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He released his grip on my throat and I gasped, trembling, letting my head fall against his chest. I could almost hear his smile as he stroked my tangled hair and let me recover. A minute passed; my breath steadied and I lifted my head to meet his wolfish gaze.
"Dear heart," I murmured gently, "Where do you think I got these?" I convinced one of my hands to relinquish its death-grip on his shirt and lifted it to my shoulder. With one finger I traced a set of three shallow slices just below the strap of my tank top, then two more along the curve of my bicep, and another along the veins of my forearm. "I didn’t do these myself, love." I’m not sure if it’s a curse or a blessing of being a known cutter who’s also into blood- and knife-play, that when mysterious wounds show up on my arms, people assume they know the story behind them and don’t ask.
He followed my finger with his own, hovering above my skin as if afraid to touch. The question in his eyes was unmistakable when he looked back at my face. Oh, this was going to be fun! I love the man, but he’s got quite an ego, and I enjoy poking at it from time to time. And this time I had a nice sharp stick to do it with.
"No," I continued, my voice a low purr, "I didn’t do these. But I held very, very still as he –" my boyfriend "– dragged the point of his knife over my skin…across my throat, my lips…while he held it so close to my eye my lashes brushed cold steel…and I fought to control myself and not writhe and struggle when he chose a spot and stopped teasing me, pressing until my skin parted for him and my blood welled up, while I stared at him and nearly came just from seeing the intensity and power in his eyes as he hurt me."
By the end of my dramatic recitation, my voice had become a breathy pant, trembling slightly, half with the actual arousal provoked by the memory, half an affectation to put on a show for Cal. And it seemed to be working, too. His lips had parted slightly, his pupils were dilated, and I was certain he was imagining himself in my boyfriend’s place, exerting that same power and control over my flesh.
I waited a moment for him to come back from the fantasy I’d woven between us. After a half dozen heartbeats, he stopped looking through me and his gaze sharpened, fixing me under a glare that seemed to be hovering on the edge of true anger. My heart skipped a beat, but I raised my chin defiantly. Not that I can’t be taken down by a competent Dom willing to meet me head-on and overpower me, but I like to make them work for it – and I like to taste my helplessness at being truly overmatched, which I don’t get the same feeling of if I surrender right off the bat. Besides, Cal's good in bed, and he can play a little bit rough with me because he knows I respond well to it, but he's not a real sadist, not a real dominant.
I held his eyes, proud and defiant, waiting to see if he would push past my resistance and force my surrender. Still, for all my careful watching, he took me by surprise when he suddenly caught my freshly-marked shoulder in a bruising grip. I know how strong his hands can be – I’d just finished feeling them around my neck, after all – but it startled me anyway, the direct pressure to still-healing wounds wringing an involuntary sound of pain from me. He smiled a little, but didn’t back off, squeezing the tender flesh even harder instead. I tried to control myself, tried to breathe through it, but he just kept increasing the force until I cried out.
He held me in place with that hand while his other hand slid under my thin shirt, pushing my bra aside to squeeze my breast in a grip nearly as tight as the one on my shoulder. I was gasping with the intoxicating mix of pain, and pleasure at his forcefulness, but I managed to hiss at him, "Cal! We’re in public, remember? Someone might see!" I’m all right with a little bit of subtle play in public, like the bit with my shoulder, but his hand under my shirt mauling my tits was a little too much.
But he didn’t stop. He just shifted his hand to pinch my already-stiff nipple and pull it toward him, so hard I had to lean with it, struggling to scoot myself along the bench toward him.
"Good," he growled. His voice was rough with a combination of need and temper I’d never heard from him before, and I suddenly wondered if maybe I’d provoked him a little too hard, if things were about to slip totally from my control. I whimpered, not daring to make any more overt moves to stop him. Not when it already felt like my nipple was being crushed between his fingers. I didn’t know whether defiance would stop him, or push him even harder, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out just yet.
"Good," he repeated. "Let them see what a fucking slut you are."
My whole body jerked at that. I like to play rough, but I had never been spoken to that way, not even in the throes of passion between the sheets, much less in the semi-public park at my apartment complex in broad daylight. The insult burned through me, but it was clear from his demeanor that I had no right to protest.
"That’s what you are, isn’t it?" he taunted me. "A filthy fucking slut. A cock-teasing bitch who likes to tell stories to one man about what she does with other men, and expects it to make him hard enough to have fun with, but never expects him to dare take real control of her."
I…I…no, I thought. Only he was right, and we both knew it. I liked to play with him, teasing and taunting, always assuming I could keep him under control and only let him be as rough as I wanted him to be, even after all the teasing.
He jerked on my nipple sharply, forcing my attention back onto him. "I asked you a question, bitch. Isn’t. that. what. you. are?"
A soft moan of humiliation slipped from my mouth. I closed my eyes and gasped, "Yes."
He laughed with fierce satisfaction. His hand left my shoulder, and I felt the absence of pain as if it were its own kind of pain, until his hand slid up the back of my neck, under my hair. He slid his fingers into the thick red curls and gripped a fistful so hard I felt as if he would pull it out. I made a sharp involuntary sound, eyes still closed, as he used his handful of my hair to pull my head back. I was dragged further and further back until I was arched so far I wouldn’t have been surprised to feel the top of my head touch the bench behind me. He let go of my nipple and pulled my shirt up to completely expose both tits to the hot summer sun – and, of course, the gaze of anyone who might be walking by, or looking out their windows from the buildings on this side of the complex.
"Please, Cal," I begged quietly. "Please let’s not do this here. I don’t want anyone to see. Please."
"Too fucking bad, slut," he replied, as he pulled my bra down until my pale breasts spilled out, completely visible to all and sundry. "You should have thought of that before you decided to play cock-tease with me in public for the hundredth time." His mouth closed over my left nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue over it in an obscene mockery of the pain he’d given it only minutes before. I shuddered and my hands closed convulsively over the sides of the bench.
I don’t know why it never occurred to me to physically resist at all. I suppose something about this abrupt surge of real dominance from him had switched off that part of my brain – all I know is I was completely helpless to oppose him. I could beg for mercy, but I couldn’t make him stop. And even my will to beg was quickly eroding; my body was already pliant and obedient in his hands, and my mind seemed to be quickly following.
As he continued to lavish attention on my exposed tits with his mouth, his free hand was sliding up the leg of my shorts, peeling my soaked panties away from my skin. He parted my lower lips with a finger instantly coated in my wetness and began to stroke in slow circles across my clit. I made desperate little noises in my throat, and my hips moved of their own volition to grind against his hand. But as soon as I moved toward him, he pulled his hand away.
"Greedy little slut," he said, lifting his face from my breasts to laugh at me. I heard him take a breath to speak again, but suddenly both our attention was caught by an appreciative whistle and some hooting and laughing.
My eyes flew open and I tried to turn my head and see who had seen us, but all I got for my trouble was a sharp yank on my hair to keep me in place. Cal was laughing, though. One of the voices that had interrupted us called over "Nice tits!" I groaned, shame and humiliation washing over me.
But then I knew I hadn’t even begun to feel humiliation, as I heard Cal call back "Thanks! Wanna come check ‘em out closer up?"
"What?" I yelped. His other hand, still between my legs, abruptly grabbed my throbbing clit between two fingers and pinched hard enough to freeze me in place.
"Shut the fuck up, bitch," he snarled, leaning over me so I could see his face clearly even in my bent-back position. "You stay exactly as you are or I will give you cause to regret it, understand?"
I was in over my head, I finally realized. Really and truly. I had lost control over the situation, over him, and all I could hope to do now was ride it out. I tried to nod, pulled my own hair again, then whispered shakily, "Yes, sir."
He didn’t respond except to release my clit as the boys belonging to the cheering voices got close. They clustered around me. I didn’t recognize any of them, thankfully. Just some random teenagers who lived in the complex. Three of them, all looking to be about fourteen years old. Was he really going to share me with these boys only half my age?
"Go ahead, touch ‘em," he invited the boys. "Don’t worry, she likes it. Don’t you, slut?" he added.
I felt like I couldn’t draw a breath, much less speak. I managed to gasp out, "Yes," at last, which was all the permission the boys needed. Suddenly their hands were on me, squeezing and lifting my tits and pinching my nipples. Cal’s hand returned to stroking my clit, prompting a helpless moan from me. I think the boys took it as encouragement, because suddenly one of them leaned over me and took my right nipple into his mouth, and another, finding his access to my tits blocked, took the opportunity to push two fingers into my mouth. I whimpered, my mouth automatically closing around his fingers and starting to lick and suck them. There was some quiet conference I could half-hear between Cal and the third boy, then I felt Cal’s hand leave my pussy entirely, replaced by an unfamiliar hand that bypassed my clit entirely and shoved three fingers inside me. As wet as I was by this point – who knew public humiliation and being shared with strangers like a common whore would turn me on? – he had no trouble penetrating me, and the combination of the undeniably pleasurable sensation of sudden fullness with the frightening feeling of violation and shame as Cal allowed these teenage boys to molest me overwhelmed my senses entirely, and I came harder than I ever have before, shuddering and grinding my hips and moaning into the hand that claimed my mouth.
As the waves of pleasure receded, the boys slowly – reluctantly, I thought – withdrew from me and stood there staring down at me. Finally, one of them uttered an awed-sounding "Nice!", another told Cal that if he ever wanted to share me more to give them a call, and they all three walked away.
I was hardly aware of anything as he pulled me upright, tugged my shirt back down over my breasts (though without pulling my bra back up, so my hard nipples poked visibly through the thin fabric), and used his grip on my hair to bring me to my feet. I followed obediently as he switched from using my hair to holding my wrist, and led me back to my apartment, still mentally reeling from the humiliation, domination, and amazing orgasm. Not until he had me inside, had stripped off all my clothes, and pushed me down to lie naked on my bed, did I begin to register anything happening around me.
As he sat down beside me on the bed, still fully clothed, he ran an idle, proprietary hand over my bare skin, not as a man caressing a woman, but as a person stroking the finish of a particularly beautiful piece of furniture, or lovingly touching an expensive car. I shivered under his touch, and he leaned over me. Holding my eyes with his, the intensity of his gaze transfixing me and keeping all my attention on him, he whispered, "That was a good start. But I think it’s my turn to mark you up and send you back to your other men with dark, sexy stories to tell. What do you think?"
I stared back at him like a trapped animal, heart racing, and knew two things: one, that I was utterly helpless before him, no matter what he chose to do – and two, that I was in way over my head.
"Yes."
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