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Cole
She didn't talk on the way back from Vegas.
Make that she didn't attempt to talk. The ball gag would have rendered her mute at any rate.
I drove one of the SUVs that had galvanized metal grating between front and back seats. She was in the back, her hands cuffed to the grate. Her eyes blindfolded. Her mouth gagged. She had a simple code to tap out if she was going to be sick. Other than that, or trouble breathing or any other actual physical distress, I didn't want to hear from her.
She thought I was angry. I was fine with her thinking that.
But the little cunt had really performed. I was going to be sore from that session and she'd pay for it.
In due time.
For now I was riding the pleasure of the night as we drove into the dawn. The only fly in the ointment or flaw in the day: My feelings that I might have my own addiction growing.
I might be addicted to her sweet pain.
I might never actually let her go.
