There is nothing about you that is hidden from me; I know your deepest, darkest, and most depraved cravings.”
His face is so close that I feel the warmth of his breath as he speaks in my ear. Though it is no more than a whisper, there is no doubt of its threatening intent.
“Ask me to hurt you. Beg me to give you what you need. Do it… I’ll not ask again; I’ll just take.”
“Do what pleases you, my beautiful beast.”
My body’s struggle against the restraints has now become a dance of seduction, begging the only man who exists in my world to have his way with me. Even if it means pain will be involved—and it will be because there always is—I need him to take me.
“Anything? Anything that pleases me?”
I jump as I hear the unmistakable sound of a folding knife being opened with a flick of his wrist. His fingers squeeze my cheeks, forcing my mouth open, and I feel him place two pills on my tongue. He lifts my head with one hand and holds a bottle of water to my lips in an unspoken command to drink. I swallow them.
“Good girl, the codeine will make it hurt less. Are you scared?”
His voice taunts me. He knows I’m afraid, and I know he’s well aware of my fear because I can feel his hard cock through the fabric of his pants.
“I’m going to mark you. Well… I should probably use the term brand. You see, my love, I don’t need the knife to instill fear in you.”
He leans down and chuckles in my ear, “I do, however, need its razor sharp blade to carve my brand on you. I’m going to give you something I’ve never given any other woman.”
“Wouldn’t a tattoo be better?” My voice is snarky in an effort to purposely provoke him.
He viciously jerks my head back, placing the knife at my throat. “Don’t fuck with me!”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You’re right, I’m not.”
He ignores me and continues to inform me what he has planned. “Normally I would use a scalpel in a cutting scene, but this is no scene; this is just me branding my property. I’m using my Spyderco knife. I can feel the tip of the knife cutting deeply between my breasts. The pills have kicked in, and I’m euphorically high. As if reading my mind, he speaks.
“Have the pills taken effect, love?”
“Yes,” I gasp on a sharp intake of breath. My head lulls to the side, partially due to the drug’s effects on me and partially in submission to my circumstances.
“That’s a good girl. Give in to me.”
He knows what I’m thinking. He always knows. I can feel the blood dripping down my torso. I instinctively know he’s almost finished with his work of art.
“What is it?” I ask, resigned to whatever scar I will carry for his twisted pleasure.
“It’s my heart—my scarred, broken, and very fucked-up heart.”
He finishes and, after wiping the blood from me, bathes the wound in an antiseptic that burns worse than the cutting itself did. His hands are gentle as he bandages me up with a large square of gauze and tape. He’s talking me through everything as his hands work over me with expertise since I’m still blindfolded.
My chest heaves from a mixture of excitement and anger about my husband tricking me into submitting to his will—about him branding me for life. We are both crazy in our need of each other’s fucked-up addictions. The anger dissipates quickly as his thick fingers begin to toy with my folds. His hands work with the precision of a man who knows my body like no one ever has or ever will. He dips his thick fingers into my moist opening, and I groan in defeat. There is no resisting the pleasure my body feels when taken by him.
A whimper escapes my lips when he stops, but then I hear the rustling of his clothing being removed. I jump when I feel his fist twist into my hair. He yanks roughly and growls in my ear.
“Are you mad? Are you pissed that I know you so well?”
“Fuck you.”
“Shut up,” he growls, shoving his fingers into my mouth and forcing
His face is so close that I feel the warmth of his breath as he speaks in my ear. Though it is no more than a whisper, there is no doubt of its threatening intent.
“Ask me to hurt you. Beg me to give you what you need. Do it… I’ll not ask again; I’ll just take.”
“Do what pleases you, my beautiful beast.”
My body’s struggle against the restraints has now become a dance of seduction, begging the only man who exists in my world to have his way with me. Even if it means pain will be involved—and it will be because there always is—I need him to take me.
“Anything? Anything that pleases me?”
I jump as I hear the unmistakable sound of a folding knife being opened with a flick of his wrist. His fingers squeeze my cheeks, forcing my mouth open, and I feel him place two pills on my tongue. He lifts my head with one hand and holds a bottle of water to my lips in an unspoken command to drink. I swallow them.
“Good girl, the codeine will make it hurt less. Are you scared?”
His voice taunts me. He knows I’m afraid, and I know he’s well aware of my fear because I can feel his hard cock through the fabric of his pants.
“I’m going to mark you. Well… I should probably use the term brand. You see, my love, I don’t need the knife to instill fear in you.”
He leans down and chuckles in my ear, “I do, however, need its razor sharp blade to carve my brand on you. I’m going to give you something I’ve never given any other woman.”
“Wouldn’t a tattoo be better?” My voice is snarky in an effort to purposely provoke him.
He viciously jerks my head back, placing the knife at my throat. “Don’t fuck with me!”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You’re right, I’m not.”
He ignores me and continues to inform me what he has planned. “Normally I would use a scalpel in a cutting scene, but this is no scene; this is just me branding my property. I’m using my Spyderco knife. I can feel the tip of the knife cutting deeply between my breasts. The pills have kicked in, and I’m euphorically high. As if reading my mind, he speaks.
“Have the pills taken effect, love?”
“Yes,” I gasp on a sharp intake of breath. My head lulls to the side, partially due to the drug’s effects on me and partially in submission to my circumstances.
“That’s a good girl. Give in to me.”
He knows what I’m thinking. He always knows. I can feel the blood dripping down my torso. I instinctively know he’s almost finished with his work of art.
“What is it?” I ask, resigned to whatever scar I will carry for his twisted pleasure.
“It’s my heart—my scarred, broken, and very fucked-up heart.”
He finishes and, after wiping the blood from me, bathes the wound in an antiseptic that burns worse than the cutting itself did. His hands are gentle as he bandages me up with a large square of gauze and tape. He’s talking me through everything as his hands work over me with expertise since I’m still blindfolded.
My chest heaves from a mixture of excitement and anger about my husband tricking me into submitting to his will—about him branding me for life. We are both crazy in our need of each other’s fucked-up addictions. The anger dissipates quickly as his thick fingers begin to toy with my folds. His hands work with the precision of a man who knows my body like no one ever has or ever will. He dips his thick fingers into my moist opening, and I groan in defeat. There is no resisting the pleasure my body feels when taken by him.
A whimper escapes my lips when he stops, but then I hear the rustling of his clothing being removed. I jump when I feel his fist twist into my hair. He yanks roughly and growls in my ear.
“Are you mad? Are you pissed that I know you so well?”
“Fuck you.”
“Shut up,” he growls, shoving his fingers into my mouth and forcing
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