Page 73 of Cunning Lies
“That’s what I thought,” he says with smug satisfaction. “I’m going to ask again.” His words are slow this time, so I don’t miss anything. “Who are you working for?”
“I don’t work for anyone.”
This time, a different electric heat courses through me—the tip is sharper, more intimate, but the shock is gone as quickly as it came. But my thighburns.That sharp pain hits me again, and again, dotting little bites of electricity all over my legs. How many electric torture devices does he have hidden in this room?
“All right,” he says. “Who isJayworking for?”
My breaths are short and clipped.Uncle Jay.He’s bringing Uncle Jay into this.
This isn’t a game. This is very real.
“Jay?” I stutter. “My uncle?”
The sharp pain zaps my other thigh, and I impulsively press my legs together, the vibrator rattling like a woodpecker against the chair, sending waves of confusing pleasure to my clit.
“Is it too hard to think right now, little slut?” he says playfully. “With all of those men jerking off to you, you can’t answer any questions. All you want is to give them a good show.” He chuckles darkly. “Maybe this will help.”
The vibrator moves, pressing against my clit at a different angle, and then his two fingers shove inside of me, prying me wide, and I’m on fire. Every inch of me. Every exposed piece of skin. Every single nerve ending. I try to zone out, to not give him what he wants, but all I can do is keep my eyes on that red light, knowing thatsomeoneis watching me, that Kenzo wants my humiliation and torture and pleasure on display for others to see. My cheeks tingle with desire and I hate it—hateit—but I can’t stop the pleasure from building inside of me. His fingers curl even deeper, reaching that tender spot, and when his mouth reaches the top of my thigh and his teeth dig into me, right where the zapper buzzed my skin, I scream with release. The sensations are too intense and I can’t stop it anymore. The orgasm convulses through me, not letting go until it’s finished with me.
Then, I’m covered in sweat, nearly slipping from the metal chair, and I listen for Kenzo’s satisfied growl, but it’s quiet. His fingers move inside of me again and I whimper. It hurts. I’m too sore to do this again, but he doesn’t listen to my whines.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” he says, and he shoves a third finger inside of me. The force breaks through me, and everything feels good and hurts and my brain is overwhelmed with theneedto come again. I want to come so that this will stop, and somehow, deep inside, Idon’twant it to stop. But what I want doesn’t matter. Whether I’m in bliss or complete pain, Kenzo will take what he wants from me. And that makes me feel safe. Wanted. Needed.
Useful.
“Press your thighs together,” he demands. “Keep the vibrator in place.”
My thighs shake against the vibrator as he manipulates me with those three thick fingers. A warm tingling sensation fills my cheeks, and I’m his puppet; he’s controlling me from the inside. Electricity jolts through me, my pussy clenching so tight around his thick fingers that a tear slips down my cheek. My muscles beg for relief and I cry, but he doesn’t stop finger-fucking me. Then he zaps me again, and again, until he pushes me closer to the edge, and my pussy gushes with liquid and my brain is full of pleasure and shame.
I came. Again. From him forcing another orgasm out of me.
And I liked it.
He pulls his fingers out and my skin is so tender that I whimper as his hands leave me.
“That’s all it takes. A little fingering and your cunt explodes for me,” he says. I can’t see anything, but I can hear it—his hands running over fabric. Is he touching himself? “You can always give me another one, can’t you, slut? You whine and complain, but when it comes to my power over your cunt, you give me anything I want.”
“Kenzo,” I pant, hating how desperate I sound, “Please. I can’t—”
“No one is stopping you from running, Vi. You may not have your hands, but you can figure out a doorknob like that. Go on.” He grunts, anger seeping into his tone, “Go ahead. Run away.”
My stomach drops, but I don’t move.
I don’twantto run. I wanthim.I want Kenzo’s arms around me. I want my home back.
“Who are you working for?” he asks, once again in that calm and measured tone. This side of him—the controlled side—scares me the most.
“I-I—” I stammer, “I don’t know!”
He lets out a low chuckle, then I hear him shuffle with unknown objects in the corner.
“If pleasure doesn’t work, then I’ll resort to other methods,” he taunts.
Pins and needles prickle my skin, and rancid fight-or-flight pheromones stink up the air around us. Kenzo takes a deep breath in, savoring my musky fear, and my gut churns.
Ifthisis pleasure to him, then what are the other methods?
