Page 66 of Sinister Legacy
It’s an abandoned shed, large enough to fit a car. An icy, cold wind is blowing in through a hole in the roof, and I shiver. I’m still in my boxers, with my wrists and ankles tied to a metal chair. My fingers and toes are so numb I can barely feel them. How long have I been here, tied to this chair?
When a red light flicks on in front of me in the darkness, I pause. It’s a video camera, I realize. Mounted on a tripod.
I’m being filmed.
Glacial, cold panic flares up inside me, and I begin to struggle against the restraints, pulling and tugging. Coppery blood beads on my wrists and ankles, the pinching pain drawing sharp hisses through my clenched teeth.
In my struggle, the chair topples over, and my temple connects with the wooden floorboards in a hard blow. I groan with pain as the sickly scent of damp, rotten wood settles in my nostrils.
Precious minutes tick by while I try to shake off the dizziness. I’m vaguely aware of a devil’s mask peering down at me and gloved fingers trailing over a bleeding cut on my cheek before fisting my short hair and forcibly pulling me up. My scalp screams with agonizing, prickly pain. I don’t recognize the tortured sounds escaping my lips.
I also don’t recognize the stream of pleas that dance on my tongue and crackle in the cold darkness.
The masked man walks around me, the coldness of his mask brushing up against my bleeding cheek as he whispers, “Look in the camera, fuckboy. Let’s play a little game.”
Anip of teeth, and then a warm tongue slides up the inside of my thigh. I’m powerless when his heated breath glides over my soaking slit like a filthy lover’s caress. I cry out and arch my back off the mattress as he blows on my pussy. Fuck, I need more.
“Please,” I whimper, my hips lifting off the mattress in search of more pressure.
Warm hands clamp down on my thighs and spread me wide open as a distorted, twisted voice taunts, “Let’s play a little game.”
I startle awake with a gasp, my eyes flying open as an orgasm steals my breath. It’s so strong and unbidden that my cunt jerks against Liam’s hot mouth. The sensation is too much, and I bite down on my hand to stop myself from waking his parents with a scream.
He pops out from beneath the quilt with a look of masculine satisfaction on his face, his mouth wet with my cum. “Morning, babe.”
“What the hell?” I check the time. Four hours ago, I came on King’s cock, and now I came on Liam’s tongue. I’m spinning a web of lies and deception. And I know I should come clean, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
Not with Liam.
Not with King.
And certainly not with myself.
Climbing up the bed and flopping onto his back, Liam palms his hard cock. “My turn.”
I watch him stroke it, a salty drop of white precum forming on the thick head. As I slide out from the quilt, the bead trails down the girthy length, following the line of one of the protruding, purple veins on his cock.
His big hand moves up and down the shaft with skilled strokes. He kicks off the quilt and grabs the back of my neck. “Come here, babe.”
I let him guide me down, his fingers gripping me tight. It hurts, but it’s what I need to feel alive when all I want is to succumb to the darkness.
Sliding further down the bed, Liam puts an arm behind his head while watching me suck his cock. “I’m so fucking lucky to have a girlfriend who knows how to suck dick.”
He says it every time I give him a blow job. I’m sure it’s supposed to be a compliment, but it makes me feel cheap.
King’s words come back to me. “What do you think he’ll do to you for being such a slut?”
If only Liam knew…
“Fuck, yes, that’s it.”
I love to suck cock, and I do it a lot. But for the first time, I wish it was King instead of Liam.
And that thought worries me more than I want to admit to myself. I can’t afford to grow attached to King, or anyone, for that matter.
So why do I tune out my boyfriend’s praise, imagining King in his place? Why do I almost come just from the thought of sucking off King?
Why do I wish it was King I woke up next to? And why do I consider breaking up with Liam?
