Faithless Read online

I follow his instructions to the letter and relish the feel of the cold plastic against my feverish skin.

  I don’t hear his approach, his steps stealthy, his breathing silent, and as one hand grips the back of my neck to hold me in place, I feel a single finger run from the collar of my shirt straight down the middle of my spine until it reaches my tailbone.

  “Cry out, and I will punish you,” he warns before his hand slides from my lower back to my pulsing cock and squeezes… hard. I swallow back an agonised groan unwilling to give him what he craves.

  “Ah, James,” he soothes in my ear, his hand going from harsh to pleasure-inducing. “Your acquiescence is a gift, one that will earn you a reward.”

  His long, nimble fingers slip down my zip and then unbutton my trousers. With sure, swift movements, he pushes down both those and my underwear simultaneously, making my steel hard cock hit my lower stomach with a meaty thud.

  I’m naked from the waist down, my entire body so close to the edge of something that I shiver as the colder air hits my overheated skin. Then those wicked fingers wrap themselves around my girth and pump.

  I want to moan. I want to bang my head against the fridge and demand he work me harder, but I remember his delight at the threat he’d issued, and with more restraint than I thought I possessed, I swallow all my pleasure until it fills my belly with heat.

  With my head at this angle, I get to watch the erotic show as beads of pre-cum glisten at the tip of my engorged flesh then disappear under the stroke of his hand, greasing the slide of his tight fist against my cock.

  My panting breaths stick in my throat, the urge to make a sound intensifying with every tight drag of his hand over my sensitive and needy flesh.

  My silence to him is a challenge, and the hand at my neck squeezes once in a warning to remain in position before he stretches over to reach something on the table, the grip on my cock still pumping, but less intensely.

  I hear the scrape of something over the wood table top, then a lid being removed before he kicks my legs as far apart as the trousers around my ankles will allow. With my stance widened to allow him entry, he whispers silkily in my ear, “I’m going to butter you up for me, James.”

  My brain scrambles to identify his meaning until— “Ahhh,” I groan, as one slick digit circles the place that no one has ever been before. My hole twitching under his oily finger.

  He used the butter from the dish on the table. The butter I’d minutes ago spread on my toast.

  “Oh, James,” he tuts in mock disapproval. “Was that a noise?” His voice is coated in devilish honey. “Did you just groan for me?” He pushes the tip of his finger past my virgin ring of muscles, breaching me and sending frissons of heat through my insides. I bite my lip, drawing blood on the opposite side from the wound he gave me.

  Slide. Pump. Thrust. His single, thick finger fucks into my tight hole in tandem to the hand pumping my cock. My head spins, my dick leaking profusely and adding the extra sensory input of slick wet sounds to the experience as he milks me.

  A second finger joins the first and the heat in my hole turns into a burn as he pumps and scissors, stretching my entrance to accommodate him. A third soon follows, and I swear I take a chunk of flesh from the inside of my cheek as I stifle yet another moan by biting down hard.

  I’m full, so very full.

  Until I’m not.

  His fingers slip out of my arse, his hand releases my cock, and I whimper shamelessly, and, unfortunately loudly.

  “Oh, James,” he chastises, before the sound of a zipper echoes in the otherwise silent room. “You were doing so well until you made that greedy little noise.”

  I feel him step back closer to me and the rough texture of his trousers tickles the backs of my thighs.

  “Don’t fret, Pet.” He stills before correcting himself. “No, you’re not my pet, you’re my—” His words end, the sentence hanging in the air between us unfinished.

  Having him so close but not touching me drives me insane. That’s the only reason I can give for—groan, “Put your hands back on me or do something. I’m done playing fucking game—”

  I’m slammed against the fridge. The old appliance tilting back a few inches to hit the wall behind before righting itself and wobbling on its feet. A hand grips my hair and pushes my face hard into the unforgiving surface, and I’m about to fight back, to give him the struggle he’s been baiting me for, when the blunt tip of his cock pushes up against my hole before a brutal thrust of his hips has him plunging straight in to the hilt.

  Pain, excruciating and raw, streaks from where we are joined, racing through my nerve endings and flooding me with unbearable agony. My cock softens, and my mouth stretches wide in a silent scream.

  “I told you I would punish you,” he snarls, digging himself in deeper, his grip on my head and hip bruising and destructive.

  “Now, you can scream for me, Boy. Scream and beg and sob. I’ll take it all.”

  He pulls out almost to the tip before plunging back in, and I refuse to scream for the bastard ripping me in half, but I do grunt. It’s hoarse and loud and only serves to make his next thrusts more violent.

  Each punch of hips and stinging pull of my hair earns him a noise from the back of my throat. But where my cock had begun to soften from the brutal first fuck into my virgin hole, it now thickens and plumps and drips with desire.

  The initial excruciating burn turned into a delicious friction that came to life from deep within. Every jab of his long, thick prick hits a spot inside me that curls my toes and draws my balls up tight.

  Luke’s breathing barely falters in my ear, his control ever present, but I come undone at his violation. I get off on being used as a hole for his cock, and I know I’m seconds away from spilling my load all over the front of this decrepit refrigerator without him even putting his hand back on my dick.

  The fabric of his trousers rubs against the hair on my legs, and the sharpness of his open zipper pinches at the sensitive skin of my balls with every thrust.

  What must we look like, him fully clothed rutting into me in this almost derelict farmhouse kitchen? The monster and—what did he call me? Ah, yes, Boy. A name meant to demean, but in some sick way because he’s bestowed it upon me, it means something more than a way to keep me beneath him. He’s said it himself, I wasn’t one of his pets. I was something more.

  Sweat beads on my forehead and drips down my hairline before trickling the length of my neck. Seconds later, Luke’s warm tongue chases the salty liquid and finally, I get a noise from him.

  “Fuck, every bit of you tastes good.”

  He spits on my neck. I should be disgusted but it’s base and raw and calls to a hidden part of me. Then he bites—hard—at the soft skin between my neck and shoulder, his teeth clamping down to stake his claim on my body. On my soul.

  The additional burst of pain is enough to have me freefalling over the edge into the abyss.

  This time I do scream as I moan his name and shoot stream after stream of spunk onto the fridge door. Ropes of my cum spurt endlessly from my swollen prick, and I feel my arse tighten around him in pulsing waves.

  “Fuck, you’re milking my cock better than any cunt ever has,” he admits roughly, his hips stuttering and losing their rhythm. He lets out a long and audible sigh as he empties himself deep inside me, and I swear I feel every pulse of his orgasm and every spurt of his cum as he floods my tight hole with his release, never once stopping his slow, hard thrusts. I go cross-eyed at the over-sensitiveness of my flesh.

  “Stop,” I breathe. “Enough,” I beg.

  He fucks into me harder, punctuating every thrust of his still rigid cock with, “I’ll. Say. When. It’s. Enough.”

  Each slide of his dick squelches obscenely, and on each drag out his seed slips from my hole down my crack to my depleted balls.

  Eventually, he softens and slips out. My empty hole clenches in search of that which had filled it, and fucked it, and ruined it.

  “Good Bo
y,” he praises with his mouth at my ear and the full length of his still clothed body pressing into mine.

  “You’ve ruined me,” I mutter, my head spinning, my chest heaving, and every one of my nerve endings shooting off sparks of residual electricity like a misfiring switch.

  He’s planted something in the empty parts of me. I can feel it slither through those voids, taking root, spreading like wildfire in a field full of dried grass. What will happen when he tugs it out? When he rips it from me and leaves an even bigger hole inside. Will it fill with his blackness? Or will it implode and swallow me whole?

  “Isn’t it amazing how much destruction one person can cause another?” he muses. “Even in the act of fucking, a life can be altered forever. You say I’ve ruined you James—” he steps away from me and my used body sags against the door in front of me. “—but one taste of you has damned me.”

  Fifteen

  Lily

  * * *

  I’m warm. Too warm.

  Scratchy blankets rub against my skin like sandpaper, and when I move, I feel the pinch of something in the back of my hand.

  My eyes open into thin slits, their edges raw and sticking together like I’ve been asleep for days. I expect to see the bare block walls of the room I’ve been in for days, but what my eyes eventually focus on past the crust sealing my lids is faded floral wallpaper, and stained, lace net curtains that blow in a slight breeze.

  I’ve been moved.

  As always, when I wake somewhere new, I mentally check myself. I feel groggy from some kind of drug, but not the way I usually am when they’ve knocked me out. My limbs are tired and heavy, but that seems typical for me these days, and between my thighs I’m bruised and sore—again, a pain I’m becoming used to experiencing. This realisation brings bile bubbling up my throat. No one should have to get used to knowing their body has been brutally abused to inflate the ego of others.

  I always thought rape and sexual assault were just that—something sexual. A depraved need that a monster masquerading as a person had to quench no matter what. My months held in captivity have shown me it’s more than that. Yes, there is sexual motivation, but it’s also about power, control and dominance. The man who owns me trades people like others sell cars. He uses us as a commodity to fill his pockets and thus extend his power. His acquaintances that use me want a taste of that power for themselves. Fucking into every one of my holes makes them feel formidable and masculine—the big dog on the block with the sharpest of teeth. And those that buy women like me do so to sate their perversions while boosting their mighty egos. Taking and using another person the way they use me says, ‘I’m untouchable. I can fuck or kill or maim and nobody will stop me.’

  Well, their power over me stops now, even if it ends with my death.

  This ends, today.

  I give myself a few moments to come around before pushing myself up to a sitting position. My empty belly swirls, the fog in my head shifts and congeals before hitting the inside of my brain like a pinball, and I swallow hard a few times to keep the bile from pushing its way up my throat and expelling all over the abrasive and threadbare blankets.

  “Slow and steady wins the race, Lily. Don’t rush. Don’t rush,” my mother’s voice whispers, and my eyes dart around the room expecting her to be there, but she’s only ever in my head. She’s a part of the fog, a distant memory of life before.

  I inhale deeply and scent the room. My sense of smell is something I’ve learned to keep hidden. I’ve never known anything different. Even as a small child I knew each person had their own aroma, and I’m not talking skin or sweat or what they try to mask with perfume. I mean the essence of them. This room smells musty, but the residue of death and darkness collects in the corners.

  He was in here—the one I shot.

  His scent is fading but not completely gone which means he left not too long ago.

  With my stomach slowly settling and the wooziness in my head abating, I look down at my hand and see the cannula inserted into my vein. It stings as I tug it out and blood spurts in a quick rush before turning into a slow trickle. I wipe it off on the ratty blankets, ignoring the slight ache from the tender wound.

  Next, I take in my surroundings, cataloguing anything I could use as a weapon. The I.V. bag hangs from the bedpost, no pole to use as a makeshift bat. The rest of the room is bare. No wardrobe, no dressers or cupboards, nothing except the bed and those nicotine stained net curtains.

  “You don’t need weapons, Lily. Trust in yourself. Believe in your instincts. He is good. He will hold back the darkness.”

  I close my eyes and wish she were here. But, all I see when I do is her broken body splayed naked on the floor in a perfect circle of blood.

  “I’ll trust in you, mother,” I whisper, and the vision behind my eyes fades until all I see is her beautiful face and enigmatic smile. She blows me a kiss before fading away, and I want to sob from the loss.

  “Get up, my Lily. Get up and believe. There is someone you need to meet.”

  With heavy limbs, I push myself out of bed, testing the strength of my legs. When I don’t crumble into a heap on the floor, I make my way to the closed door and expect it to be locked. I don’t much fancy climbing out of the window, but I will if I must.

  The door unexpectedly opens with a twist of the old brass handle, and I step out into a narrow, dusty hall with rotten looking floorboards, and textured plaster walls painted a faded terracotta. Using my extra sense, I smell the air and scent no one close by, so with light, careful steps I walk to the stairs and tense when one particularly swollen board creaks loudly under my feet.

  I freeze, my legs shaking with the effort, my nerves screaming at me to run back to the room and go via the window instead. I stand there silently like a sentry, waiting for an attack that doesn’t come. With a deep breath, I tiptoe down the stairs, flinching at every sound I make until the scent of both darkness and ocean wafts towards me from below, both aromas thick and seemingly fighting for dominance.

  The muffled sounds of movement, followed by something large shifting has me moving closer to the noises, and as I round the corner of the downstairs hall, I hear the man of death growl, “Scream for me, Boy. Scream and beg and sob. I’ll take it all.”

  The rough, threatening words should be enough to have me running in the opposite direction, but the sounds of muffled grunts and of skin slapping against skin bring me closer and closer to the wide-open door that leads to an old farmhouse kitchen. From my position, I can see a worn and cracked porcelain sink and the edge of a chunky wooden table, but I cannot yet view the people within. Their scents tell me who it is—the Ocean and Death.

  Death is trying to drown the ocean, but what he doesn’t know is that the ocean will always win. It is an indomitable force that may appear calm, like a millpond on the surface, but turn your back, and the crashing waves will sweep you away to your doom.

  Closer I creep, like a peeping tom, until more of the kitchen comes into view. First, a coffee pot and a mug, then the table top strewn with a tablet, a plate sprinkled with crumbs, another cup, and an open dish of butter.

  Rhythmic thumping beckons me forward until the entire room is on display.

  “Fuck, every bit of you tastes good,” Death says before sinking his teeth in Ocean’s flesh while rutting him into the front of an old fridge. His black trouser-clad hips pump brutally into Ocean’s naked backside, fucking him hard and deep without remorse, and I’m fascinated by the display.

  Not because of Death’s dominance or the way he takes without thought of the man beneath him, but because of Ocean’s unapologetic neediness.

  He wants this. He craves the surrender of his control to a monster in an attempt to attain a brief moment’s respite from the anguish I saw carved into his soul.

  “Good Boy,” Death praises when he’s finished his assault, and I expect to smell the condescension of his words, but all I smell is pride. He’s pleased with his boy’s performance, and the words are is
sued reverently, not in disdain.

  More words are shared, but I shut them out as I watch Ocean’s face fall from pleasure into grief.

  He’s ashamed of his need for Death. He’s betraying someone he loves by submitting to his lust for a man like him.

  As Death steps away and squeezes his semi-hard length into his trousers before zipping them shut, I watch Ocean crumble to the bottom of the sea, and I gasp at the sheer devastation he emits.

  That one, almost silent sound gives me away, and Death turns his attention to me.

  “Ah, little girl. You should still be asleep. It seems my skills at sedation are slipping.”

  I freeze, my eyes flitting from Death to Ocean, who turns and tugs up his trousers, his face a mask of emptiness.

  “Did you see something you shouldn’t have, Pet?” Death asks.

  I remain silent, and he smirks as he walks towards me.

  “Not to worry,” he says conversationally while slipping his hand inside his jacket and pulling out a small handgun. “I have far more successful ways of putting you to sleep.”

  His hand raises like a he’s holding a whip, and the butt of the gun strikes my temple.

  Darkness and death engulf me.

  Not a trace of the ocean in sight.

  You were wrong, Mother. The darkness has consumed him.

  Sixteen

  Luke

  * * *

  After putting the Craven whore to sleep with a tender kiss from my PPK, James had rushed me, pinned me up by the throat against the kitchen wall, and stared into my dark soul.

  His chest heaved, his hand tightened, and his eyes searched, but he did nothing more. I don’t believe it was because of the gun in my hand. I think it was because he saw the void behind my eyes and decided there was nothing in me worth fighting with. How can you demand answers from a man with none to give? How can you expect remorse from a person that’s empty on the inside? Well, empty except for my monster, but he’d already encountered my beast when I bit at his neck and broke the soft skin there with my teeth.