became sex slaves. Much as she needed to concentrate on his hand, to anticipate, she couldn’t shake the chilling image of a terrified woman kneeling before him and begging him not to hurt her.
Barely aware of what she was doing, she closed her legs and dug her heels into the ground. He didn’t stop her from scooting away a little, but neither did he remove his hand, compelling her to cradle it between her hot thighs.
“What are you thinking?” His tone, although commanding, was low.
“About all the things I hate about you,” she threw at him. “Treating a woman like an animal—”
“I’ve never done that.”
Recalling everything he’d put her through so far, she nearly laughed. She didn’t, because heat refused to leave her thighs and her pussy pulsed with the need for his touch. He’d somehow suspended her between sanity and madness with maybe only one way of returning to the existence she’d always taken for granted: by having him fuck her.
“However, I’ve seen the change take place,” he told her. “I know the techniques sex slave trainers use.”
“And you reap the rewards once those trainers are done.”
His silence told her more than she wanted to know. At the same time, knowing she’d been taken by a man skilled in such things pulled her farther into the dark vortex swirling around her.
“Maybe this”—a nail glided over her clit, tearing a sob from her throat—“is something I understand simply because I’m a man. Maybe I didn’t need to watch a trainer.”
“No.” Who was that weak woman and would she ever find herself again?
“No? Why do you say that, Wilding?”
Words flowed from her mind to be absorbed by the ground and air. Even when she forced herself to stare at him, she couldn’t find her voice. How could she, as long as he kept touching her clit? Mewling like the newborn cougar she’d likened herself to earlier, she arched her neck so she stared upward and not at him. Her fingers dug into her belly, leaving indentations, and his hand defined her world.
Where had gentleness gone? What had happened to the slow glide along her heated tissues? Those she could stay on top of, almost. Those she understood, nearly. But the finger suddenly jammed deep inside her had turned harsh. It prodded and commanded, moving more quickly than she’d thought possible. His breathing become hard and quick. His finger rode her, creating a deep burning sensation that plowed through her.
Every time he buried himself in her up to the base of his finger, fear swept over her, but her sex was swollen and drenched and accommodated him. Through a haze, she realized he was no longer holding her hands in place. Relishing the relative freedom, she scratched her belly and pinched the taut skin over her pelvic bone. Pain dove into her only to collide with the pleasure radiating out from his hand. The sensations swirled, taking her with them.
Caught in the middle, she hissed and sobbed and whipped her head from side to side.
Suddenly she stopped thrashing, her body frozen by something she didn’t comprehend. She fought the untold sensations rampaging through her, determined to hold them back. She was still fighting herself when the pressure against her opening increased. Mesmerized, she closed her fingers around her breast and waited, learned.
Yes, two of his fingers were now inside her. They lay there unmoving and yet full of promise and challenge. This new fullness demanded something from her; she just couldn’t comprehend what it might be. Maybe it was the feeling of being invaded, of not knowing how to expel him, or if she wanted to.
Then, as she’d known he would, he again began moving inside her. Both fingers worked as one, slipping deep and deeper still, pausing, retreating a little only to push on.
“Ahh, ahh,” she heard herself cry. She clamped down on her breast, pinching it. Her head started thrashing again. Even though her temple pulsed, she picked up the pace.
Think about
Barely aware of what she was doing, she closed her legs and dug her heels into the ground. He didn’t stop her from scooting away a little, but neither did he remove his hand, compelling her to cradle it between her hot thighs.
“What are you thinking?” His tone, although commanding, was low.
“About all the things I hate about you,” she threw at him. “Treating a woman like an animal—”
“I’ve never done that.”
Recalling everything he’d put her through so far, she nearly laughed. She didn’t, because heat refused to leave her thighs and her pussy pulsed with the need for his touch. He’d somehow suspended her between sanity and madness with maybe only one way of returning to the existence she’d always taken for granted: by having him fuck her.
“However, I’ve seen the change take place,” he told her. “I know the techniques sex slave trainers use.”
“And you reap the rewards once those trainers are done.”
His silence told her more than she wanted to know. At the same time, knowing she’d been taken by a man skilled in such things pulled her farther into the dark vortex swirling around her.
“Maybe this”—a nail glided over her clit, tearing a sob from her throat—“is something I understand simply because I’m a man. Maybe I didn’t need to watch a trainer.”
“No.” Who was that weak woman and would she ever find herself again?
“No? Why do you say that, Wilding?”
Words flowed from her mind to be absorbed by the ground and air. Even when she forced herself to stare at him, she couldn’t find her voice. How could she, as long as he kept touching her clit? Mewling like the newborn cougar she’d likened herself to earlier, she arched her neck so she stared upward and not at him. Her fingers dug into her belly, leaving indentations, and his hand defined her world.
Where had gentleness gone? What had happened to the slow glide along her heated tissues? Those she could stay on top of, almost. Those she understood, nearly. But the finger suddenly jammed deep inside her had turned harsh. It prodded and commanded, moving more quickly than she’d thought possible. His breathing become hard and quick. His finger rode her, creating a deep burning sensation that plowed through her.
Every time he buried himself in her up to the base of his finger, fear swept over her, but her sex was swollen and drenched and accommodated him. Through a haze, she realized he was no longer holding her hands in place. Relishing the relative freedom, she scratched her belly and pinched the taut skin over her pelvic bone. Pain dove into her only to collide with the pleasure radiating out from his hand. The sensations swirled, taking her with them.
Caught in the middle, she hissed and sobbed and whipped her head from side to side.
Suddenly she stopped thrashing, her body frozen by something she didn’t comprehend. She fought the untold sensations rampaging through her, determined to hold them back. She was still fighting herself when the pressure against her opening increased. Mesmerized, she closed her fingers around her breast and waited, learned.
Yes, two of his fingers were now inside her. They lay there unmoving and yet full of promise and challenge. This new fullness demanded something from her; she just couldn’t comprehend what it might be. Maybe it was the feeling of being invaded, of not knowing how to expel him, or if she wanted to.
Then, as she’d known he would, he again began moving inside her. Both fingers worked as one, slipping deep and deeper still, pausing, retreating a little only to push on.
“Ahh, ahh,” she heard herself cry. She clamped down on her breast, pinching it. Her head started thrashing again. Even though her temple pulsed, she picked up the pace.
Think about
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