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A black gloved hand clasps over my mouth.
I’m pulled back, startled, held tight against a rock-hard body. A body with a long and hefty rock-hard cock at the front of it, pressing against the soft, shaking cheeks of my ass. the thick, powerful thigh presses between mine.
Muffled against my throat, under my ear, a voice grunts and snarls,
I gasp at the shock, and the sound of the voice.
“You want this.”
The other hand slides my skirt up my leg.
CHAPTER SEVEN
My reactions are not be what they should be. I know that. But I’ve always been a junkie for danger.
Inside, I’m exploding. I want it so much I could scream. I can’t speak through the hand. His grip is so strong, I can’t even nod. His huge other hand moves up my thigh, feeling its way toward my heat.
Strong fingers slip around, over my skirt to my inner thigh, making me bend forward. I shimmy and wriggle, but I’m only pressing harder against the stiffening cock behind me.
More than hearing the low burr of the words, I feel the vibration and hot breath from the man’s firm lips. He growls, so deep and low, I can’t hear his voice. I can smell him, though. I can taste his breath.
“You should take better care of your security, little princess.”
A thwack on my ass, open-handed, hard and sharp, slams a shock wave shooting through my whole body.
I’m heating up, gushing inside and dripping. The sting glows on my ass . My breath judders and my panties are already drenched.
Dreams and fantasies like this lurked and lured in the darker corners of my mind and around the intimate folds in my body since I was — let’s just say for a long time. And they’re still with me. They make me ashamed. I feel guilty for feeling this way, even though I know that I can’t help it.
It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s part of me.
The heart wants what the heart wants. Mine is still. Suspended.
In my fantasies, I take that cock. I drain the balls that fill it. Pounding, beating, pulling, swallowing. Anything to milk that heat and power. In any number of ways, in every perverse position I can imagine — and I have a filthy imagination — I squeeze and pump and lick and suck every last drop out of that shaft, before I despatch its owner.
There are very few people I can stand to even know these things about me. Three people, to be precise. Three very big, ruthless killers.
One is the man I was sent to be sold to. That’s who this is, holding me still. Making my tremble in fear and anticipation. The 0 are known as his older siblings, though that hardly does justice to the warped and twisted relationships between them.
They keep my secrets, and I keep all of theirs. Their secrets are as deep and dark as mine, so we all have to trust each other with our very lives.
But whatever happens, there is one secret I have to keep from them. Come what may, they must never learn the truth about one event that took place in that terrible old house. The place where we met. The dark rooms and corridors and cavernous basements of a house of hell.
I want to have the place demolished so much. It would give me such pleasure to see it detonated, burst and imploded. Burned to the ground and smashed into dust and rubble, and then have a pit, a quarry gouged out of the ground where it stood.
But my Fortuna men will never stand for that. They don’t want me to have their family home consumed in fire, blasted and ground out of the earth. Among it’s dark spaces and hidden corners, it holds all of their memories.
Maybe they have some childhood moments, splashes of light and sunshine with smiles and gurgles of laughter. I never heard of any of those.
The memories of theirs that I know, the ones that they keep tight, hold close to the burning beat in their breasts are the memories that most people would run from, screaming as loud as they could to try and shake the sounds and images out from their minds.
But I suppose the childhood you had will always be a part of you. Whatever it was, you have to keep it, like a dark, creaking attic. A dusty room with odd noises and no light. A place where no-one goes. Somewhere you know you should get everything cleared out of, but you keep it, all of it, for an imaginary day.
You keep it for the day when you can sit and sort through it all. Open old boxes and sort through things you’d forgotten. Piles of old, forgotten things, where every frail and tiny one of them sparks up a showreel of places and events, faces and sounds, a world of memory, all of it packed in haphazard heaps.
Piles of boxes under dusty old sheets, waiting for you to sort through, make neat stacks, pack and unpack boxes. Put the memories into order. Make sense of them so you can put them back in order. Back to rest in their a long awaited and sorely needed, undisturbed and peaceful slumber.
Then you will have come to terms with it all. You can be at peace with it. But that long afternoon never seems to get any nearer. You know that it’s something you need to do, and that you’ll never have any true peace or complete rest until you do sort through it all.
