Ravage

He only smiled more.

He traced his tongue along my cheek as his finger began flicking back and forth along my seam. I tried to keep my eyes open. I tried to show the strength of my resistance to his intimate touch, but my eyes closed on feeling the heady sensation.

“You are drenched, kotyonok,” he murmured, his Russian accent thick and fueled with lust. “Have you ever come before? Have you ever touched yourself and made yourself come?”

I managed to shake my head, whimpering as he ran his finger over my bud of nerves. His finger froze, and I bucked trying to feel the sensation it brought. When I opened my eyes, I saw him waiting impatiently for an answer.

“No,” I confessed, “I have never touched myself before.”

Air swooshed out of his mouth, and he moved closer against me. His hot chest grazed my breasts. His finger slipped from me. I almost screamed in protest at the loss. The pressure in my stomach was too strong to stand. Then his face hardened with determination and the pad of his finger slipped to land back on my clit.

I jerked with the surge of pleasure that rushed through my body. My muscles grew so taut that I feared they might snap. My mouth fell open in ecstasy.

His chest was scalding against my breasts. His mouth dragged along my cheek as his finger pressed harder against me, beginning to move in small slow circles. I pulled and pulled on my arms and legs, my body desperately needing to move, but the shackles held me tight. The man’s free hand pressed on the front of my throat. His firm yet gentle grip pushed my back against the wall.

His finger worked faster at my clit. The hand on my throat asserted his strength, domination, and complete control. His forehead pressed against mine, his breath panting as fast as my own.

I moaned loudly as a wave of pleasure pulsed through my weakened legs. His lips rolled together, his cheeks flushing with red. Edging closer until we breathed the same air, he said, “You like that, kotyonok? You like the feel of my hand on and in your cunt?” My body jerked as his illicit words added to the pressure building in my core. I tried to obey his command. I tried to answer. But when the hand on my face moved to my behind, a cry was the only response I could offer.

His finger on my clit circled faster and faster; then suddenly the hand on my behind slipped through to approach my core. My eyes snapped open when his finger traced around my entrance. Two hands, two of his long fingers placed at the wet center of my spread legs.

Warm breath drifted over my face, and as our gazes collided he said, “I am taking this hot cunt, kotyonok.” I cried out when his finger took hold. A light began building behind my eyes. His breath mingled with my cries, and he added, “I’ll own you.”

I cried out as my legs began to tremble, something beginning to build at the bottom of my spine.

“What is your name?” he pushed, the touch of his two talented fingers seeming to be everywhere—in my body, my mind, and my soul.

Seizing upon a morsel of sensibility, I rasped, “Elene … Melua.”

His chest pinned me against the wall, his fingers increasing in speed, round and round, in and out. A high-pitched moan clawed up from my chest.

He pushed again, “Who is Zaal Kostava to you?”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I fought the all-consuming sensations inspired by the orchestrations of his fingers and breathlessly answered, “No one. I don’t know him.”

The fingers increased in speed until I feared the bolts of pleasure shooting up my spine would tear free and consume my entire body. Then suddenly my muscles tensed, my heart slammed fast, and a brilliant light burst behind my eyes. I resisted the combustible tingling between my legs, but the man’s face closed in and he ordered dominantly, “Come!”

Screaming at the crash of bliss taking my body hostage, my lungs burned and my skin dripped with dampness.

He growled before me, and I felt his rock-hard length pressing against my thigh, its wet tip coating my skin. But his fingers didn’t stop; they circled and circled against my clit until I began to convulse. My core was too sensitive. I couldn’t stand his touch. My muscles tensed, testing the strength of the shackles.

My eyes rolled open. On seeing him watching me with a blazing expression, I begged, “Please,” in a ragged voice, “it’s too much. I can’t take it.”

But he didn’t stop; instead he worked his fingers faster and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Elene,” I choked, gasping for breath.

His fingers moved faster still until I could feel the pressure rebuilding in my spine. “No,” I begged, “not again. I can’t—”

But he kept on driving his hands, punishing me with the overwhelming sensations.

“Who is Zaal Kostava to you?” he asked again.

I shook my head, tears slipping down my cheeks. “No one. I don’t know him!”

I choked on a sob as the pressure built again. Just as the blinding light behind my eyes splintered into a million shards, he asked, “Who is your family? Where is your family, little Georgian? Tell me!”

Pain sliced me in half at the mention of my family, more than any dagger ever could. As the torturous bliss burst inside of my tired body, I released two decades’ worth of pain and screamed, “They’re dead! They were massacred right before my eyes! Are you happy?” I coughed on my harsh words and croaked, “Are you happy now that you’ve made me break?”

My heart raced in the aftermath, a mixture of the intense pleasure coming down and the devastating memory of that day now in full view of my mind’s eye.

Sobs racked my body. It took me a moment to realize that the man had removed his fingers from me. His chest no longer pressed against my skin. Instantly I felt cold, my body hanging limply supported only by the chains. Blurry-eyed, I lifted my head to see him frozen before me, watching me, scarred face stern and muscles tense. A sense of incredible embarrassment consumed me when I thought of what he had just done.

But the sorrow it gave way to forced me to whisper, “I am alone. I have always been alone. They were all killed—parents, grandmama, my younger siblings, and my brothers that I adored. I survived.” I steeled my gaze. Without a single tremble in my voice, I said, “Most days I wish to all hell that I had died, too.”

The man seemed to flinch at my words, but his hand lifted. For a split second I wondered if he was going to offer me comfort, to try to touch my face. No sooner had he lifted his hand than he snapped it back to place it at his side.