Bound to Accept (19 page)

A muscle in his jaw twitches. For a
moment, Tristan looks as though he is planning on telling me,
“no.”

Then he sighs and shakes his
head.

“
I'll come by tomorrow for
the key.”

We have sex several more
times that week. Tristan tells me it's because he wants me ready,
so I don't get hurt during the scene. “You're still
so
damn tight,” he
explained on the first of these occasions. I was tied to his bed
and that time, we used the clamps. He put the chain in my mouth
instead, and commanded me to tug with every thrust, leaving my
nipples deliciously sore.

At the end of the week, he invites me
over for lunch. “I'm going to cook for you,” he informs me, which
turns out to mean limp noodles in tomato sauce. They remind me of
flaccid penises, and when I tell him why I'm laughing, he pushes
his plate aside and tells me to strip. “I'll teach you to be
thankful for what's on your plate,” he says, in that low voice that
means we're about to play. The moment I'm naked, he pushes me
against the fridge and takes me from behind.

Sex was starting to feel
pretty good, or at least not painful, but this—
this
hurts almost as much as him
fingering me that first time did (although not as much as having my
hymen broken).

“
Sharper angle, pony
girl.” His hands clench into fists on either side of me, making the
veins pop out. “Deeper penetration. I'm buried so deeply inside of
you right now, I'm practically under your skin.”

I shudder. Even though it hurts, the
combination of his body heat, the chill of the metal fridge, and
his velvety words is overwhelming. Enough to push me over the edge
from pain to arousal.

Sex, I am quickly learning, is an
excuse to say all the outlandish things that would sound truly
psychotic under any other circumstances.

Tristan curves his arm around my hips
and starts massaging my clit as he thrusts into me from behind. His
nose is buried in my hair, and every time he exhales, his breath
tickles the back of my neck. He whispers, “Sometimes, I think I can
smell you on my clothes, on my sheets. It gets me hard every time,
thinking about all the ways I can fuck your cunt and get you wet
for me.”

Tristan starts squeezing,
quick little bursts of pain that sync up with his pumping hips. I
rest my burning forehead against the cold fridge, and my breath
fogs up the metal. I can see my face, glazed with lust.
Oh
.

“
I can smell how hot you
are for me right now.” His teeth graze the back of my ear. “It's
even better fresh.”

He releases my clit with that last
thrust, and it's too soon, and I don't reach orgasm. I sink against
the wall, breathing hard, buzzing with frustration. My ears are
ringing a little, and I'm far too hot, especially between my legs.
Tristan's sweat-slicked chest slides against my back as he pulls
away far enough to turn me around.

Tristan pushes his hair out of his
face with both hands, and a few drops of sweat sprinkle to the
floor. “Well,” he says heavily, “if you can manage doggie-style,
you should be fine. That's as deep as I can go.”

I can still feel him. It's like he
branded the inside of me. I squeeze my thighs together, putting
pressure on my aching clit. “Okay,” I say breathlessly.

“
This is your last chance
to reconsider. You'll have your safeword, but that's
it.”

Another discreet clench. “I'll do
it.”

I wait until he's in the shower before
finishing myself off, and when I do, I'm imagining him on top of
me, pinning down my wrists with those big hands. I'm so turned on
that it only takes a few frenzied passes of my trembling fingers to
make myself come.

The next day, a package
from UPS arrives.
Rushed
, I notice, given the stamp on
the box. I open it up with a knife from the kitchen. Inside the box
is a very short plaid skirt, a white underbust corset, and a little
red blazer with some made-up school crest. Beneath all this, in
separate bags, are white knee-high socks, black Mary Janes, a
necktie that matches the skirt, and a plaid, crotchless G-string.
There's no question who it's from.

Or why.

One orange, one
pink
.

In case there was any
ambiguity, I receive a text message that says only,
TONIGHT
.

My insides twist around
like crumpled metal. Tonight. He's coming tonight. But
when
? That could span
anywhere from 6 P.M. to midnight.

I pull on the costume. Everything
fits…although the skirt is so short it doesn't fully cover my butt,
and while the ruffled corset pushes my breasts up very perkily, it
also leaves them completely bare. I loop the necktie around my
throat—it comes pre-tied, all you have to do is loop it over your
head and cinch it—and slide my arms into the blazer. It's very
tight, and nips in at the waist. I clomp to the hall mirror in my
Mary Janes and wince.

Lolita, much?

I decide not to linger on the
implications of him wanting to enact a rape fantasy with a
schoolgirl.

At 6 P.M., I drag
Garfield's box from the hall to the bathroom, careful not to spill
any of the cat sand. My cat hovers, watching me from behind the
laundry hamper.
What the fuck are you
doing?
He is clearly thinking.

I'm asking myself the same
question.

I open up a can of tuna—and the moment
he hears the pop of the lid, Garfield is at my side like magic I
pour the canned tuna into his supper dish and take it into the
bathroom. “Come on, Garf. Follow your dinner.” I set it down on the
bathroom floor. “In here.”

His tail swishes once before curling
straight up. A new place to eat! He is absolutely
delighted—

Until the door clicks shut.

While my cat yowls and scratches at
the door, I wash my hands at the kitchenette's sink and prepare my
own dinner. Instant ramen, cooked on the stove instead of in the
microwave. I chop up some green onions and carrots and add half a
cup of frozen shrimp to the boiling water to make it more healthy.
It's still got two days' worth of a full serving of salt, but I
don't care.

I finish the meal with a glass of
wine, and then wash the dishes and leave them to dry in the dish
rack. Every creak of the house settling in the night sounds like a
canon in my ears. At one point, I think I hear the door crack open,
but when I go into the hall to investigate, the lock remains
mockingly in place.

I glance at the clock. It's 9:30 P.M.
Maybe something came up. Tristan didn't sound very enthusiastic
about the rape fantasy. Although why would he message me to tell me
it's on and send me a sexy costume to wear for when we play and
then blow me off? It doesn't make sense. “Stupid Tristan,” I
mutter. I don't understand.

At least Garfield is finally silent.
He sounded really unhappy, like I was torturing him by locking him
in there. I hope he's found something to amuse himself with, even
if that means he's chewed up all my toilet paper. Maybe he'll even
forgive me when I let him out.

I collapse on my bed. My current
choice of underwear means I'll have to wash the sheets tomorrow and
the polyester blazer is irritating my nipples, making them itch
like crazy, but I need to rest my eyes. Just for a moment. Then
I'll change back into my pajamas and let Garfield out of the
bathroom, and try to figure out what to say to Tristan that doesn't
consist of “What the fuck?”

But the moment my eyes slip closed,
something creaks. Very loudly. My heart picks up. But it's been
doing this all evening, my poor heart, jumping at every little
thing, just like a scared rabbit.

It's only the house
settling
, I think.

—
Until a gloved hand
clamps over my mouth, filling my lungs with the sour tang of
leather, muffling my subsequent scream. I don't recognize my voice.
Muted by the thick leather glove, it sounds so high and
thin.

A man wearing a balaclava is leaning
over me. Only his eyes and mouth are revealed. He's straddling me,
squeezing my arms to my sides, leaving me completely immobile. His
lips part in a savage sneer as he glimpses my reaction. “Well,
well.”

I flinch. His voice is a horrible
parody of Tristan's.

In that low, raspy voice, he says,
“What have we here?” He shoves my blazer aside and grabs one of my
breasts, rubbing one leather-covered thumb over the nipple. “For
me? It's not even my birthday.”

He pinches me. I jolt beneath him, and
a little trickle of moisture drips between my legs. I can feel his
hard cock spearing into my belly, how it jerks whenever I flinch. I
whimper, and he casually, almost boredly, slaps me in the face. Not
hard enough to hurt, but enough to shock, and my jaw drops behind
his hand.

“
Listen up, you little
slut,” he says, in that rough, gravelly tone. “I'm going to take
whatever I want from you and you're going to give it to me, because
if you don't, I'll fucking kill you.”

And to my very real terror, he pulls
out a knife.

Chapter Twelve

Tristan,
my
Tristan, is standing
over me with a knife, and he looks just scary enough that I wonder
if he'll use it.

He takes his hand from my mouth to
draw one of his fingers down my cheek. The tips come back wet. “Why
are you crying? I haven't even cut you, yet.”

Yet
.

Oh my God.

“
You…you wouldn't really,”
I say hoarsely.

His lips part in a smile. “You want to
find out?”

I begin to struggle in earnest. But I
freeze when the point of the knife comes to rest on one of my
nipples. He traces the aureola with the blade, and the cold metal
makes the skin dimple and pucker. He does the same thing to my
other breast, and I don't dare move.

“
So you like it rough.” He
strokes my left nipple, then gives it a sharp twist with a flick of
his fingers, drawing a cry from my lips that is only partially due
to pain. My breathing quickens and he says, “Kinky
slut.”

Adrenaline floods my body.
Impulsively, I head-bonk him, and, not expecting this, he curses
and drops the knife. He reaches for it, shifting his weight, and by
wriggling back and forth, I manage to free my hands.

I tackle him, groping for the mask, if
only to reassure myself that it really is Tristan under there. He
pushes me back. I lift my feet to push him, and he catches me by
the heels and yanks, tugging my socks off as well as pushing me
back. “Your cunt looks wet.”

The crotchless panties.
When I lifted my legs, I must have given him a full view. I slap
him—he deserves it, for being such an asshole—and he snatches that
wrist.
“Bitch.”

He transfers my restrained hand to one
of his and ties the sock around my other wrist. Then Tristan yanks
me to my feet—but he releases my sockless hand. I try to shove him
away. He grabs me again, and draws both hands behind my back,
knotting them tightly together. Then he closes his hand around my
throat and shakes me.

“
I'm going to fuck you so
hard, you're going to
bleed
come.”

My gut clenches like a vise. I want
him to fuck me. This is the man who had been hiding in the shadows.
The man who can make cruelty into an erotic game.

He's edging me forward, with pushes
and rough shoves. When I make a halfhearted attempt to skirt past
him, he throws out an arm to bar my bath. Pretty soon, my butt hits
the kitchen counter. He has herded me halfway across the
room.

Sweat beads on my skin, soaking into
the cheap polyester fabric. Tristan leans down and I tense as he
lets his tongue trail from my neck to my cheek. One of his hands is
in my hair, and he uses it to jerk my head to the side. “You taste
like fear.”

He lets his other hand slip under my
too-short skirt, into my folds. I choke and squirm as those
leather-clad fingers find my clit and start rubbing, very roughly.
He's hurting me, but little sparks of pleasure flare up along with
the pain because he knows exactly how to play me, and pretty soon
I'm arching into him.

His teeth close over the place where
my pulse pounds most heavily in my throat, and he sucks the skin
between his lips, making a tight, painful seal.

“
You smell,” he says,
slowly lifting his head back to my upturned ear, “like a bitch in
heat.” And he releases my head and shoves me back against the
counter, sending my mail scattering across the floor as he moves
his fingers even faster.

“
No.”
It comes out as a low moan. What I really mean is
yes
. And I can tell by
the gleam in his eyes that he knows that, can tell by how much
rougher he gets.

“
Shut your mouth, or I'll
put my cock in it.”

I'm so close, but he's
hurting me,
bruising
me. “Please,” I pant. “Please, I have to come. It
hurts
.”