Bend - Bromberg K. - Страница 12

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My eyes water and I shout out at the indescribable pain. My body bucks in resistance as both men use their hands to hold me still.

“Hold on. Once his head’s in, we’ll let you adjust,” he almost croons to me against the riot of noise filling my head. “Don’t make me gag you,” he warns when I don’t stop.

I bite my lip to turn the shouts to whimpers, and I’m so focused on the threat of the gag that it takes me a moment to realize that the sting is dissipating. I even out my breathing as the rest of the pain fades and I feel fingers applying more lube. And then Marco ever so slowly starts to move. He pushes farther into me and the breath I’ve just evened out gets stolen.

The orgasm rips through me at a lightning fast pace. I don’t have time to wonder if it’s the million nerve endings hidden within the ring Marco just pulled on, or the idea of doing something others had always called taboo, or if it actually feels good because the intensity with which my release hits rivals no other climax I’ve ever experienced.

I couldn’t fight the pleasure that violently rips through me even if I wanted to. My legs clench into the hips they frame, my feet curl, my mouth falls open, but I’m so overwhelmed with the overabundance of different sensations I can’t utter a sound. My breath is held hostage by the pleasure edged with pain, and I don’t even realize it, don’t even attempt to find it, as my pussy clamps down and muscles pulse rhythmically around both cocks filling me. And I don’t know if it’s being stretched—filled so incredibly full—but my orgasm rages on, my body tremoring and head lost to the orgasmic haze.

And then they start to move.

My breath comes back. The twinge of pain is still there, but my adrenaline is on such a high, the ache that should be sated is already ratcheting upwards. I think I moan, I don’t even know because all I smell is peppermint, all I feel is pleasure, all I want is more.

The push and pull of one dick moving in while the other moves out. The feel of them rubbing together through the thin interior wall between them. One pair of hands on my hips, the other holding me down. The pants of exertion and slick sound of lubed flesh being worked. Every single thing assaults my senses, drags me under yet has me on edge, waiting, wanting, willing to come again.

To take what I want for the first time in so very long.

Anderson flickers through my mind, and I push him away. I can’t have him here right now, can’t think of him while feeling all of this, because then I’d have to admit that this is what I want.

This is what I need.

That this is that little bit more …

My head lolls forward, my forehead against my captor’s shoulder as his arms continue to hold and guide me. My body still simmers, still burns for more, but I don’t know how much more I can handle. I’m exhausted: physically, mentally, sexually. For a girl used to one orgasm at a time, my body can’t come any more.

I think the men realize this, but they don’t relent as they chase their own releases.

Time lapses and positions change.

Murmured words are spoken from my captor.

Fingers grip my hips.

Grunts and the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

Moans of release.

Sleep comes without thought.

The smell of peppermint awakes me way too soon.

I’m allowed to use the facilities.

Never alone.

Drink of water offered.

Refastened to bed for another round to begin.

On my back.

This time just Marco.

Still silent.

Presence still dominating the room.

The only connection is where our bodies join.

First him.

Then my captor.

Pleading with them to stop.

Can’t take anymore.

Saying Anderson’s name over and over.

Focusing on the peppermint.

Not the continuous onslaught of sensation.

Feeling like a rag doll.

But the orgasms still come.

Drowning in the unwelcome pleasure.

Body traitorous.

Mind escaping.

Drinking more water.

Wishing for the chocolate covered strawberries.

Head becoming fuzzy. Just like walking back to the hotel.

Darkness closing in.

Feeling free. Weightless, cradled.

Peppermint again.

Cool Air. Bright lights.

The ding of an elevator.

“My girlfriend.” My captor’s voice. A soft, knowing chuckle. “Silly American pride made her think she could handle our vino.” The warmth of a kiss pressed to my forehead. Polite laughter. Murmured good lucks.

The ding of the elevator.

Sinking into softness.

Cocooned in blankets.

“Ora sei libero,” murmured against my ear.

Blackness.

I shift restlessly in the bed, my head groggy and body aching. I roll over onto my stomach and feel a crackling over my chest. My mind snaps awake with awareness and I bolt up in the bed with a groan. The light hits my eyes and I raise an arm to shield them from its harsh rays. My heart pounds and once my eyes can adjust, they dart frantically around the room.

My hotel room.

I immediately grab the bedding and hold it to my chest in a ridiculous form of protection from the silence and the unknown. It takes me a second to catch my breath, to even out my pulse, and to really believe that I’m here.

Alone.

My mind rifles over everything, memories and sensations crashing together like a demolition derby. I immediately curl into myself—knees to chest—arms protective around them. And if I didn’t feel the ache in my limbs, the tenderness between my thighs, the wax dried on my chest, and the bites of pain along my back, I’d swear it was all a dream. The abduction, being fucked every which way imaginable, and then nothing until waking up here in my bed in my hotel room.

I choke back at the bile that rises in my throat when those images materialize into actuality. When I realize that what I’d hoped was a dream is actually reality. My body protests but I’m off the bed in a heartbeat and running into the bathroom. I can’t turn the shower on quick enough, can’t wait to rid my body of the reminders that still brand me: the feel of his fingers, his scent mixed with mine, the dried wax, the salt on my skin. Mentally scattered, I step into the tiled enclosure without thought. The shock of cold jolts my mind to the present, my voice crying out and echoing over the tiles is a disconcerting sound.

Why didn’t I yell for help yesterday when I was being raped and held against my will, but I cry out now because of something as menial as a cold shower?

The question circles in my mind, my body sagging against the chilled wall behind me, my conscience trying to disengage from the facts. The guilt. The doubts. The truths.

Why didn’t I fight harder, resist more? Did I allow everything to happen? Is this on me?

The temperature of the water heats in an instant. Cold to hot. Frigid to inviting. Was that me yesterday? Resistant and unwilling, then accepting and compliant on a turn of a dime.

I choke back the bile as the thought hits me. As I question myself and what I should or shouldn’t have done. Of the things I found pleasure in.

“Oh God.” The words tumbling from my mouth are like a repeated mantra as I stand mid-stream and let the scalding water burn lines down my skin. I grab the bar of soap with trembling hands and begin to scrub my body with vigor. The steam suffocates the small bathroom but is no match for the weight smothering my soul.

I reduce the bar to a sliver and immediately open another package of the cheap hotel soap and begin anew until my skin is pink, raw, and abraded. But it’s not enough. I’m still dirty, still tarnished—inside and out. I take my fingers and lather them with soap and slide them between my legs and inside of me, trying to wash every trace of him away as best as I can. I move in a frenzy. My swollen, torn skin stings when the soap hits it, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t seem to cleanse the claim he staked.

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