3. Her

3

HER

S uck.

The four-letter word rang in my ears like a death knell. Worse. Because death was an end. And this was just the beginning of my downfall. My deterioration. The slow atrophy that would leave me rotting in my skin. Decomposing with each forced breath.

This man, whoever he was, didn't want to simply kill me. That much I could accept. Make peace with. Because I wasn't afraid to die. No, he wanted to destroy my humanity. He wanted me crawling on my hands and knees. He wanted me begging for mercy that I was certain would never come.

I just couldn't figure out why. What had I done to deserve… this ?

He didn't repeat himself. He didn't have to. I didn't have much choice in the matter as he twisted the belt around his arm and yanked me forward. If I wanted to breathe, I had to open my mouth. I wasn't getting enough oxygen through my nose, and he wouldn't loosen the leather constricting my airway until I did as I was told.

I tried to be logical about it. Tell myself it was about survival. That the discomfort, the debasement, would be fleeting and I could figure a way out of here. But none of this kept my lower lip from trembling as I leaned forward, lowered my jaw, and took him into my mouth. He tugged me closer again without warning and his cock slipped past my tonsils, forcing me to sputter and gag around the thick base while attempting to keep my last meal from coming back up.

My inner voice was screaming at me to do something. To snap my jaw shut and take a part of him with me. But I doubted my ability to tear into flesh, while the thought of his blood pooling in my mouth had me struggling to keep the bile down. Far worse than the feel of his cock between my lips. That and I had no doubt he would follow through with his threat. Something in his tone told me these weren't just threats. They were promises.

So I did my best to block out the smell of his cologne, the taste of the soap on his skin—he'd showered at the very least—and the feel of him thrusting forward and pulling back out, only to repeat the rhythm with more force. I refused to acknowledge the way his fingertips pressed into my cheeks as he held my head steady and gave himself leverage. And I ignored the way my knees burned as they scraped across the concrete flooring, the first layer of skin rubbing away with the friction.

None of it was real. It wasn't happening.

That's what I told myself. Even as my lips cracked and bled, and I struggled between trying to suck in air and attempting to keep the vomit from rising up.

He drove forward so that my nostrils were pressed against his pelvic bone, and I lost balance, my hands reaching out on instinct and clawing at his thighs to brace myself. He stilled, his chin resting against his collarbone and his head cocking to the side as he paused to observe me. I didn't know what he was looking for. I couldn't read his expression through the mask. But I could guess. Something I'd done had halted his movements. And it wasn't my struggle. He obviously didn't care whether or not I could breathe. Whether I lived or died. Just that I suffered.

Truth was I didn't understand why I was trying to figure it out. His motives didn't matter. Why people were the way they were didn't matter. Some individuals were just assholes. There was nothing more to it. No rationale behind their psychotic tendencies. And so I put him into that same category, as my right hand reached behind him to grip the splintered piece of wood that skid across the floor when the chair ricocheted against the wall. The little stake was small enough to fit into my palm and sharp enough to dig into my skin as I tried to conceal it.

He cracked his neck from side to side, breaking his self-imposed trance before he slipped free from my lips and tugged me to my feet, using the belt and his grip on my throat to lift me. When I was finally standing on shaky legs, he shuffled me back until the bones of my spine were digging into the far wall, and then he shoved his fingers into my mouth. I hissed with the impact, allowing him better access as he continued his ruthless assault, his tongue lapping up and tasting the blood along the seam of my split lips through the woven fabric still covering his face.

I couldn't help the moan that escaped when his chest rubbed against my peaked nipples. And I hated myself for not hating it. I did hate it. I just couldn't stop my body's natural reaction to the chilled air.

Once again, the sound gave him pause and I used the momentary distraction to lift my arm and jam the jagged piece of wood into his right eye, only to jolt when the makeshift weapon veered to the side and cracked in my grip.

It penetrated the mask. I saw it myself, as the stake seemed to suspend in the air and bounce with the movement of his head. It would be comical if my life didn't hang in the balance. Like something out of a vampire movie gone wrong.

My hands shot up to cover my gasp, while he threw his head back and laughed as I attempted to pull the piece of wood free and jab at him again.