Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

When I come out of the bathroom, scrubbed clean for my captor to abuse me however he wants, he's back in the cabin's main room, adjusting two more chains hanging from the ceiling. He beckons me over to him.

I don't bother dragging my feet just to prolong the inevitable but walk right over to him. He positions me where he wants me, in between the pair of chains. "Shoes off."

I bend to untie my sneakers and kick them off, then peel my socks off without being told. When I straighten up, he assesses me. "Spread your legs a little more. Wide enough that you can stand comfortably without locking your knees." I do as he says, until my feet are a little wider than hip-width and he nods.

He squats down and fits a spreader bar between my feet. On each end is a leather cuff that he wraps around my ankles. The snaps closing the cuffs sound like gunshots in the quiet room.

He stands and fastens a leather cuff around each of my wrists, then hooks the cuffs to the chains. Another yank of the pulley ropes and he's got my arms stretched out and lifted, my wrists higher than my shoulders, but not quite as high as before. I imagine I look a bit like da Vinci's Vitruvian Man drawing and when Sir stands back to look at me, there's a slight smile on his face that suggests he's thinking the same thing.

The Vitruvian Man is naked, though, and I'm still wearing my cutoff jeans and cropped T-shirt. Until Sir brings that freaking knife forward. He sets the blade at the center of the neckline and draws it slowly down my chest. The fabric doesn't part cleanly, and the blade doesn't cut through to my skin, but oh my god, the action of him using a knife on me and the hard intent on his face while he does so cranks the fear and arousal way past what I've experienced so far.

"No," I moan. "Please."

"No?" he mocks. "You're saying ‘no' to me?" He saws competently at the holes he's made in my shirt with the knife, until the fabric separates and hangs open, exposing my chest, which has a red scratch running down the center, from just below my collarbones to my navel.

I maybe should say ‘no' to him. Who wouldn't say ‘no' to a man wielding a knife before them with the confidence of a predator while they're tied up and helpless?

He nudges the fabric out of the way with the back of the knife, then slips the tip under a nipple ring and lifts it off my skin. "You let someone stick needles into your skin, but you think a knife is going to hurt more?"

This idiot, I guess. Me.

"No," I gasp. "I mean, I don't know. Sir," I add quickly when he looks up from my nipple to my face. He uses the knife tip to tug at my nipple ring and I am hot all over, a prickle of sweat springing up on my skin.

"Well, let's find out." He cuts my shirt into ribbons and lets the pieces fall around my feet. Then he places the blade next to my right nipple and rocks it from tip to base, cutting a fine vertical line into my skin.

"Oh, fuck," I moan. It's a flash of lightning licking over my skin, and a tiny line of blood wells up in the cut. He bends his head and licks the blood away. My chest arches, I rise up on my toes and strain against the chains holding my arms wide. "Please, Sir. Please."

"Please what? More?" He slices a series of sinful lines in my skin, barely cutting me, and I am on fire, the pain whispering over me, making me feel more alive than I've been.

He licks at each cut after he makes them, then angles the knife in a diagonal and makes more cuts—I kind of lose track how of many more. When he finishes, he licks the welling blood away, and stands back to assess his handiwork.

"Yeah," he says and it's a dark, satisfied, sort of growl that makes my knees buckle a little bit. Thank goodness for the chains suspending me and the spreader bar bracing my legs or I'd be sprawled on the floor.

I look down at my chest but my vision is a little wonky. Plus, it's hard to read upside down. But I blink the sweat that's dripping from my forehead out of my eyes and try to focus on the pattern of the cuts.

M.

I.

N.

E.

He carved the word MINE into my chest.

Not deep enough to scar. Barely deep enough to make out the word, even. A twinge of disappointment flits through me—that, instead of a lasting reminder, these are just thin red lines, hardly more than scratches.

They're not even bleeding anymore, though when he catches me around the waist and sucks at first my left nipple, then my right, there's a smear of red on his cheek right above his close beard.

"Oh god," I whimper shakily. My skin is hot all over, the cuts in my chest sting like fire, and my dick is so hard, it hurts in the prison of my cut-off jeans.

He steps back and eyes me up and down, like a piece of tasty meat. When he puts the knife to my shorts, he starts at the bottom, holding the frayed hem with one hand while he slices up to my waistband with the knife.

The tip of the knife drags behind the fabric, cutting another thin scratch along my thigh. I hold myself as still as I can and even so, my arms are quivering, which makes the chains clink and rattle.

He slits through the second leg of my jean shorts, up to the waistband, but doesn't try sawing through the thicker fabric. Instead, he undoes the button and pulls down the zipper and my dick leaps free, already leaking at the tip.

"You really like pain, boy, don't you?" He uses the tip of his knife to flick at each of the balls of my Jacob's ladder piercing.

Each flick brings me closer and closer to the edge.

"Come now and I'll blister your ass until you can't sit down for a week," he warns.

So I do.