Page 63 of Their Cruel Love

“You can breathe. Stop making fake gasping noises.” Assuming she might try the same assault, I wrap her ankles in tape and put my knee on the connecting bit between them.

“Kick again,” I warn her, “and your clit might get ripped off. Nod if you understand.”

She growls at me from inside the bag, which makes me snort. Then, she nods.

“Fuck me.” I wipe my eyes of the tears then clamp her clit hood and listen to her squeal with great satisfaction.

It would be hot and claustrophobic in there, so I unzip the mouth hole on the bag, to allow in light and air, before I back away. The gimp mask is a bit much. I prefer seeing her, all of her, but it can stay on for a while.

“Phoebe scores one for making us worry about the croc and where she is, and for kicking me. I get a score of…one, two, three, for each clamp.” I rip the tape from her ankles, then rise, take her wrists, and rope them together at her back. I steady her when she almost trips. “Razor, want this?” I offer him the end of the rope. “Should we make her come at the doorway to this event?”

“Where everyone can see? Why not. If she ever kicks me like that, I’d have to invent something bad.”

“Oh, I have plenty of bad in mind.”

Phoebe blows a raspberry from within the bag but winces and curses me when I drag on the clamp holding her clit.

The things I brought with me are going to get some use, tonight. The anal hook, for starters.

“Behave and I’ll remove this soon.”

Halfway to the event room, I remove the bag. The hot, flustered look of condemnation on her face barely registerswhen I have her like this—hands bound at her back and the rope lead in Razor’s hand. She’s collared, clamped, and under our control, and more than a little turned on by us toying with her along the way. That kick she gave me was on the boundary of too far, but I’m sure she held back. It’s an excuse to punish her, and I’m certain she knows the consequences won’t be trivial.

The raspberry from inside the bag sealed her fate.

Except, when we reach the event room, despite the debauchery happening inside, all eyes turn to us. The doors are latched against the wall and the opening is wide enough for the three of us to stand in line abreast, with Phoebe in the middle.

The music playing is stirring and belongs toKing Arthur, Legend of the Sword. It’s a favorite movie of mine, and I’m feeling protective of it. I’m actually annoyed these people have appropriated this music. Do I have anything in common with these guests? Possibly nothing beyond a love of highly sadistic BDSM.

A better question: should I be gifting them this exhibit of my Phoebe? And she is mine, my balls tell me, my heart tells me, the thump of blood in my temples tells me, more than she is Razor’s.

If some of them want to kill her, this is horrendously stupid. But maybe it is sensible too. Blend in and make them think we…I, have no suspicions.

If I tell Phoebe about the fingers, my main concern is that being a woman, she will panic. We can’t have that.

I’m going to carry on fucking with her then, and being normal, until I have a plan.

Except, the blindfold in the bag is calling to me. Not sure why, but letting them drink her in, being degraded and fuckedby Razor and me, it twists my gut. If I can’t or won’t leave with her, why does a blindfold seem a reasonable choice?

Because it gives her solace? No. Or not exactly that.

I pull it from the bag, along with the anal hook and some cord, my dick thrumming with anticipation, the blood rushing in. I can imagine myself sinking into her asshole, her gasps, her cries. It gets me harder than stone. I’m going to make this last.

This blindfold, however.

Is it because her not seeing them somehow works on my warped brain? I think it might be that. It doesn’t make sense, and it’s a weakness to give in to the pressure of them watching her. I tuck the scrap of cloth into a pocket.

26

Phoebe

This is a new room, bigger than where we dined.

The music continues, but no one seems to move in this moment as I’m pulled to a halt in the doorway by Razor’s hands on my shoulder and wrists. Has the air itself stilled? He steps sideways, still holding the rope that goes to my bound hands. All the parts of my body that I might wish to conceal are on display—the reverse of how it should be. The clamps at my clit and breasts ache, alternating a sharp, biting pain with a dull throb.

Am I blushing? I’m too aroused by their fingerfucking to be sure, by their pausing on the way to handle me, to tease the clamps, to lap around the metal jaws with their tongues, while the other man holds my arms or throat or hooks his fingers inmy mouth. They painted my thighs with my arousal, and the bottom of my dress is in tatters.

Determined to not be overwhelmed, I try to calm myself.Breathe.

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