Page 43 of Deviant

She was groaning too, her voice cracking from the pain. Despite how much I was hurting her, she still responded with the need to come by arching against me. Her body begged for the good kind of pain, and I wondered if she even realized it.

“Stop,” she gasped. “No more.”

“No more ginger, or no more fucking you?”

“Both.”

“What if I let you come?”

“You won’t,” she said, breaths puffing off her lips in erratic gasps.

“You know me so well.” Stepping back, I let go of her hands, pleased when she kept them right where I wanted them. “So you know you’re getting the third piece.”

I reached for the last plug, and she cringed as the water sloshed over the top of the bowl. “I’m going to take a shower,” I said, pushing the ginger into her anus, “and you’re going to stay right where you are. Aren’t you, babe.” It was more of a statement, but I still expected an answer. When she failed to reply, I smacked her ass, making her jump and screech.

“Ahhh! I won’t move,” she huffed.

“That’s my girl.” Leaning down, I kissed her on the cheek then headed for the shower.

20. Grounded - Alex

Ginger was excruciating, medieval torture, the kind of harsh punishment only a masochist could endure. The type of kinky fuckery only a sadist could enjoy delivering.

Rafe and I fell somewhere in between, neither sadist nor masochist. We were morally bankrupt, psychologically unhinged, unconditionally obsessed.

As far as punishments went, his version of emotional exile was worse.

For the past five days, Rafe left me chained to the bed, only letting me free long enough to bathe. He brought in my meals three times a day, left reading material to fight off boredom, but he refused to spend any time with me, or even sleep at my side. He’d basically grounded me to my room.

But that didn’t stop him from fucking me whenever he wanted—I just wasn’t allowed to come.

I’d take the ginger any day over this.

Allowing him to claim ownership over me was the hardest fucking thing I’d ever done. It was a decision I regretted now as I strolled about my prison, chain following me around the room, a constant reminder of this hell.

It was a peaceful hell. Yesterday, he fixed the window, and I’d opened it first thing, feeling a little like Cinderella as I listened to the birds and other wildlife, imagining they were my friends. A soft breeze filtered in, billowing the curtains.

The seclusion was driving me mad, not to mention the boredom. I constantly fought the urge to throw shit, to lash out with the type of tantrum that would get his attention—because I craved that more than anything—but bringing on more of his wrath was a stupid idea. I’d done this to myself, had scared him into this merciless version of himself.

God, how I longed for the softer side of him. After he lost his memory, I’d wanted the confident, no-fucks-to-give deviant man back. I’d wanted the passionate, slightly terrifying guy who’d stolen me from a life I’d been desperate to leave behind. The man whose dark side forced him to claim me.

Now I missed amnesia Rafe, and that only made me feel like shit because how could I love him while wishing for part of his psyche to go missing again?

No matter what happens in life, you’re never going to be happy.

That was my greatest fear, that I’d never find happiness no matter what I did. No matter how light or dark Rafe became, part of me would always ache for the other half of him.

Growing tired of pacing, I sprawled onto the bed. The clock on the nightstand—luckily unbroken from the morning I threw it at his head—told me I had two hours until he’d come in with dinner. He hadn’t fucked me yet today, but he would.

He always did.

And I was slowly dying, the space between my legs in a constant state of arousal. I parted my thighs, and the breeze in the room caressed my skin, teased the heat at my core, eliciting an aching twinge.

I didn’t give it thought. Before I realized what I was doing, my fingers were dipping into my wetness. I sucked in a breath and didn’t move for several seconds. My heartbeat drowned out the sounds of singing birds outside the window as I debated. It wouldn’t take me long, and he’d never have to know. Keeping secrets from him never worked out, but I was desperate enough to convince myself I could get away with it this one time.

As soon as I began stroking, I couldn’t stop if I tried. God, it felt fucking incredible, like an addiction I hadn’t indulged in for days, months, years. A moan escaped me, and I bit my lip to silence it.

I imagined Rafe’s tongue on my clit, the firm, steady strokes of my fingers acting as a proxy for what I needed most.

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