Page 81 of Beautiful Liar

22

FREEZE FRAME

It is a deliberate, chilling move.

Calculated to what? Frighten me? Remind me that I’ve let a total stranger fuck me senseless? Or that he’s in control? That I belong to him and he has the power to do with me as he pleases?

Each thought sends a shiver rippling over me. Each shiver centers on the cold metal resting on my back.

Is he wearing a mask? That voice…the metal… Is he some sort of bionic man? But I felt his mouth, his tongue. His cock. Whatever he is, a greater part of him is human. But his face…

The more that the part of my mind not flooded with panic ponders the question, the more I steer away from the absurd. He’s not a bionic freak. But it’s possible he may be damaged somehow.

The voice, the mask, the need for anonymity…it makes sense.

My heart lurches.

“Are…are you okay?” I venture.

He tenses, but he doesn’t move away. “I should be asking you that. Are you?”

My sex throbs as if a thousand drops of wax have been dripped onto it. I’ll be sore as hell for a long while, but I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

He lets out a small grunt of disbelief, but he doesn’t vocally contradict me. His fingers trail down my sides, pause when I jerk a little in reaction to the ultra-sensitivity.

“The cameras are off,” he says.

A thick knot of tension releases, and I sag deeper into the bed. We remain like that, my hands still tied above my head, his body bracketing mine. My eyesight still blackened.

“Can I take the blindfold off?”

He doesn’t respond for several seconds. “No.”

It’s a definitive answer, but I swallow and try and find words that won’t cause offense. “I…I don’t care what you look like.”

A harsh, metallic laugh that burns my skin. “Yes. You do.” Again definitive.

This time I heed it and remain silent. He continues to caress me, even though the gentleness is gone. Both hands reach beneath my body and cup my breasts.

Inside me, I feel his thickness expand.

“Shit, I want to fuck you again.”

My groan escapes before I can stop it.

“My body. My cunt.” A harsh claiming, tinged with rage.

My belly quivers. He’s angry. I’m not exactly sure why. He pulls out of me and slides his cock, slick with our mingled juices, upward between my butt cheeks. Back and forth he rocks, his hands still squeezing and teasing my breasts.

“If I decide to fuck you again, no cameras. Just for me this time, would you object?”

Two parts of what he’s just said jars me cold. What does he mean by just for him? And hadn’t he reminded me a moment ago that my body belonged to him? My frown replicates the confusion twisting through my brain. “I…”

“You like to be fucked, Lucky. There’s no shame in admitting it.”

I shake my head because he’s wrong. I don’t like to be fucked. At least, I didn’t until tonight. Until he gave me three orgasms I only ever managed by my own hand a million years ago, when sex was a cozy mystery not a clinical reality with the sole objective of putting food in my stomach.

“You own me. For a month. Fucking me when you please is part of the deal.” I use my best The Villa voice, even though deep inside I’m confounded by what he said.

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