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The knife sliding down my back, parting the dress like a hot knife through butter. What it would do to my skin.
"Don't move." As the knife slid between my legs from behind, the cold of it heating as it touched my clean shaven folds.
I breathed. I couldn't not breathe. I tried to do it slowly, controlled. The knife terrified me.
Knife, magically still cold, sliding down my inner thigh.
Gone. I opened my eyes, unaware I'd closed them. The mirror was gone, though. The cabinet stood open. I wouldn't be watching him.
The night broke into shards.
Holding on to ropes that bound my wrists, pulled cruelly tight overhead, pulling me up on my tiptoes until my calves burned and he whipped those calves, my dress still in place, the night still young. Brine-soaked switches, taken from some tree nearby, I didn't know, I only knew the sound of screaming, the sound of St. Martin's voice ordering me to stop.
Another shard of vision. My back, bared. The single tail whip. The sound of it. The coil of it in the air. The red pain. He was holding back. I knew how strong he was. He was holding back and I didn't want him to and he'd kill me if he didn't and I knew that, I knew that and I'd come here anyway.
Maybe not all my addictions were dealt with.
Maybe not all of them could be changed with rainforest drugs.
Vision. As if outside myself. Bent over the bed, ass out, back bowed, arms strung up above me as if I was bent at the waist, straining to flap my arms and fly.
St. Martin behind me. The crop, hot, white slashes and snaps of pain. The crop, the leather strap, and when that wasn't enough, his belt, pulled in a fury from his pants, the buckle end of it wrapped hard around his fist, the snap of it, the uncoiling, the unraveling of my guilt and fury and fear as I screamed and fell, thrashing to get away from the belt.
Thrashing and struggling to keep myself in the path of it.
He roared at me to count. He started over time after time. There was only raw, red pain and the longing for more of it, impossibly, to see what I could take and what he could do.
Another random slice of vision: the belt, flying past me to land on the bed like a rattlesnake thrown away from what it might strike.
The sound of his clothes.
Mine long gone to the knife.
St. Martin behind me. Not consensual, undoubtedly not safe. Oh so far from sane. And then again, what did the slick, shiny wet want on my thighs mean if not consent?
He pushed me down, pushed my back, getting me into position again, bent against my will, supplicant and not participant, but still panting for it, shifting, groaning.
His gloved hands on my hips, dragging them where he wanted them. I made some kind of mewling sound. Consent? Plea?
He thrust into me hard, plunging in to the hilt, so hard he felt like an implement. Or a weapon.
For a second he stood, holding my hips, breathing hard as if he'd been running hard through the desert, racing me. Or as if he'd been the one being punished, his body subject to the whims of a furious Master.
In a way, I thought he had.
His hand snarled in my hair, dragging my head back at an unnatural angle. I'd always hated that, hated a fist in my hair, hated having my head ratcheted back and yet this time, I welcomed it.
It felt like home. Or belonging. Or penance. Or suffering.
It felt safe.
There was no way I'd come from this and it wasn't about pleasure, but he pulled out and thrust inside and I found myself writhing and gasping and wishing I had the use of my hands to prop myself up on the bed or to touch myself, anything but hanging here with my shoulders burning and the straps biting into my wrists.
Didn't matter. He continued to stroke hard and long and fast, in and out of me and I could feel everything building and burning and breaking, not just releasing the past weeks, but feeling the pleasure race through me.
Was I supposed to? Or did he even care?
I screamed out my orgasm at the same time St. Martin bucked his hips and came inside me.
