Page 42 of Locke

And he liked that.

He wanted her to smell like him.

He wanted her pussy to be drenched in his come, too, to be completely soiled by the scent of this man who wanted every inch of her for the taking.

And, fuck, did he take.

His hand tightened in her hair while the other gripped her throat, squeezing intermittently, stealing her breath to remind her who was in charge.

She took it.

Fuck, not only did she take it, but she pulsed around his cock, the walls of her pussy riding through one hard orgasm after the next. His cock slid in and out now, her wetness lubricating him stroke for stroke, until they could hear it in the air around them: sliding in, sliding out, a rhythm coated in commotion and desire.

“Who’s in control of your body right now, little lion?” he growled in her ear, nipping at her shoulder. “Tell me who’s fucking you whole.”

“You,” she panted, shakily.

He squeezed her hair tighter. “Tell me my name!”

“Locke,” she cried.

“And now tell me who I’m fucking whole,” he growled. “I want to know the name of my little prey.”

She shook her head, crying into the carpet. Refusing to relinquish that last ounce of control she had left.

He squeezed her throat, his cock swelling as she resisted, trying her hardest to crawl out from under him. The second he felt her pulsing again, her moans ripped from her throat, he felt the fight fading, and so he demanded once more in her state of surrender, “Tell me your fucking name!”

She went limp, her breaths ragged as she answered, “Kali.”

Just before he came, he pulled out, sending ropes of his come all down her back. Not done yet, he gripped her hair and pulled her up to her knees, forcing her to lap at his cock, to swallow the last of his pleasure.

“Clean me up,” he demanded, her name on the cusp of his tongue.

He didn’t say it, though.

*

She lay sprawled on the ground, recuperating. Her entire body chafed and raw. Her eyes had fluttered closed when he entered the bathroom and quickly cleansed himself, a bewildered feeling settling in his chest.

Kali.

He wouldn’t dare say it out loud.

Not yet.

Not in this setting.

Which just frustrated him.

This man tortured fuckers in a dungeon not far from here. He removed eyeballs and testicles and literally weighed pounds of flesh as his “victims” suffered.

But call a girl by her name after he’d fucked her in a forceful, but not forceful way? He couldn’t do it. She didn’t deserve that. To feel subhuman in that way by attaching such an act to her identity.

Names were so fucking personal.

He would not abuse hers during a depraved act.

By the time he stepped out, his skin coated in icy water, he stared at himself in the mirror. At the claw marks and scars and blood trickling out of his freshly sealed wound because he was sure Izzy demanded he not commit to any vigorous activity.

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