Page 65 of Every Shade of Shadow

“Tell me you’re a dirty fucking whore, bleeding all over my cock.”

The way he’s filling me, stretching me out…

“I’m a dirty fucking whore,” I repeat, breathlessness starting to set in.

The initial pain of the intrusion is slowly replaced with fulfilment, a shift from that primary bee sting to a taboo pleasure and desire to be filled, heat building between my legs as I allow this monster to have his way with me.

Because that’s what the Professor is. I have no doubt about it. This is a man born of the darkness, a man who delights in it. I can see that, see myself in him, my own inky soul, and there I am free. This is what this ritual really is—a union. Of wills. Of desires.

Of darkness.

My nipples stand tall, fiercely pink in the firelight. Beyond, the crevice of my navel bobs up and down. All that remains below is the meeting of our bodies, his dark thatch brushing my sex, his thick shaft lifting out and plunging back into me, glistening with desire.

The pressure on my clit grows, filters back in a loop.

I begin to moan, softly at first but rising in volume while the Professor thrusts on, fingers digging into the soft, puppy flesh of my thighs.

I rise, about to fall into orgasm, when he withdraws.

I gasp as he reaches between my legs, his fingers coming away bloody and wet. He runs them across his chest, marking himself the conqueror. Three streaks of red, a bear claw, remain. He looks down at his handiwork, bringing those same fingers to his mouth and slowly sucking them clean. His eyes shutter closed, and he groans, so low I start to question if he is, in fact, animal.

Why am I not repulsed? I wonder.

He removes his fingers, running them forward towards me slick and hot.

“Open,” he says.

This is all kinds of fucked up, but any compulsion I have to protest or complain is pushed away by a strange lassitude.

I open my mouth and he runs three twined fingers inside.

“Suck.”

I suck and taste myself, the iron bite of my blood and deeper, earthier taste of my arousal.

“That’s a good little lamb,” the Professor purrs, lightly fucking my mouth with his fingers.

Satisfied, he lets them slide free and steps back.

Naked, cock still a stiff arm between his legs, he shifts around me, undoing my bonds.

“Let me see that pretty ass of yours,” he says, halting in front of me. I flip over and lie on my stomach. I wait patiently for him to reattach the bonds, which he does with practiced ease, because this is a man well used to such devices. Torture to him may as well be preparing dinner—a box to tick off in the humdrum of everyday life.

In a way, I’m grateful for the relief of this little interlude, but it’s short-lived. He cranks the lever again, sending the same arrows of pain through my limbs and extremities.

Again, the smaller lever at the corner of the table is turned until my legs are spread, but this time the center wooden roller rises underneath my belly, lifting my ass and hips high, bending me over.

I know he is admiring the symmetrical orbs of my ass and what lies below, freshly fucked and deflowered.

The wood of the top roller is warm pressed against my cheek. I wonder how many bodies have been broken on this cruel device. How many young, naïve girls has he taken right here? If I quiet myself enough, the entire room seems to scream.

But the Professor was right. The power is growing within me—deflowered, yes, but now flowering anew with something greater.

Something terrible.

The Professor steps in front of me. His cock is stiff as a post, head coated with my juices and balls swelled up tight to his body big as baby apples.

I almost beg him to fill me again, to finish what he started, but I remain quiet, waiting.

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