- Chapter Twelve -

Georgia Mary King

––––––––

I stopped counting how many times I'd come, but whatever the final number was, that last, earth shattering orgasm was too much. It knocked me out cold.

When I awoke, I was still in the damp clothes.  Conway—who else could it have been—had left me a long t-shirt, gray sweats, and pink boy-short cut underwear. Changing, I put the old clothes in a pile by the door.

Alone as I was, I checked myself over, confirming all my pieces were still there. On the surface they were, but inside... I wasn't as certain.

I was getting hungry when Conway opened the door.

“Hi,” I whispered, sitting up. I didn't know how to behave around him, not after what he'd done to me...after what he'd watched me do. The memory turned my whole face red.

He offered a bottle of water and half a peanut butter sandwich. Without question I scarfed the food, then chugged the water down. “How do you feel?” he asked when I was finished.

“Confused,” I admitted. “And you, what the hell are you feeling?”

Unshouldering the canvas bag, he walked to the corner. “Ready to continue.”

****

Days blurred into evenings and I lost sense of time.

Conway showed me video after video. He had a massive collection. Everyone was nameless beyond Whore, Slut, Bitch, Sir, or Master. I detested the domination theme. I also couldn't deny how it turned me on.

At night, the raspy moans of the women with no names haunted me. Often, I awoke in a cold sweat, certain I'd heard them inside of the walls. Were they in the room with me? Was the tablet still playing?

It never was—I was always alone.

There was a good chance I was losing my mind.

What truly amazed me was that I wasn't being starved. The food he brought me was basic dry goods—peanut butter, tuna from a can, banana chips. Things you didn't need to keep refrigerated. It made me wonder about the set up in the house.

“Why is there power for the lights, but for nothing else?” I asked him one day.

He reached for the empty paper plate next to me on the bed. I let him take it. “We have a generator we use sparingly, only for what's necessary.”

Rubbing my arms, I clicked my teeth. “Guess heat doesn't count as necessary. Or is this another mind game where I'm the only one freezing and you and Lonnie are cozy-warm at night?”

He arched an eyebrow. “I'm sorry if you're cold.”

“You could give me a blanket.”

“That's not happening.”

“So it is a mind-fuck game. You're not starving me like Facile, you're doing your own fun torture. Clever.”

“I'm not torturing you for fun—” he stopped himself, but I'd touched a nerve. He didn't like me comparing him to his father. I clung to that. “The generator has limited juice. We need it to last.”

“Until when?”

He turned away, reaching for the canvas bag I'd learned to fear. The camera came out. “Lie on your back.”

Every answer he denied me gave me a fuller picture of the situation. The generator has to last until we're ready to leave the island. Well, maybe not all of us.

There's no guarantee I'll be going anywhere.

Cringing at the idea of being left behind—and at what being forced to leave meant—I stretched out on my back on the bed. I'd stopped trying to fight him at every turn. I needed my energy for when the right moment came.

We were going to play another game... would it cause me pain, or pleasure, and which was really worse? Pain, I thought suddenly. I'd begun craving the expert way he could turn me on.

He didn't strap me to the bed—that was new. “Look up at the mirror.”

I'd wondered, years ago, what the ceiling mirror was intended for. Facile had rarely interacted with me during my stay. He'd brought me small amounts of food and drink, hardly talking to me, sometimes not even turning the light on. If not for Conway—and Lonnie, briefly—I'd have spent my 187 days in near solitude.

“Can you see yourself?” he asked.

“Of course, it's all I can really see.”

“Describe yourself to me.”

“I—what?”

“Tell me what you look like.”

Unsure about his demand, I considered myself in the mirror. I was wearing a thin pair of sweat pants, the same gray as the long sleeved shirt. Neither fit me very well—a size too big, probably bought in haste. “My hair's a rat's nest,” I said, chuckling wryly. “I need a shower.”

“What else?”

“I don't know, what do you want me to say?”

“Just look and tell me.”

His instructions confused me enough that I became frustrated. “I look like a fucking mess, Conway. Circles under my eyes... exhausted... I look awful.”

“Take off your shirt.”

His words boomed in my eardrums. Looking over, I judged the seriousness in his face. Why had I hoped he was joking? “If I say no, what happens?”

“I'll take it off for you.”

We'd been down that road before. Chewing my lip, I stared back at the mirror. “You've never seen me—all the way like that.” I'd managed to cover my chest every time while changing, and when he'd pulled my dress off, I'd been on my stomach.

“In the van,” he whispered.

Right. He saw down my dress then. I'd forgotten entirely.

His voice was quiet, but danger lurked under the surface. “Take it off. Then the rest.”

I gave myself a mental count down. Then I hooked my fingers under my sweater and peeled it upwards. Setting it on the mattress beside my head, I lifted my hips, gripped the sweat pants, and pulled them off. I was naked except for my panties.

Conway was silent. I held still, hands at my sides, waiting for him to do something.

Firm hands pressed onto my thighs. Instantly I jolted, half-sitting up. “Shh,” he said, shaking his head at me. “Lie down, eyes closed. Now.”

Reluctantly I did so. What's he planning? What's he thinking?

Tracing my stomach, Conway explored my softness with languid fascination. I sensed it through him; a wonderment in our contact. It was the first time we'd touched skin to skin in a way that wasn't a fight.

Did Conway find my curves attractive, or was he wishing I was the half-starved teen he'd originally known? Why do you care? I asked myself angrily. His preferences don't matter. None of what he likes matters here. Believing that was a challenge.

He came up against the elastic band of my underwear. Exploring it from one end to the next, he gently spread my thighs. “Open for me,” he whispered.

I did.

Running his touch down the inside of my legs, he moved around the openings of my panties. The contrast between cotton and skin made everything more sensitive. He laid one palm flat on top of my pussy.

I whimpered, peeking through my lashes down at him. He was watching my face—my heart pounded, I shut my eyes again. “Sorry,” I said quickly.

Two fingers traced the V at the junction of my thighs. Up, down, he did it so many times. I was clay that he was molding. Without removing my panties, he rubbed his thumb over the dampening slit of my pussy. “Already so excited,” he observed.

He pet my clit so, so gently, as if he were rubbing the head of a daisy. I shuddered under every single stroke. I forgot about the camera. I even forgot that we were in a busted up house on a barren island. That people could be looking for me, right now, wondering if I was alive or dead or dying.

The bed shifted under his weight. Against his instructions, I opened my eyes again. His thick cock was naked in his fist. It wasn't the first one I'd ever seen, but it was easily the most beautiful. The tip was dark with arousal, made fatter by his hand's pressure. “Close your eyes,” he commanded, his pupils scalding me. That wasn't anger—that was undiluted lust.

Shutting my eyes tight made my senses heighten. I kept picturing him in my mind's eye; the way he was stroking me while stroking himself. Conway's shadow skimmed overhead, the bed trembling from his subtle, desperate motions.

He was jerking himself off.

Fingertips tweaked my firm clit; he moved faster, racing his own clock. He's going to come, I realized. But he wants me to finish first. Dizzying arousal flooded my body. I tingled down to my toes, muscles tightening as I rocked my hips.

“Don't look,” he moaned. “Eyes shut. Until I say. Understand me?”

“Yes,” I managed weakly. I was perched on a tightrope that threatened to tumble me into decadent pleasure every second that ticked by. My pussy was my world. It clenched helplessly, fluttering like a thousand butterfly wings. I wanted to be filled—I was empty and wet and losing myself in hedonism that was wrong. But I didn't care. I didn't want to care.

“Conway,” I gasped, “Make me come. I need to come so badly, please!”

“Then come for me,” he snarled, fingers working my clit like he knew me better than I did. “I can feel how badly your pussy wants to come,” he said, breathless.

“Ah, I'm there, don't stop, I'm... aah!” I moaned, vibrating against his fingers as I climaxed. He made lazy circles, never too much pressure, reading my subtle twitches to tell where I was too sensitive. Behind my eyelids, colors rotated like a carnival at night.

Sticky warmth landed on my chest. Conway hissed through clenched teeth, string after string of his seed coating me. Like he'd built it up for years waiting for me.

“Now,” he said thickly, his hand vanishing from my thighs. “Tell me how you look.”

I opened my eyes and stared at the mirror. My cheeks were flushed. I was breathing heavily, the motion shaking my naked breasts. His come was drizzled across my chest like icing on top of a cinnamon bun. I was exposed... vulnerable... “Beautiful,” I whispered. “I look beautiful.”

Conway shuddered—I felt it through his hand on my knee. “You truly do.”

Blinking away some of my delirium, I took him in. I longed to know what was going on in his head, but he was already turning away. Zipping his cock into his jeans, he walked over and flicked the camera off.

His distance created a chasm inside of me. I sat up, taking the wet-wipe he offered. Cleaning myself was more awkward than knowing he'd come on my breasts. It felt like a pointless transaction, the heat evaporating. I slid my clothes back on, but even that didn't carve out the pit of ice in my gut.

The only thing that could was answers.

“What will happen to me after this?” This, because I had no name for the things he was doing to me.

He paced the room, and I recognized he was trying to keep his emotions at bay. His voice came out with a hard edge. “You'll belong to my father when this ends.”

Disgust roiled up in the back of my throat. “This whole surrogacy bullshit is just you doing to me what he'd like to, then.” Belong to Facile? “Death would be better.”

His fists balled at his sides; he remained facing the wall. “You're not allowed to die.”

I laughed until it sounded more like screaming. “Allowed? You can't decide that.”

“I can,” he growled, whirling on me. Quickly he advanced, looming over me on the bed, his hands coming down to dig into the mattress on either side of my hips. “I decide everything for you, Georgia. It's up to me what you eat... it's my choice if you get to shower, or sleep, or if I make you come or tantalize you on the edge while you drip and beg for release.”

Like he controlled it, my pussy flexed. My tongue darted over my bottom lip. “You've only made it happen through force.”

His hand went into my hair, holding me where I was. Conway was hazy in my vision—the way the horizon of a sweltering desert was. I was sweating from the heat wafting off of his fit body. “Force,” he whispered, studying my eyes, “Or because you wanted it to happen?”

The tension in my belly increased tenfold. I was trying not to blink—if I did, I'd lose our unspoken contest of wills. “I never wanted any of this.”

His free fingers trailed down my naked belly, pausing over the top of my panties. Conway was coiled in preparation for another brawl. He wanted to fight. Wanted me to fight back. “You never dreamed about being with me? Having me rub your clit, finger you deep, making you scream my name?”

“No.” I said it too fast; he saw through my lie and smirked. “But what about you?” I threw it back at him. Grabbing his palm, I pushed it under my sweater and onto my breast. My desire to get the upper hand made me bold. “How many times did you jerk off to the thought of me?”

I'd been sure I'd get a reaction. But he just looked down his nose at me, his hand not moving on my chest. “Would you believe never?”

My heart thudded quicker. “I wouldn't.”

His fingers gently pinched my nipple—I gasped. He was mapping me out, observing my reactions. “You're right. I thought about you for countless nights, Georgia. I've ached to fuck you... never thought I'd get the chance.”

The boiling energy between us combusted. His lips were a whirlpool, slamming us together and threatening damage. Our inner demons were eager to get out their frustrations at the world in anyway they could.

This push-and-pull excited me.  Had he warped me already?

Or was I twisted up all along?

Ripping my sweater up he exposed my breasts. His opposite hand sought out my other nipple; the missing part of his pinky was noticeable on my tender skin.

Abruptly he withdrew, leaving me sitting there with my legs spread as wide as my eyes. He clutched his forehead like there was something stabbing him from inside his skull. “I can't do this.”

“Why?” I asked. My voice splintered from his rejection. “After all that, you won't... am I only good enough when you're treating me like a toy for your father?” I demanded, and he flinched. “Do you really not want me?”

The despair in his final glance cooled my mood. “I don't. Not like this.”

I'd never heard a door slam shut so loudly in my life.