Page 71 of Root

Fuck me, maybe I like that side of things, too.

She’s like a whole new book. And I like kinky. The me tied up, me rough handling, and doing this, me on my knees because she’s got a leash on me, all that’s really hot. And new.

“You want me to peg you.”

“No, I want my cock up your ass.”

I stride barefoot across the grass, back to the shooting range.

“What are you going to do?” she demands, biting me again and I push my throat into her mouth. She gives me that nip and it feels fucking good. “Shoot me?”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” I cross the range to the main ammunition and weapons room. There are cuffs in there, cuffs I put there, because when I was thinking of getting in some practice with her, getting back at her had been in my head.

Jess shackled and on her knees. My cock in her mouth.

What a goddamned dream. But I dump her facedown on the table in there, and kick the door shut. It doesn’t take much to snap on the cuffs, and she’s struggling so much that she barely notices.

“Stay.”

I push my hand on her back and she struggles more. “I’m not a dog.”

“But you are my little captive.”

I want to be everywhere, all at once, but I force myself to breathe, and she catches sight of the two-way mirror-style wall. This side’s like a window, the other looks like a wall unless you get close. Security, Nikolai says. Right now, though, my mind’s elsewhere, lower, gutter and dirt and mud levels.

Her momentary stillness lets me pull her panties off. I do it Band Aid fast, stroking my finger through the hot wetness of her cunt as I do so.

“You’re an asshole, you’re—”

I shove them in her mouth and now all she does is make delightfully depraved sounds. And I drop my underwear.

Finally, I wrap my fingers about my aching hot cock. It’s both a moment of relief and a hike in self-inflicted torture.

My hand’s not ever going to be enough, not with that ass, and not with that pussy. Her legs are parted as she writhes, trying to kick me, and I pump my shaft, parting her cunt with two fingers. “I can shut you up with my fist in your cunt if you want.”

She moans.

“Or one finger, two. Four. Take your pick.”

The filth just drips from me, I want her writhing in a different way.

“I bet you look phenomenal spread open, gaping, your cunt shaped exactly to the girth of my cock, or my fist.” She jerks again, whimpers.

I’m not about to fist her. For starters, I’m not sure my hand’s going to fit in her, and that kind of extreme sexual sport isn’t my thing. Threatening her with it, now that is. And from the way she drips juice, I think that threat gets her hot.

“Or I could arrange a whole train of guys. Mouth, cunt, ass. I bet a pretty little punk chick like you’d want that.” I stop.

Those words don’t sit right.

I don’t want to share her.

I don’t want anyone looking at the glory of her sans clothes. I pump my cock some more, slowly, running my thumb over the head as I admire the tattoo right on her upper inner thigh. I don’t know how I missed it. A tiny bee. Beautiful.

I want to castrate the fuck who did it.

Because where it is, that dude got to see her cunt up close. It’s more intimate than the work on her mons, though I want him, dead, too, if it’s another guy. She probably fucked him. Fucked them both.

Fuck. I hoover in air. Now I’m jealous of some person—or persons—I’ve never met.

---