As the sky outside darkens, painting the room with purples and blues, the dim overhead light of the twisted wrought iron chandelier glints against the three slimline metal appendages, in the place where her fingers would be. Fixed in place with a strap pulled taut around her palm, you’d never notice the difference with her glove on. I wonder whether she lost them or whether they were taken. Just the thought of someone holding her down and hurting her enrages me, my blood boiling in my veins. The undercurrent of torment that lingers behind this woman’s eyes lets me know she hasn’t had it easy, and Grimmville is known for attracting the worst of the worst, so it isn’t a stretch to assume she’s had a rough history.
I silently vow to never let anyone hurt her again. My raging pulse softening in it’s intensity as the anger subsides, allowing me to be distracted once again by this beautiful muse. If I have to murder people in an attempt to avenge her, I won’t think twice, but right now, all that matters is her, in this moment, safe with me. A part of me feels a twinge of guilt at seeing something I suspect she keeps hidden from the world. But I didn’t get thrown in here because I did what was expected of me as a law-abiding stand-up member of society.
I take, I take until I’ve had my fill. I take until I get what I want.
My life has never afforded me the respite of feeling remorse. Guilt was a sign of weakness, and my father would rather have seen me dead in a gutter than weak. Fighting back the memories of his disappointment, I swallow down the emotion lodged in my throat. The memory of her lavender and honeyed almond scent, of how her eyes glittered as she gazed up at me when she first arrived, that hitch of a breath she struggled to contain when she first saw me—those were the things I had to concentrate on; those are what are important right now.
If only she knew just how familiar we are now, how deeply entrenched my desire to bring her wave after wave of pleasure is. I’m quickly realising there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to have her be mine.
For a man who lost his morality years ago, that spells out danger.
“Oh Mr. Wolfe, we shouldn’t be doing this,” she says breathily, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip.
“Doing what?” I ask aloud, even though I know she can’t hear me as I get to my feet.
“What, this? How slowly would you like it removed?” She slides the material of her dress over each of her shoulders, teasingly slow as she locks gazes with her reflection.
I lean against the ledge below the window, getting in close so I can imagine it’s me she’s looking at.
“Oh, what big hands you have…” Her comment is one whimper away from having me come in my trousers here and now as I imagine my big hand wrapped so snugly around that pretty little neck of hers. Squeezing against her pulse points as the blood rushes to her head and her lids flutter closed. Her smile growing as I flex my grip, stealing away the oxygen from her lungs as she falls to her knees at my feet. My cock is twitching and painfully hard like it’s searching out due north and she’s my compass.
The material of her uniform pools around her feet, and I decide if I ever get Cara to myself away from this place, I will have her spend as much time as is humanly possible, bared to me like this.She wears a simple black two piece, the thin ruffled lace straps of her underwear sitting high on her soft shapely hips.
“You can do better than that,” she murmurs tauntingly, her lips inches away. Now psychopath is usually a word I set aside for when I really want someone to be afraid of me, but as Istand here, questioning the brute force it would take to break this glass with my fist, I’m cursing out the imaginary version of myself she’s got locked in her head who is clearly not doing a good enough job to please our woman. I have officially lost the fucking plot, and if I’m really honest, I didn’t have much plot to note before I entered this room.
She runs her fingers teasingly under the waistband of her lace thong. If she were three inches taller, I’d be able to feast my eyes on what she’s doing right now, but sadly with her this close, the edge of the mirror stops right above her hips.
“You want me?” she asks coyly. Her laboured breathing picking up pace as her grin widens.
“Fuck yes, I want you, little Red.” It’s a promise; whether she heard it or not in this moment ceases to be important.
Cara Morgrieves will be mine.
“Just like that,” she moans. “Oh God, I’m close.”
‘About fucking time, imaginary us, let’s do this,’the little voice in my head cheers, and for once, I feel like we’re on the same page.
Her dainty hand spreads across her chest, her prosthetic fingers dancing up the column of her throat before squeezing with all her might, the glittering metal like a necklace adorning her neck. Her head snaps back as her other hand out of view picks up its pace. I imagine her sliding her fingers between her folds, lavishing her clit with attention, just like I want to. I practically hump the mirror, my cheek flat against the cool surface to get a glimpse of what she’s doing with that hand of hers. It isn’t enough to know she’s touching herself and imagining it is me doing it to her. I want to see it, to see her, laid out like my next meal, writhing and begging for me to soothe the ache I can see building in her expression.
“Mr. Wolfe, oh, ahhhh, what big teeth…ahhh. Please,” she begs, raspy and guttural as she squeezes her eyes shut. Hersweat speckled forehead presses against the glass, her chest heaving as the lace of her bra struggles to contain her breasts. I let myself imagine that I can smell her lavender and honeyed almond scent mixed with the arousal coating her fingers—teasing myself as I palm my aching cock roughly. It’s been a while since my last release, so I doubt I’ll last long. Thankfully, she’s not in the room with me to witness it.
I question for a moment whether I am dreaming; I could have been given endless chances to guess how this would play out when I’d had the idea of putting her in this room, and I still wouldn’t have been able to come up with this.
How many drugs did they give me at breakfast?
Slapping myself around the face hard enough to make me dizzy settles any wonder I may have had as to whether I’m dreaming right now. I stumble back in place. A palm pressed against the glass to steady myself as I watch her cheeks flush crimson.
I’ve been strapped to a chair, burnt with lit cigarettes, stripped naked, electrocuted and water boarded, all in one sitting, and I still consider this moment the most torture I’ve ever had to endure.
Loosening the tie at my waistband, I reach down and grip my fist around my cock, working from base to tip slowly and wishing it were her hand wrapped around it. It’s painfully hard, the stuttered growl bursting from my lips burning my throat as I fight to keep my eyes open and on her. Like an eager teenager witnessing a woman for the first time, I stroke myself faster. My control pushed to its limit as I envisage the warm, wet heat of burying myself inside her. How beautiful she’d look gagging with hollow cheeks around the girth of my cock. Each rung of my metal piercings clanking against her teeth as she swallows me down her throat.
Her eyes are shut tight, her lower lip pulled between her teeth as her imagination fuels whatever the desire is that has her mewling like a cat in heat as she rides her own hand. Cascading blonde curls fall forward over her shoulders. What I wouldn’t give to be the one bringing her to the brink of madness as she falls below the choppy waters of her crashing orgasm. It’s there, I can see that she is close as her mouth parts and her exhales become harried. I push away the side note question of how many fingers she’s currently thrusting up into herself because time is of the essence, and I’m trying to commit to memory everything I can about this moment.
She presses her free hand against the mirror as her body shakes, the grinding scrape of the metal against the glass making me wish she was clawing at my bare chest, using me to sate all that pent-up frustration. I can tell the moment her pleasure comes to a grinding halt, the vexation that it is her hand working her up when her brows pinch together. I know the look because I am fucking my fist like my life depends on it right now, and I would give anything to be buried to the hilt inside her while she screams out my name.
Working herself back up, determination creases her brow as her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “Please Ezra, please…” It’s that pleading whimper and her cry of my name that has reason hightailing it out of the room, and I snap, done with this little game.
“Fuck this!” I turn arse out, picking up the closest object, aiming the tip of it at the corner of the mirror insert, ready to shatter the divide keeping us apart to climb into her room and to give her what she needs. A knock on her door is the only thing that stops me.
