now, like this, softens my cock, sending a wave of shame through me.
Monster. I don’t deserve her. I deserve nothing but pain. Nothing but darkness.