Tears of Tess
Palming the scissors, he leaned closer, wrapping fingers around my wrists as the button of his jeans bit my belly. His clothed chest teased my ni**les, making them harden to a painful nub. “You have no idea how much I want to f**k you.”
Oh, God. His voice activated every part. I panted breathlessly, “Why don’t you then? Or do you enjoying torturing first?”
He reared back, jaw working. “Do you think this is torture? I could do so much worse, esclave. He rubbed his groin against mine, pressing my ass hard against the bedpost with his cock. “I want to do so much worse.” His accent thickened, muttering, “Je tiens à te faire hurler.” I want to make you scream. He didn’t say it in a kinky, playful way; he said it with passion so nightmarish, I couldn’t see anything but whips and pain and blood.
That did it.
My lust switched to fear and I moaned again, but this time, it was a plea. “Please… you don’t have to make me scream. You can take me. I’m yours.”
He laughed darkly. “You don’t get it do you, esclave? Your permission turns me off. I need to take from you to feel something. If you think I’m not like those men who raped you, you’re wrong. There’s something broken in me, and I need your pain to come.” He twisted a nipple with angry fingers. I yelped.
Pain coursed to pleasure, warming, making me wet. If Q was hardwired, needing pain to enjoy sex, so was I. I might’ve gone through my entire life, never knowing the key to my pleasure was pain.
Q, in his brutality, showed me something taboo… showed I liked to be dominated, and not just light role-playing. No, I needed the real thing.
Light shone through my brain at the realization. I’m not a sweet, innocent girl who wants cotton candy and sonnets. I’m a fighter, a slut, a woman who needed to be taught her own body.
As I stood, tied to a bed with my owner leering with sin in his eyes and promise of hurt on his lips, I changed again. The chrysalis of who I’d been cracked open, letting me fly free. I unfurled newfound wings, becoming more than Tess. I became a twisted, treasured belonging, revelling in her ownership. Who wanted Q to hurt her.
Fire blazed in my belly; I bared my teeth, snarling. “I won’t let you f**k me.”
Everything slammed to a halt.
Q. Me. Time.
The world teetered while Q tried to read me. We glared into each other’s eyes, reflecting the same f**ked-upness, recognizing the same in the other. The bond between us flared tight, reaching with glowing shackles, binding us together. I relished in the binds, accepting my true identity before Q even realized what I offered.
Slowly, Q moved, his entire body predatory, smooth, shark like. “You won’t let me f**k you, esclave?” Delight shimmered in his gaze, etched with black smouldering lust. “I’ve already f**ked you. What makes you think I want to again?”
I thrust my h*ps forward, bumping an overheated core against his straining erection. The moment I slipped into unwilling victim, Q raged with hardness. His c**k verged on iron, hard and unyielding.
“I don’t care if you do or don’t. You won’t because I say you’re not allo—”
He smothered me with his body; the post dug into my back as his mouth captured mine. A tongue speared between my lips.
I whimpered, melted, wanting so badly to kiss him back. But that wasn’t allowed in the role I played. The role I needed to play.
His lips branded, tearing another moan from me, rather than a curse. His tongue possessed my senses, forcing me to duel, to parry, to taste and savour. Was I returning his kiss? No, I wasn’t. I was fighting to breathe, in every sense of the word.
I bucked, breaking the kiss, breathing ragged.
He turned the scissors on me again, hands deathly still as he snipped the waistband of my shorts. He murmured, “You want me to stop?”
God, no. Never.
“Yes, you bastard. I won’t let you do this. It’s sick. Wrong. Let me go.”
His body trembled with some undescribed emotion; keeping eye contact, he cut again.
I squirmed as the metal continued lower and lower, brushing against my core. “You don’t have permission. Stop.”
Eyes sharpened with challenge, and he deliberately cut slower, dragging out suspense, snipping clothes away, one clip at a time.
The moment he cut the crotch, the shorts fell away, puddling to the floor in disgrace. If Q touched me, I’d combust. My damp knickers clung to every part. Pretending to fight stimulated my lust to a forest fire.
No wonder missionary didn’t do it for me. I needed scissors and threats to become drunk on need.
Q slammed to his knees, wrapping strong arms around my thighs, jerking me toward him. I screamed as his mouth connected over my knickers, hot breath radiating like a bomb between my legs. He nibbled my swollen cl*t through the material, dragging more erratic breaths from my lungs.
I wanted to open my legs, to hook them over Q’s shoulder and ride his mouth, but that wasn’t the character of unwilling slave. Instead, I wriggled, trying to run from his probing, mind-melting tongue.
He rumbled in his chest; it vibrated against my legs. With one hand, he grabbed my ankle, purposely bringing attention to the GPS anklet. His silent touch spoke volumes. You’re mine. I track you. You can’t escape.
It was a red flag to my brain, knowing I could be wild and wanton because he wanted it. I could scream and writhe, and it only excited him. Brax would run if I ever screamed in bed.
Q tongued me, pressing with a pointed tip, licking wet cotton. I couldn’t stop my breath turning softer, feathery, needful.
“You don’t want this?” Q murmured again, standing slowly, trailing a finger up my inner thigh, right to my mouth. With a twist of his lips, he forced his finger into my mouth.
The primal instinct to suck consumed, but I forced myself to go against instinct and bite instead.
He jerked, yanking his finger away.
I smiled darkly. “Put anything in my mouth and I swear to God, I’ll bite it off.” My mouth filled with saliva, anticipation making me hungry.
Ever since I belonged to Q, I discovered things I was never strong enough to visit before. This new, dark part wanted to taste his blood. To get real and gritty and deliciously wrong.
Q stepped closer, jeans scraping highly sensitive flesh. A band of release sparked from the contact. I’m so close. I’m never this close. God, Tess, he’s barely touched you.