Page 47 of Under Fyre

He says nothing, sauntering up to the bed like he makes movies like this all the time.

God, for all I know, that’sexactlywhat he does.

When he walked me home from the storm drain, the night I almost escaped, he’d told me I was just a hobby. I thought he was being glib…but maybe he was telling the truth.

Still gagged, I don’t bother to ask him questions. I don’t beg or plead. He made it clear a while ago how he feels about those things.

But I don’t just roll over and play dead either. Maybe it’s self-preservation. Maybe I’m just hoping to please him so he doesn’t decide to press that knife hard enough to slice.

He likes it when I fight him. And I guess whoever’s going to be watching this video will like it too.

When he unties my feet, I try to kick him. I barely touch him, of course—he’s much too agile, and darts out of the way too quickly. Same with my hands. He unties me, I try to punch him.

But moments later, I’m bound again. This time, I’m lying on my stomach, but my legs are looser than before.

He goes to fetch the camera and climbs onto the bed behind me. When he pushes my hair over my face, I immediately try to flick it out of my eyes.

“Unless you want every pedophile in the state to see your face, you’ll leave it alone.”

It’s like I’m plunged headfirst into an icy lake. I swing around, gaping at Fyre around my gag. But his eyes are on the camera’s screen, watching me through the lens.

Is he just saying that to scare me? What the hell is going on?

Frightened tears prick my eyes, but when he pushes my head against the mattress and shifts my hair over my face again, I don’t fight him.

Maybe he’s on drugs or something. He went shopping, got some crack. I’ve known guys to do weird fucking things when they’re high.

But nothing like this.

Fyre grabs my hip, pulls me up so my ass is in the air. I burrow my head into the mattress, hiding even more of my hot, tear-damp face behind my hair.

“Perfect,” Fyre murmurs, his hand sliding down my back before cupping my ass. He squeezes me hard, and then tugs my underwear to the side, exposing me. “Act like you don’t like this, my little slut.”

A sob wracks through me. I tug at my wrists, try to kick him. He wedges his body between my thighs, keeping me bent for his viewing pleasure but unable to do more than kick my feet up a few inches.

Something cold and hard touches my skin.

His knife.

I freeze, but there’s nothing I can do about my terrified shivers.

My underwear pulls tight as he saws through it, tickling me as it brushes my legs on the way down.

I let out a garbled moan, trying to squeeze my legs closed. Fyre strokes my pussy with his knuckles, then with something harder. The handle of the knife?

My body shakes as I fight the urge to move away from that sinister touch.

Then the flat of the blade touches me. I cry out, the sound muffled behind my gag. My hands grab the sheets, fisting in the fabric as Fyre pats my sex with cool metal. It’s not a wide knife—my inner thighs would have been lacerated if that was the case—but I shuffle my legs further apart anyway, desperate to avoid him accidentally slicing me.

He groans, plucks away the knife, and scrapes the tip over my right ass cheek. It leaves such a hot sting behind that I’m convinced he’s cut me.

I risk a quick peek between my hair, and what I see makes my heart start pounding in my chest.

Fyre stares down at me with rapturous lust, twirling the tip of the blade over my naked flesh like he’s in some kind of trance. I pull away from the touch, whimpering, and we lock eyes.

He leans to the side, the muscles on his lithe body cording as he sets the knife down near the bottom corner of the mattress.

There are other things there. Lube. A dildo.

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