Cries of ecstasy.
Cries of pain.
Chapter Six
The sound of the lash on Amelia’s skin made Gordon’s cock hard beneath his leather. The woman lurched and shook against the stone wall of the torture chamber he’d led her to with every kiss of his whip.
“Are you mine?” he called after every strike. The whip left red weals on top of the latticework of white scars that made up most of Amelia’s body. And after every strike came Amelia’s muffled, tearful refrain-“No, you fucker”- taunting his violence to reach another level.
He obliged, cracking the whip against her ass and thighs, letting it land on the soft flesh of her waist, and dragging its harsh bite against her rib cage. She bled, but he did not stop. This wasn’t a place where people
This was The Red. And nobody came here to play. This was the place for pain, real pain. And tears. And blood. And at the end of it all…release. Euphoric, life-threatening and -altering release. The only safe word here was not a word at all-it was complete and utter obedience. And even that would likely only get you more pain.
Gordon thought of the things that had pissed him off today, this week, and he brought the whip down harder, losing himself in the cathartic feel of beating a human being who refused to say no to a bloody pulp…yet not even touching her with his actual fists.
Sometimes he longed to do that actually. He was allowed to be violent here, but the reality was, he was still just hiding behind a whip-his desire was to sit on top of some moron and beat the life out of him, one blow at a time. He had never dared to try that, even here.
From the wall, after a flurry of wicked, fast, wet-sounding leather cracks, he finally heard the words he’d been waiting for.
“Yes, I am yours,” Amelia called out.
Gordon dropped the whip then and smiled as he pulled her closer to him. He ran a hand over Amelia’s wet back and brought his fingers back red. His grin spread wider, and he reached up and untied her wrists from the hooks. She staggered when he grabbed her by her elbows and raised her to stand before him, solely on her own feet. Then he asked the question again, as she swayed with exhaustion in the dark, and her bleary eyes struggled to focus on her torturer.
“Are you mine?” he asked again.
“Yes,” Amelia whispered. Sweat trickled down her cheeks and black hair plastered across one side of her face where she’d leaned on the wall for support.
“To do whatever I want with?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Gordon knotted a fist and stared at the naked, pathetic woman in front of him. Her breasts were small but her nipples were erect. Her belly was thin and flat…the dark hair below her belly button was trimmed short. She would have been pretty, if her skin didn’t look like an egg that had been shattered and glued back together.
Gordon punched her in the stomach.
Amelia gasped and doubled over, but his hand grabbed her by the hair and yanked her upright.
“Anything?” he asked again.
She nodded.
The slap of Gordon’s hand resounded above the noise of the other tortures going on in The Red. He caught her cheek and then reached out and held her by the nipple of her left breast, pinching as hard as he could with his thumb and forefinger.
Amelia gasped and cried. “Anything.”
“I can kill you?” he said simply.
Amelia looked at him with a spark of fear, and yet, strangely,
“Not yet,” he said and pulled her close, smashing his lips to hers, tasting the blood he had drawn and enjoying the feel of her tongue, which at first hid deep in her swelling mouth and then ventured out to twist with his own.
After toying with her for a few moments, he pushed her away and undid his belt before kicking his pants to the floor. His cock bobbed anxiously, and he guided Amelia across the room to lie across a wooden horse. “Hold the rings,” he commanded, and she rested her breasts on the wooden bar of the horse as she reached down to hold the two iron rings that extended from it. He pressed his cock between her bloody legs and felt barely any resistance as his head kissed her lips. They were wet with need and blood. The lubrication of her pain let him enter her without resistance.
Gordon moaned as he ran his hands along the wounds he’d dug in Amelia’s back, and then pressed his whole body to hers as he struggled to slide himself deeper inside her, so deep that he could pound out her heart with his cock. He wanted to own her insides as much as he did her outsides. He grabbed her breasts cruelly and squeezed, slamming against her from behind, his pace speeding up quickly as her own voice joined his in an arpeggio of animal pleasure.
Gordon saw red as he came inside her.
Amelia saw red as he came inside her.
The room ran red as he came inside her…drops of blood began to rain from the ceiling and run in sheets down the rough stone walls to coat their skin as the couple moaned in the rhythm of their passion and finally moved past their climax to drop gasping and amazed to the floor.
The floor, too, ran red with blood.
Gordon ran a finger across his skin and looked puzzled. She couldn’t have bled that much. But as he looked, the nude woman before him was awash in crimson. It ran in drops across her breasts, and a red rain coated her pussy in the color of horror…and life.
A man walked into their space and held out a hand to Gordon. His skin was so pale that he looked blue. His nudity was not shocking, but somehow pure; his cock hung unaroused. And while his skin seemed completely hairless, his face looked old-wrinkled and tired. But also…pleased.
Gordon took his hand and stood.
“You’ve awakened the room,” the Watcher said. “You are ready.”
“Ready for what?” Gordon asked.
“The rabbit.”
Chapter Seven
Only losers hung out at Firkin’s Pub on Monday nights. Losers who liked to drink. Alone. Because there weren’t any pickups left at Firkin’s after 10:00 p.m. on a Monday night. They rolled the carpets up in Roselle, and Travis wished they’d lock the doors to this pathetic excuse for an English pub when they did. Because without a locked door…he had to stay open.
And right now…he soooo wanted to close. Travis sat on a stool behind the register at the bar and waited for the last patron to leave (an old man who nursed a Fuller’s ESB as if it were 100-proof liquor-taking it down carefully, sip by sip). Meanwhile, beneath the bar, Travis flipped through a copy of
