Madame X - Wilder Jasinda (книги хорошем качестве бесплатно без регистрации .txt) 📗

Lips at the shell of my ear: “Were you wet for her, X?”

I shake my head. “No, Caleb,” I lie.

“Were your nipples hard for her, X?”

“No, Caleb,” I lie.

I am wearing a dove-gray A-line dress, one of a kind, designed and crafted to my measurements by a prominent fashion student studying here in New York City. It is priceless, unique, and one of my favorite garments.

Hands clutch fabric at my shoulders on either side of the zipper at my spine. One sharp tug, and the dress is ripped apart, fluttering to the floor at my feet. I do not breathe, do not speak, do not move. I do not dare.

Bra unhooked, straps brushed aside. Hands cup my breasts, lift them to rest on the cold glass. Push at my spine to bend me forward until my breasts are now crushed against the glass, smashed flat. Panties are yanked down, roughly.

“Caleb—”

“‘Please fuck me, Caleb.’” This in a rough rasp. “Say it, X.”

I whimper. “P-please—”

“I can’t hear you.”

I hear a zipper being lowered, feel flesh against my flesh, a hot, rigid erection nestled between the globes of my backside. Hands in the creases of my hips. Hands scour my spine, my back, caressing in gentle circles. Hands delve around my waist, dive between my thighs. Touch me.

“‘I’ve felt your nips get hard, smelled your pussy get wet. Makes us friends, I’d say.’” The words are whispered in my ear, matched with a rhythmic touch, creating a wet sucking sound from between my thighs. “You’re wet for me, aren’t you, X?”

“Yes,” I whimper.

“Your nipples are hard for me, aren’t they, X?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

The erection slides, teases. “She can’t give you this, can she?”

“No.” I swallow hard, hating that my body wants this despite the terror in my gut, despite the pounding knot of confusion in my throat.

“So say it.” A moment of silence as fingers move, bringing me to the edge. “Say it, X.”

“Please—please fuck me, Caleb.” I whisper it, and I am rewarded with a sudden and slow penetration.

I feel misused. Mistreated. Manipulated. I feel dirty.

Yet I want this.

Why?

WHY?

What is wrong with me? My nipples were hard for George, I was wet for her. Yet I am even harder and wetter now.

And I was not afraid of George.

A thrust, another, a slow and methodical fucking. Fist in my hair, pressing my face to the glass.

I see no reflection now, only my books: For Whom the Bell Tolls, As I Lay Dying, The Dead, A Room of One’s Own.

Long, slow thrusts. Wet sounds. Sweat on my back. Slapping flesh. My breath, in pants, whimpers. I know how I sound: I sound erotic. I whimper and groan, moan and sigh. My voice betrays me. I cannot deny that I am affected, that such carnal skill, such sexual ferocity, such consummate primal power and unrelenting vigor has me heating up and writhing and detonating, that I am made into a helpless thing, made slave to this. To the sensation of being owned, to being used so. In such moments I am not my own, and I hate and need this in equal measure.

I come, violently, and I hate myself for it.

Lips at the shell of my ear as I lie bent over the glass, the edge cutting into my belly, gasping for breath, near tears: “To whom do you belong, X?” Each word is enunciated carefully, precisely.

“I belong to you, Caleb.” It is the raw truth, however I may feel about it.

“Whose body is this?” A slap to my backside, sharp but not precisely painful.

“Yours,” I murmur, just above a whisper.

I am pulled upright, a broad, hard palm cupping the back of my neck. Eyes bore down on me, pierce me, dark and still furious, but now fraught with glints and fractions of other unknowable emotions. Fingers delve between my legs. Swipe, smear, gather still-hot, just-spilled seed. Touch it to my tongue. I taste it, musk, tang, saltiness, my own female essence woven around the masculine. “That’s me, inside you. You taste us?”

I nod. I cannot speak.

Fingers pinch my nipple, hard. “Your sexuality belongs to me, X. No one else may even so much as fucking smell you, do you understand me? You. Are. Mine.” The pinch does not subside, the pain a sharp ache making me tremble, making some part of me twist and writhe and need. I hate, hate, hate my body for reacting thus. “Do you understand, X?”

“Yes.”

The pinch goes harder yet, hard enough to make me whimper. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, Caleb!” I gasp.

Fingers release my nipple, and my knees buckle with relief. I cannot stop myself from falling. Arms catch me, lift me easily. Carry me into my bedroom, settle me with exquisite gentility. Too gently. The tenderness hurts and confuses worse than the pain, worse than the demands of ownership, distress me more than the sexual dominion.

“Sleep.” It is a command.

And I . . . ?

I obey.

•   •   •

I wake abruptly, disoriented. My blinds are open, letting in the moonlight and the scintillating shine of countless windows from the skyline. I reach to my bedside table for the remote that lowers the blackout shade.

The remote is gone. My noise machine is gone.

My heart sinks.

I rise, still naked, and move to the window. Look up. The blackout shade is still there, installed above the window. But without the remote, there is no way to lower it.

Tears prick my eyes. This is my punishment, then. Without the curtains and the noise, how will I sleep?

I won’t, or not well.

I fight the weakness. Lie down, cover myself with the blanket, pull it over my head, attempt to sleep. But after only a few moments I feel like I’m suffocating, choking on my own hot, recycled breaths. I toss the blanket away. Stare at the ceiling.

I am awake now.

Frustrated and angry, I kick the blanket away, roll off the bed, stalk into my en suite bathroom. Turn on the shower, hot as it will go. Step in, hiss at the scalding heat. I do not lower the temperature, though. I scrub. Mercilessly, I scrub. Until my skin is red and almost bloody, I scrub. Every inch of me, as if I could scour away not just the feel of those harsh, brutal, yet sometimes tender hands, but also to scour away whatever sickness inside me causes me to react to it, to need that touch, whatever venom has poisoned me into needing that sexual domination.

If I could bleed it out, I would.

In a moment of insanity, I take the disposable razor I use to shave my legs and elsewhere. Place the blade on my upper forearm. Drag the razor sideways, and feel the sting as it slices my skin apart. Shocked by the sudden pain, I drop the razor and watch as blood wells crimson on my arm, sluices away, washed down the drain by the shower. I am fascinated by the spill of my own blood, watch it run.

But I do not attempt to cut myself again. I do not have the courage to seek that way out. I am too much a coward. I still wish to live.

And then, without warning, I am slumped on the floor of the shower and sobbing, shower water beating warm down on me, and I am racked by sobs, sobs, sobs. My fists beat at my skull. My fingers claw at my eyes, my hair.

“Fuck.” It comes out from clenched teeth. “FUCK!” I shriek it, finally, but the word emerges as a wordless wail, and even that is muffled by the sound of the shower.

It feels good to curse, though.

I find enough strength to stand, to shut off the shower, dry off, and dress in a T-shirt and panties.

Seeking comfort, I pad to my library on bare feet, pruned toes. Maybe a few hours with Smilla will calm me.

The door is locked.

I try it again. Rattle it. Shake it. Slam my fists against the wood.

Another punishment.

I twist in place and rest my back against the door, fighting yet more tears. And as I lean back against the door, my eye casts across the room at the remaining bookshelf.