Page 21 of Their Cruel Love

The grunt from Brutus sounds unhappy.

Fear swirls in my gut, mixing with the excitement already there.

Punishment.What will it be? I’m a little stunned, but I’ve instantly flipped back into lust.Sucks to be me. Not.

These two men plan to dothingsto me. I’m over the moon as well as scared. This will be a first. This whole night is a first.

“Brutus, we can find a room here.” Then he stands, twitches the leash. “Follow. I get ten K remember, you asshole.” He says that to Brutus.

They really had abet? They had afuckingbet!

10

Marcus / Brutus

I’m not a man who would ever come in his pants watching a woman, but that is as close as I’ll ever get to doing it.

Phoebe Bartholomew, being made to submit, baring herself to the world, and letting Razor and me be her dominants. I am speechless. Which is lucky. The more I talk, the more she seems to study me, as if she’s twigged and figured out who I am.

I will have to say, eventually. Not yet though. I want to take her down several more notches. I want to see her begging to be fucked, and more, much more.

Then, only then, will I say.

Her ass sways as I follow her, almost too much, which makes me wonder if she is teasing me.

Those costume wings, I’m not soenamored of them—they conceal her body and I want to see all of her. I want to upend her on a bed and stick my tongue in her cunt while Razor whips her tits. All night, my imagination has been running through a field on fire with every sadistic, humiliating kink I’ve ever eyed or tried.

Phoebe will be streaked with red cane marks and handprints and splattered with come, soon—fucking soon. Her throat under my foot with her moaning, her legs spread, her cunt dripping with arousal and come.

My cock throbs, again. It’s being tortured by my fantasies. I give it a hard squeeze as Razor unlocks the tall set of white doors. He smirks at my hand then ushers her through.

We’ve been given a reserved room.

Before she can get comfortable, I grab the back of the wings and haul her to me, pull off the arm loops, drop the wings to the floor. When she tries to get away, I wrap my hand about her throat.

“Nice room,” I say, casually.

It is. We have a king-sized bed with crisp white linen and a lush red bed cover. Perfect for spreadeagling a woman. A wide window opens out over the curtain wall, showing the harbor and the city lights. A balmy breeze wafts in, past the thick-leaved succulents on the windowsill. Bougainvillea grows from a pot that hangs just beyond the window, spilling bright pink flowers into the night.

Nothing matters except this woman in my hands, her pulse thudding under my palm. Her nervous swallow stirs my dick to greater heights.

“How shall we fuck you, let us count the ways,” I murmur to her ear before kissing the top of her head. I lightly squeeze her throat. “Do we have any implements, any gear in here, Razor?”

Phoebe puts her hands up, hesitantly at first, then she cups the knuckles of my throat-caressing hand. I should’ve guessed she would like this.

The last time I touched her, seven years ago, she sucked my dick while on her knees, after I ordered her to, after I kissed the hell out of her, bruised her mouth…like I did tonight.

“A whole array.” Razor opens a tall timber cabinet, revealing a wall of whips, canes, safety scissors, ropes, and more.

“I am in awe.”

“And so is Phoebe.” He’s watching her, intently.

Her real name? He’s used it.

She jerks her head, centering on him, then tries to speak. I shift my hand and cut her off, muffling her. “Shhh. Not yet.”

I check him out—and realize it was on purpose. “Why?”

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