Page 11 of Delivered to the Devil

As my inner muscles contract, a sob wrenches from my throat as I realize my body is about to betray me. I’m so exhausted I can’t control it, and with a couple of sharp spasms, the orgasm rolls through me, turning my whimpers into a sick mix of despair and lust.

I can’t take it—the violation, the betrayal, the shame. It all swirls in a nauseating whirlwind in my mind. I don’t want my body anymore. It’s vile and wrong—no longer mine—yet all I want to do is disappear into it. It’s the only way to escape the scornful taunt of my mind. So that’s exactly what I do. For a while, I let the feelings in my body consume me and allow myself to feel utterly shattered. I’m so broken I cling to the man behind me as I weep into his shoulder.

I vaguely notice Gabor pulling his fingers out and getting off the mattress. “Clean her up and get her to bed,” he orders as the clicking of his shoes announces his departure. The slam of the door becomes the last sound I hear before my world sinks into numb stillness.

***

I don’t know how long I sit there in the arms of the man who has just enabled my abuse. He doesn’t say a word—doesn’t move a muscle except for the strange strokes of his thumb along my hairline, hidden beneath my dark locks like it’s our little secret.

At some point, I drift off. When I come to again, I’m sprawled over him, hands flat on his chest and my ear resting above his heart.Thud, thud, thud.The rhythm is steady and slow, reflecting the innate strength I feel in his huge hand and strong body. It’s strangely reassuring. At least for a short while.

As the self-deprecating thoughts filter back in and my mind works through what just happened, the safety fades, and nausea roils in my belly. There’s nothing reassuring about this man.

Pressing my hands into the mattress, I push off him but instantly regret it. The moment I lose his hand on my neck and the steady beat of his heart, a petrifying sort of fear washes over me.

He only lets me spiral for a minute as he loosens his tie and rolls his sleeves farther up to reveal a full sleeve of tattoos on his left arm.

When he hoists me into his arms, I can’t find the will to protest. What’s the point anyway? My strength is gone, and I don’t think any more is going to happen tonight. Gabor is gone, and the lanky man goes to work on the bed, ripping off the sheets the moment the massive one carries me away. Clean-up duty, it seems.

The massive man carries me to the bathroom and gives me a few minutes of privacy as he lets me use the toilet.

“Don’t lock,” he says, pointing at the key in the door on his way out. “I’ll break the door in.”

I hadn’t even thought about it, and I’m not going to test him. I don’t doubt for a second that he’ll do it.

The moment I flush, he comes back in. He untangles the hairbands from my messy tresses as I wash my hands, then herds me into the shower stall.

I close my eyes as the hot water beats down on me, soothing the brokenness and nervousness that makes my skin jittery like I have a fever.

Thinking he’s about to leave, I startle when his hands are suddenly on me.

“Shh, I’m just cleaning you up,” he says with a reassuring squeeze on my arm. When I gaze up, up, up, to meet his steel-gray eyes, it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time. His eyes are cold and hard, but something warmer seems to reside deep within them. Something that matches his reassuring hand rather than the detached indifference of his actions.

Or maybe I’m just seeing what I need to see.

Or maybe not.

As he roams his hands across my skin, cleaning every crevice of my body, it’s like he’s trying to wash away the degradations. He slides his large hands across my skin with a firm, yet gentle touch, never lingering even though he touches all the private parts of my body.

“On your knees,” he says, turning me around and supporting me by the arms as I sink to the floor on shaky legs.

A rush of something familiar billows through me as I settle in the position. Kneeling has always been a potent act of submission to me—something that required a strong presence and steady dominance. Even at BDSM clubs, most Doms can’t muster that sort of natural authority, but as I sit here, I find that this man exudes it even stronger than the best Doms I’ve played with.

It scares me, but part of me wants to sink into that thoughtless, submissive headspace as his fingers work against my scalp and the scent of roses fills the air. He washes my hair with such care that I can almost believe I’m submitting to him of my own free will. For a moment, I let myself sink into the illusion, but when he helps me back up and out of the shower, the dream shatters. Cold, harsh reality hits me like a fist in the gut.

I’m disoriented and confused when he carries me back to bed and sets me down on the edge. There are barely any traces of what happened here. The other man is gone, and the room is back in its usual order, the dresser back in its place under the TV. The only things witnessing that this is not a normal night are the black duffel bag on the dining table and the black suit jacket at the back of my crimson armchair.

And the clean sheets. I run my hands over them. It’s the same type of crisp white sheets you’d find in expensive hotels. Luxurious and so, so wrong. They don’t belong in a meager apartment like mine. And that’s because it’s no longer mine. Just like my body isn’t.

My captor—or maybe babysitter—retrieves some kind of medical equipment from the duffle bag and brings a chair with him to sit in front of me.

Too lost in the shock and shame of it all, I barely realize what he’s doing as he disinfects the crook of my elbow and wraps a rubber band around my arm. It’s only when he punctures my skin with a needle that my brain kicks in.

“What are you doing?” I say in a high-pitched voice as I reach for the needle, but he simply swats my hand away and gathers both in one massive grip in my lap. “No,” I whimper as my chest constricts. “Please don’t drug me. Don’t sell me.” Red panic descends over my mind as I’m convinced he’s going to pump me full of drugs and sell me into prostitution.

Grabbing my jaw, he pins me with a look so forceful it knocks the fear back. “It’s just a little blood.” He holds up a vial full of my blood. “See.”

I glance back and forth between the vial, the needle, and his eyes. “Why?”

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