Page 73 of Hunted Mate
“Silver,” he says. “It is one of the things werewolves are weak to, as you are well aware. It shouldn’t hurt, but it will weaken you. You won’t be getting up. You’ll be at my mercy.”
I feel a tingle of excitement at the prospect of helplessness. I haven’t felt helpless in a long time, and yet somehow I’ve always felt helpless. Vulnerability is the flame to which I am drawn, and the same flame that burns me. So I let him place silver over my upstretched arms.
The chains are wrapped in soft fabric to stop my skin from being burned, but they’re close enough to me that I can feel the wild animal thing settling inside me, withdrawing like waves on a beach when the tide is going out. It feels peaceful.
“Does that hurt?”
“No,” I say. “Feels nice. Kind of heavy.”
“Good. That’s what I want. I want you to know that you’re not beyond containment. I know you think you’re strong—and you are. But you still need to be aware that everything and everyonehas their weak spots. All monsters can be beaten by the right hero. There are tales upon tales teaching us that.”
“Do you think I’m a monster?” My voice quavers a little as I ask the question.
“You’re my little monster,” he says. “And yes, I can and will dominate you. For both our enjoyment.”
And that’s exactly what he does.
With my hands pinned above my head, my power bound by silver, he spreads my legs and feasts between my thighs, hungry like the wolf he is. His tongue is agile and insistent, his lips finding my clit and suckling on it enough to make my hips draw up with the pleasure of his mouth, seeking more stimulation.
“You’re mine,” he tells me. I don’t need the words, because I feel his ownership in every long, languorous lap of his tongue. The way he touches me, the way he looks at me, there’s no doubt that I am the sole object of his desire, not too much, not too little. I am his.
He takes me to the brink of climax with his tongue, then backs away, not giving me the satisfaction.
“Do you want something, little one?” He rumbles the question as I squirm my hips and try to move my arms. There’s no way to pull them out of the silver shackles, because the strength in my limbs truly does seem to have been sapped. He knows how to make me small again, physically and mentally.
“Let me come,” I moan as his fingertips dance lightly around my clit, not giving me the satisfaction of finding my bud.
“You’re going to come,” he says, a deep chuckle in his voice. “But you’ll do it when I tell you to, and not before.”
“Please,” I moan. “I’ve been so good.”
“When were you good, sweetheart? When you stole a car and menaced the local police?”
“I was so good at that,” I giggle. “But I mean the rest of it. I mean, I was good with your family…”
“When you called my father and taunted him until he showed up here with a small army?”
A sharp stinging slap lands on my pussy.
“When you ensured that the secret of your true nature became public, even common knowledge almost immediately?”
Another slap lands.
“When you ran your mouth and acted out and generally didn’t stop to let me catch up with you, and forced me to hunt you down?”
Two more slaps, both stinging against my wet, swollen pussy lips. The pain just makes me want it more, more spanking, more pain, more tongue, more cock, more everything.
“I’ll always hunt you down,” he says, finally letting me have some contact, lightly rubbing his fingers across my wet, aroused clit. “I’ll always find you. And when you’re a naughty girl, I’ll always punish you.”
Another several slaps dance over my slit and clit as I writhe in place, unable to escape either the silver chains or the whipping motion of his fingers.
“Please!” I moan.
“Please what?”
“Please let me…”
“Let you what?” He pushes the question, making me admit my desires.
