Faithless (Mistress & Master of Restraint) (66 page)

“Red is the color of sin,” I purr, hand seeking the whip, a fingertip caresses the leather- it’s buttery soft from use. “My name is Syn.”

Perfect black eyebrows pop at that. “Oh yeah, well then, you can call me Wicked,” he seductively teases. “Is this arousing you, little girl?”

“Oh yeah,” I moan, kneeling on the floor and not giving a shit. “My name really is Syn- it’s
short for Cynthia,” I had the patience of mind to sober up slightly. This man is pumping lust into the air, and my body is drinking it in and becoming intoxicated.

“You have nipple rings,” the man,
who lied and said his name is Wicked, purrs. “I can see them poking out your top.” His eyes burn a hole in my shirt, searing the flesh that is pierced with rings. I look down to see if my shirt caught fire and sniff to see if I can smell smoke.

“You can touch them if you let me hold the whip,” I
breathlessly purr back, crawling towards him on my knees.

“No, Little Black and Purple, no one wields my whip but me,” he throatily says, sliding to the floor beside me. His victim
is long forgotten, hanging from the wooden cross, dazed and in bliss. Wicked’s arousal grows larger as he invades my personal space. I whimper when a vision slams into my head- me, holding the whip, and running it up and down his massive cock.

“Plllleeeeeaaassseee,” I whine
, not above begging this powerful man.

“No,” he chuckles. “How about I touch you with it? Hmm? I satisfied my slave, but as you can see,” he points to his
throbbing crotch, “you interrupted my satisfaction. I’m gonna take it from you now.”

“I’m…” swallows, “I’m really good with that idea.” I left my mind at the door. I can’t think with this man’s scent filling my nostr
ils- his personality lights sex in my veins. I should have probably asked how he was going to take his pleasure from me before agreeing with it.

“I don’t go slowly,” he warns a split-second before he bites my nipple through my t-shirt. I eagerly press into
his mouth, giving him as much of my breast as he can take. Wicked’s jaw unhinges, sucking half of my breast into his mouth before he sharply bites down. I scream, fingers digging into his forearms.

The man who calls himself Wicked,
wasn’t kidding. This little man moves lighting fast. My pants are yanked to my knees, and his hand is stroking along my saturated slit in a heartbeat. I ride his hand, grunting like an animal, shuddering with wild abandon.

“I’ve never seen a woman as wet as you are, Little Black and Purple. It’s a pity we can’t fuck,” he cries in frustrated disappointment. “I’d rip this tiny cunt in half.” He unsuccessfully tries to get a third finger inside me as he rapidly finger-fucks me.

“You’ll fit,” I breathlessly plead, lifting my hips to press him deeper, “you can make it fit. Let me see it,” I demand, palm cupping over his bulge and barely covering it.

“If this will fit,” he grits out between clenched teeth, “then I will stuff my cock in you somehow.” His amber brown eyes glow with sexuality. My fingers ache to run through those silky black curls and yank his face between my quivering thighs. My body completely overpowers my thought process- the only thing I hunger for is to cum.

The whip is slowly drawn up the inside of my thigh. Gooseflesh beads on my flesh as my toes curl and my back arches. I whimper and writhe and pant.

“Can I hold it,” I beg
, wanting to grip the whip, not his cock. A hunger deeper than anything I’ve ever felt assaults me. I just know that whip belongs in my hand.

“You can most definitely hold it,” his lust-filled voice purrs as a scream is torn from my throat. The handle of the whip is thrust deep inside my body- viciously impaling me time and time again. My juices coat the leather, but it still hurts
. I can barely take it, meaning I would never accommodate his cock. He’s teaching me a vicious lesson I don’t want to learn. I whimper and try to crawl away- finding more than I bargained for in the weird rooms at the Brownstone. 

His sadistic laughter fills the room as I crawl away on hands and knees- my jeans getting twisted around my shins. He just
slides behind me, still pistoning into me with the handle. He backs me into a corner and takes me down like an injured animal- bleating in fear and pain. I’m so close to begging him to stop. But I’d asked to hold the whip, so I’ll damned well take its punishment.

Wicked- t
his man is a pain-dealer. He gets off on pain- of this I have no doubt. The front of his leather pants darken as he orgasms without making a sound- all because of my frightened reaction to the pain and pleasure.

“I won’t fit,
” he snickers, “but it doesn’t matter now,” satisfaction is thick in his voice. His amber eyes are heavily-lidded and glazed over from a high I don’t understand.

The strokes slow-
less deep, less brutal. I slump to the floor and moan- the pain turns to the sharp edge of release. He’s sadistic, but he is thanking me for his release by offering me mine. He tickles my clit with the cracker of the whip while he smoothly fucks me with the handle. I lie with my legs spread as far as my jeans will allow as he fucks me with a whip. The experience is surreal… and confusing.

I
whimper to him, whisper a cry. “I just wanted to hold the whip for some reason- I didn’t want to be brutally fucked by it.”

His laugh trills down my spine as his hand moves faster, harder. The leather is saturated, smoothly surging and retreating into and out of my body.
My body tightens, ripples waving down my abdomen… I don’t want to cum on it, but I’m going to if he doesn’t stop.

“Dexter!” Grant’s bellow has the man between my legs scurrying away from me in a heartbeat. “What. The. Fuck?”

“Um… I guess you didn’t send me an eager little Domme to play with? She really wanted to hold my whip,” the man blushes, looking embarrassed. “So I let her,” he says with a laugh.

“Dexter?” I whisper. I shuffle to my knees, pulling my pants back up. “This is bad, so very bad,” I cry. Looking down, I see the wet spot
over my nipple where Dexter bit and slobbered on my shirt. “Dexter Hayes, as in Marcus Zeitler’s cousin… as in best friends with Grant and Marc,” my voice cracks.

“I see my reputation precedes me,” Dexter says with a sharp laugh. “
I’m also known as Master Dexter or the Sadist.”

“Oh fuck,” I whimper.

“Syn?” Grant sighs. “Dexter, she is off limits. She is also very underage… and the girl I wanted you to mentor when she was finally of age,” Grant stresses.

“Um… my bad?” Dexter acts unaffected, like he doesn’t give a shit. “Well, Little Black and Purple, hit me up in a couple years. Maybe by then I’ll be able to fit more of my whip in you- then you can finally hold it
in your palm.”

Grant picks me up and tosses me over his shoulder before I can attack that ass! I
look at Dexter as Grant charges away, every step bobbing my head. Dexter wears a satisfied smile, chuckling softly to himself and murmuring to the man tied to the wooden structure. Dexter is pleased with himself… and I’m equally disappointed in myself.

~Chapter Fifty-Six~

“Goddammit, Faith,” Grant snarls
as he forcefully tosses me to his bed, as if he can’t wait to have his hands off of me. I lay in a stunned sprawl, a war playing out inside my head. I’m so disgusted with myself that I want to be sick, but I’m so turned on that I would kill for release.

I instantly go on the defensive because I’m so angry at myself- Grant will be my outlet.
“Don’t call me that,” I growl, never wanting to hear the name that my momma gave me. I’m not that innocent girl anymore- if I ever was. I’m not sweet or loving or caring or kind. I’m a murderer, a whore, and a sadist. My kind of person cannot walk around with the name Faith- it feels wrong somehow.

“I am not calling you that God forsaken name, Faith,” Grant hisses, fingers tightening around my ankle and yanking. Grant isn’t a big guy, but damn if he can’t toss me around like a ragdoll… and if that doesn’t just piss me off. I’m shoved up the mattress. With a flick of his wrist, the co
vers hide my body, as if he can’t stand looking at the sight of me, either.

“SYN,” I hiss like a snake. I don’t know why I’m furious at Grant, but I am. Ah… fuck… who am I kidding? I’m directing my anger onto him when I should be punching myself in that stupid, slut of a cunt of mine. Holy shit, I fucked up. But I have too much pride to admit it.

“Faith,” Grant says in challenge, blue eyes as cold as a glacier and just as destructive. One look at Grant and I sink like the Titanic. I slump to the bed and try not to cower in shame.

“I’m sorry,” I whimper from numb lips. I give up the fight and cover myself to my chin. My body trembles under the blanket, not feeling any of the warmth and comfort it usually provides. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I whine. 

“You’re fucked in the head, that’s what’s wrong with you,” Grant’s vicious words stun me stupid. But he’s grinning at me, like he thinks it’s funny when it isn’t. “Faith,” he sighs. “I’d ask what you are thinking, but I already know.”

“You don’t know anything,” I growl, lashing out like a wounded animal.

“Here is what I do know. You’re using your body to hurt yourself. You’re internal dialogue provides a crisp image of blue eyes and blonde hair. A long time ago this visage looked just like Gwen. But now the eyes staring back at you are your own. You walk around with a phrase on repeat-
Faith the Whore
. So you rename yourself Syn, cover your body in tattoos, blacken and chop your hair off, and put in a pair of contacts. But you can never escape yourself. No matter what you do, you will always be that Faith, the Faith you’ve created in your mind. How close am I, Faith? Truth?” Grant calmly and soothingly says, but his lips are twisted in a sly, challenging smirk.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I badly deny. I bury my head in my blankets, but a sharp tug from Grant and I’m exposed to
his vision. My eyes glare at the bedding that now lines the floor. I watch Grant’s eyes to see where they light, but they never leave my face.

“I’ll raise you another one,” Grant arrogantly says, settling on the edge of the bed.

I challenge Grant to look away from my eyes and see where Dexter had sucked at my tit. I want to strip myself naked, so that I can see the look of disgust flash across Grant’s expression when he sees how I’ve disfigured myself. I want to see a spark of lust when he looks at my breasts… but after what he just saw Dexter doing to me, I don’t blame him for not wanting me. And if that doesn’t make me meaner than cat shit! 

“Piss off,” I hiss. “You don’t kn
ow jack-shit about me, Grant. I’m going home.” I snarl, raising my upper lip off of my teeth. Grant’s deep from the chest laugh makes me furious. I pound him with my pillow, a bit of my fist joining the action.

“Lash out, Faith, I dare you,” Grant taunts, getting into my face. His hot breath billows out his lips and warms my forehead. “You want to get your rocks off on hitting me? You want to deflect for the truth I’m speaking. I’m your friend and you need help. You won’t ask for it. God forbid you ever ask for it. The only thing you beg for is a fuck,” he nastily snarls.

“That was uncalled for,” I cry in shame, needing something to hide behind- a shield for my disgrace. 

“Was it?” Grant nastily twists the words. “I’m your friend. Your very committed with a girlfriend and kids, friend- the boyfriend of the woman who befriended you as a child- and you hit on me, you try to seduce me,” Grant snarls in my face, spittle hitting my cheek. “The man who w
ants to be your father, you made a pass on him as a test to see if he would fail you. We are here to support you, to help you grow up, and you spit in our faces with sex. That disgusts me as much as it disgusts you.”

I start to cry, little hiccup-like sobs erupting from my throat. “Knock it off, I’m not buying the shit you’re selling,” Grant says with a sinister laugh. “We’ve talked about good touch, bad touch. But since the demon is in your own head, what the fuck good is it. You won’t listen. I know you are ashamed over what you
just did with Dexter… that man was Dexter, Goddammit! Best friends are off limits.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know,” I whine, and it angers me. I should
’ve known, because I should’ve asked who he was. I shouldn’t have messed around with a stranger. Grant is right, the demon is in my head- and it makes me repeatedly lash out… and do very, very bad things.

“I don’t need a
nother fucking lecture. You’re just wishing you could have changed places with Dexter,” I snarl through the tears. “And you hit on me first,” I mumble, knowing he is right. He said he could look but not touch. But last time I saw him, I tried to make him touch just to see if I could. I felt rejected by everyone and I knew he’d reject me, too. I’m not proud of how I’ve behaved lately.

“No shit, you need your head ripped off and put back on straight. Goddammit, Faith, this has got to stop. You are going to sit here and listen, and it’s going to sink in, or I’m getting Dexter
, and he’s going to beat it into you. And if you were really sorry, you’d knock it the fuck off and act like the person you
really
are.”