Page 103 of Ruin
Giovanna
Iwake in the black hours of the morning on my bed coming hard, unable to move my arms or legs. I’m tied—wrists to the headboard and ankles to the footboard—so that I’m spread eagle on the bed while someone eats my pussy with a persistent, steady rhythm. They don’t stop even as I scream Tommy’s name, even when the shudders of orgasm slowly fade.
It feels like a dream and it wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve woken up touching myself with Tommy’s name on my lips, but the bruising grip on my thighs, the swollen ache of my clit, let me know that this is no dream. This is Tommy. And he’s been doing this for some time.
“Tommy, please…” I try to close my legs, but the restraints hold me wide. Even if they didn’t, he pins me down, one arm locked over my thigh while his fingers fill me, fucking both holes at once as his tongue flicks mercilessly over my clit.
Rhythmic. Relentless. Hot. Wet. Tommy.
When he sucks my clit between his teeth and bites down while still tonguing me, I come so violently that I choke onhis name, the sound ripped from my throat raw and broken, bucking and jerking against his mouth. But he’s ready for me, like he’s been doing this all night, pinning my thigh down with his elbow and continuing to finger fuck me and eat me through the orgasm until I’m trembling with exhaustion.
“Tommy, stop. Please stop. I can’t…I can’t—”
I want to tell him that I can’t come again, that I don’t want to come again, that my whole body feels like a frayed electrical wire, but I know from experience that he only takes that as encouragement to prove me wrong.
When he doesn’t answer, when he continues fucking me with his fingers and tongue, I start to sob. I can feel myself melting into the bed under his touch, my body molding around his fingers.
He’s playing me like a musical instrument, and he’s a well-practiced master. There’s nothing about my body that he doesn’t know. In fact, he knows more about how to turn me inside out that I do about myself. If I had to, I couldn’t even instruct someone on how to make me feel the way Tommy does.
I’m lost in a sea of aching, searing pleasure that unwinds for hours until I feel that I cannot possibly come anymore. Finally, finally, he takes pity on me and relents. Using the flat of his tongue, he cleans my arousal from my thighs, then kisses his way up my stomach, sucking my nipples into his mouth one at a time, biting my neck. Marking me.
His face hovers over mine as tears slide down my cheeks. He looks at me with that intensity I know too well, that look that once made me feel anchored, safe, chosen. I want to beg him to stop loving me, because it’s killing me to know I can’t stay and, worse, that I can’t tell him why.
And my heart is not just breaking, it’s shattering into thousands of pieces then pulling itself together into a throbbing mass just to explode again with one look from him.
“Tell me to stay, sweet girl. Admit that you love me. Admit that you’re mine, and tell me to stay.”
I shake my head and turn away from him, unable to bear the weight of his gaze. “No.”
He slams his fist into the bed by my head, and when I scream, he is off of me and out of bed in an instant, pounding his fist through my bedroom wall over and over.
I’ve never seen him lose control, and I’m barely breathing as I watch the fury rolling off him in waves. His jeans are slung low, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his muscled back and chest that glistens in the growing morning light.
He turns back to me, his face a mask of menace, his eyes black, and he pulls something out of his pocket and snaps it open. It’s his knife, the blade glinting in the light, and I stop breathing.
I’m instantly shaking. But not from fear.
A chilling calm falls over him as he kneels between my legs. The ties hold me open, exposed, and as his eyes rake over my body possessively. He leans down, and we stare at each other a moment before he crushes his mouth into mine.
“This is my mouth,” he murmurs, biting my bottom lip until it bleeds, then swirling his tongue over the wound.
He sucks a bruise onto my breast until I whimper. “These are mine.”
He sits back on his heels, grazing the edge of the blade over my stomach and down between my legs. I suck in a breath as he watches my reaction. “This is my pussy.”
I can feel my heartbeat in every part of my body as wetheat builds. He turns the knife so the point is against my skin and drags it down to my inner thigh.
His jaw tight, he presses just hard enough for the knife point to break the skin. I gasp, and my lips part as my breath comes in, shallow and fast. He waits, his gaze locked to mine, and I know he’s asking me what I want, giving me the choice.
And fuck, I want this. I’ve fantasized about Tommy using his knife on me for years. I want the bite of the blade, I want him to make me bleed, I want his mark on me. I want visceral proof that I’m his.
I spread my thighs wider, anchoring my gaze to his. Something passes over his face, an understanding, a connection that neither of us can articulate. His face darkens in the halo of early morning light, and he sets to work.
The pain is sharp, slicing, and my breath comes in ragged gasps. He carves into the delicate skin of my inner thigh with precise, deliberate strokes, an artist with his blade. Blood slicks my skin, and he wipes it away with the sheet, focused, devoted, as though tattooing me with pain. He doesn’t look at me, but I can’t take my eyes off him, marveling at his intensity and focus.
When he finishes, he uses the knife to cut the restraints one by one, freeing me. But I don’t run. I don’t even move. I stay spread for him. His stare is hard as he lifts my thigh and licks where he cut me, revealing the design: my Shenzhen Nongke orchid surrounded by vines.
“Tommy,” I gasp. It’s beautiful.
