Page 3 of SKIN

“I—what?”

I didn’t answer her. Instead, I pulled the set of keys from my left pocket and approached the makeshift hospital bed, releasing her wrists. She watched my every movement, likely seeking out some sort of weak spot, leverage, an escape. There were none of those.

But Emily would figure that out soon enough.

Once I’d freed her arms, I stepped around the bottom rail and unburdened one of her ankles, yanking on the chain clasped around her second leg to allow her the illusion of a slightly longer leash. The metal clanked against the bedframe and scraped along the cement flooring before it was left to coil at her feet like a viper ready to strike. Which was fitting really.

“Knees,” I barked the order. The half-life of the paralytic agent meant that I knew she could stand on shaky limbs at this point. She was only pretending otherwise. Attempting to hold all her cards close to her chest. When she didn’t immediately comply, I added, “And I want to hear the thud of bone hitting concrete, or I’ll break them.” I pivoted to face her. “Your kneecaps, I mean. Curious as to what that feels like?”

Her eyes widened. My grin did the same.

“It’s a trick question really. It depends on if it’s a clean break… or more of a shattering of the bone and cartilage. Do you have a preference, Emily?”

She shook her head.

“Then. Why. The. Fuck. Aren’t. You moving?” I ground out between clenched teeth.

She scrambled off the bed like the good little cunt she was before sinking to her knees in front of me. I tilted my head and watched her, my fingers gripping the ends of my belt and loosening the straps. I yanked the thin strip of leather free from my waist and dropped to my haunches so that I was at eye level. Slipped it around her pretty little neck and tugged it tight. Her reactionary whimper wasn’t just music to my ears. It was a symphony, a series of well-practiced notes only I could hear as I threw my head back and tapped the tips of my fingers to the haunting tempo.

She wasn’t broken yet. She was far from it. She was playing along. Calling my bluff. I knew as much. But it was the first step towards my pet’s submission, and it wouldn’t take long before her resolve was cracking and crumbling as easily as a fly between my fingertips. I’d pluck out her tiny little wings and watch her squirm. Then I’d toss her carcass aside and stomp it with the heel of my boot until what remained no longer resembled something tangible. Something… human.

“Please…”

The soft whimper had my neck snapping back in place as I glared down at the pathetic creature pawing at my feet and scuffing my shoes. She had more fight in her than this. I knew it. I just needed to force her to show it.

I tugged on the end of the belt, the makeshift garrote further constricting her airway and causing her wide, panicked eyes to shoot upwards. Then I raised to my full height, the fingers of my free hand nimbly dancing along the zipper of my black tactical pants before I reached inside to release my straining cock. Her pupils dilated as tears began to form on her lash line.

Are you scared, pet? Or turned the fuck on? Maybe a mixture of both? The two weren’t mutually exclusive.

“Suck,” I hissed, enjoying the way she tried to shuffle back on all fours, only to be halted by the snap of my wrist and the taut leather of her leash. “And if you even think about biting down, I’ll knock your teeth out and force you to swallow them.”

3

HER

Suck.

The four-letter word rang in my ears like a death knell. Worse. Because death was an end. And this was just the beginning of my downfall. My deterioration. The slow atrophy that would leave me rotting in my skin. Decomposing with each forced breath.

This man, whoever he was, didn’t want to simply kill me. That much I could accept. Make peace with. Because I wasn’t afraid to die. No, he wanted to destroy my humanity. He wanted me crawling on my hands and knees. He wanted me begging for mercy that I was certain would never come.

I just couldn’t figure out why. What had I done to deserve… this?

He didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t have to. I didn’t have much choice in the matter as he twisted the belt around his arm and yanked me forward. If I wanted to breathe, I had to open my mouth. I wasn’t getting enough oxygen through my nose, and he wouldn’t loosen the leather constricting my airway until I did as I was told.

I tried to be logical about it. Tell myself it was about survival. That the discomfort, the debasement, would be fleeting and I could figure a way out of here. But none of this kept my lower lip from trembling as I leaned forward, lowered my jaw, and took him into my mouth. He tugged me closer again without warning and his cock slipped past my tonsils, forcing me to sputter and gag around the thick base while attempting to keep my last meal from coming back up.

My inner voice was screaming at me to do something. To snap my jaw shut and take a part of him with me. But I doubted my ability to tear into flesh, while the thought of his blood pooling in my mouth had me struggling to keep the bile down. Far worse than the feel of his cock between my lips. That and I had no doubt he would follow through with his threat. Something in his tone told me these weren’t just threats. They were promises.

So I did my best to block out the smell of his cologne, the taste of the soap on his skin—he’d showered at the very least—and the feel of him thrusting forward and pulling back out, only to repeat the rhythm with more force. I refused to acknowledge the way his fingertips pressed into my cheeks as he held my head steady and gave himself leverage. And I ignored the way my knees burned as they scraped across the concrete flooring, the first layer of skin rubbing away with the friction.

None of it was real. It wasn’t happening.

That’s what I told myself. Even as my lips cracked and bled, and I struggled between trying to suck in air and attempting to keep the vomit from rising up.

He drove forward so that my nostrils were pressed against his pelvic bone, and I lost balance, my hands reaching out on instinct and clawing at his thighs to brace myself. He stilled, his chin resting against his collarbone and his head cocking to the side as he paused to observe me. I didn’t know what he was looking for. I couldn’t read his expression through the mask. But I could guess. Something I’d done had halted his movements. And it wasn’t my struggle. He obviously didn’t care whether or not I could breathe. Whether I lived or died. Just that I suffered.

Truth was I didn’t understand why I was trying to figure it out. His motives didn’t matter. Why people were the way they were didn’t matter. Some individuals were just assholes. There was nothing more to it. No rationale behind their psychotic tendencies. And so I put him into that same category, as my right hand reached behind him to grip the splintered piece of wood that skid across the floor when the chair ricocheted against the wall. The little stake was small enough to fit into my palm and sharp enough to dig into my skin as I tried to conceal it.

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