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But with the roll of wire at my feet, glinting like the silver angel on her wrist, with the gloves in one hand, and the heavy pliers in the other, I made myself stop and think. What was tumbling around in my head was making me feel like a schizoid evil clown.
I’d vowed to help her, not feast off her defilement.
I sauntered over to pretend I needed something at the rack of implements, but all I was doing was staring at the wall. Dirty red-brown rust marks meandered across the cracks.
Victim. She’s a victim. I care for those, remember? I’d never have done anything like this to Elenor, or not and enjoyed it. Why was this different?
It shouldn’t be. Where had my resolution to be good gone?
Perhaps because, deep down, I’d convinced myself that I could make her like this?
Yay for me, and what a good convenient excuse. I’d beat the most hard-core alcoholic at this game – how to get your fix without breaking the rules.
I didn’t need to be a switched-on sadist to make this particular scene work. They’d left me an electric vibe to make her come. The white lead trailed across the floor to where it lay near her feet. Wrapping her in wire wasn’t a delicate composition of pain and pleasure like before. This was construction work.
Pretend you’re wrapping a cake in wire. Where was the pleasure in that?
If I got off on this, I’d be one step closer to the gutter.
“Are you doing fine, Pieter?” Even through the crackles I could hear Gregor’s amusement. “We are getting just a little bored here.”
I clenched my hand on the pliers then shuffled on the gloves. I turned and made for the wire.
“Good man!”
Fok jou.
I picked up the coil and played with the wire – bent it, got the feel of it and its springiness, tested the points on my skin. At least it seemed super clean. I looked her over, ambling in a circle while trailing my fingertips at her waist.
“Just me,” or “good girl,” I murmured now and then. Most of the bruises had faded. A new canvas for pain. Already I could imagine her squeals.
Thank god she couldn’t hear my nasty thoughts.
What was the name for a man like me? Pain-oholic sounded right though fucked-up would do too.
I started checking her body again, turning her a little this way and that with my hands at her waist, bending to kiss her back, her nape, while wondering where it would be too dangerous for those sharp points to rest. Bad was anywhere that blood would spill badly if punctured, or that would choke her, or maim her permanently. Not her throat, not her face. God, no.
Her mouth was in mid-pout, her feet flat on the floor, muscles quiet. She seemed...at rest, calm. My handling and talking had relaxed her.
I inhaled. Damn. She trusted me.
“I’m starting now.”
I began to wind on the wire, beginning with her legs. Sometimes I’d be brought up short by a glimpse of a particularly fascinating part of her body or by the leak of blood where a wire scratched her pale skin. Or, worst of all, by a restrained whimper. Those quiet female noises grabbed me every time. They were like the scent of prey to a hound on a trail. Fresh meat. Something to devour.
I’d catch myself looking or listening, shake myself, and move on. I lessened the cruelty by stroking her as I went. With the lick of my tongue and nips of teeth, I laid the ground for the course of the wire. I found ways to help her feel more than pain. I sucked on her nipples, ran my hands over her mound and all the while I desperately tried to stay disengaged.
Impossible...but I kept trying.
The wire was starting to restrict her responses to pleasure. Her body would undulate then she’d hiss or whimper, catch herself, and stiffen.
Once only, I kissed her. The softness of her lips contrasted with the hardness of the metal across her belly. I held my bare hand against the wire as I moved her lips aside with my tongue.
Her moans then that gorgeous flinch from the metal while I breathed into her mouth, kissed her hard, and penetrated her mouth with my tongue...it was so addictive.
My heart did away with blood and pumped obsession.
Where the barbs dug in just under her nipples and below her breasts, or where they pressed on her mons above her clit, I had problems. Some things were too mouthwatering to avoid seeing. My inner sadist was being bad.
