Deliver (12 page)

Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in an oversize t-shirt, Liv returned to her room.

He lay on his back on the rug, arms above his head to accommodate the chains. His soft snoring thrummed through the room, thanks to the sleeping pills she’d diluted in his water. But even in the grip of sleep, he wore a brooding look that pulled at his eyebrows and sharpened the bones in his chiseled face. A fringe of lashes shadowed his cheeks, and the lines on his forehead drew deep grooves.

Humans adapted quickly, and when they understood the boundaries, they worked within them. His aggressive attempts to overthrow her had been expected. All captives emerged from the box demanding answers and tossing clumsy punches. But there was something subtly different about his temperament. He wasn’t desperate enough.

He wasn’t scared enough.

She flipped off the light, submersing the room in darkness, and stretched alongside his body. The whisper of his breath and the clean scent of his skin navigated her toward his face. Lost so deeply in sleep, he didn’t stir as she speared her fingers through the thick muss of his textured hair.

The first meeting with the buyer was in two weeks. Two weeks to mold this boy-man into some semblance of a boy-slave, one who would be deemed satisfactory by a misogynist whack-job. Could she beat the contempt and righteousness out of him in that short amount of time?

It was a psychological battle she intended to win, because the boy wouldn’t suffer for his disobedience the way Mom and Mattie would.

Resolve guided her hands, lifting the edge of the rug and unfurling a thin latex sheet from beneath it. Half of the sheath was held down by his body. It was also glued to the subfloor. She folded the loose half over him, crawling quietly to his other side.

He coughed as she hefted the closest shoulder and rolled him on his side, the bones in his arm indiscernible through the hard layers of compact muscle. A few careful tugs on the carpet, his breathing stuttering and steadying, and the rug pulled free from his weight. She set it behind her and returned him to his back.

At his feet, she pulled a zipper around the edges of the latex, sliding it toward his head and removing the chains from his wrist cuffs as she went. Through the night, it would be a plastic sleeping bag. With the sides zipped together, she cinched the latex around his shoulders.

That done, she curled up on the mattress, lit a cigarette, and walked through her preparations for the next day. The nature of mornings in captivity was either they woke up remembering where they were and what was expected or they were punished and dropped in hell. The captive’s first day was always hell.

The gravity of confinement bore down on Josh’s sleep-dazed utopia. It was a relentless press, dragging against his skin and nudging him to wake. Lying on his back, he reached up to rub the fog from his eyes and couldn’t move his hands. He tried to lift his legs. Couldn’t move those either. His heart rate exploded, ripping the haze of sleep from his brain.

The oblivion behind his eyelids was replaced with the blank stare of a masked face. It floated above him, a ghastly-white monition against ruffled waves of chestnut hair.

Arms pinned at his sides, he blinked to clear his vision as her brown eyes watched him through the eyeholes of the opaque disguise. A nondescript nose, pointy chin, and cheekbones molded the white, oval-shaped face. It would’ve been androgynous, except for the puckered, red-painted mouth, the upper lip arching in two dramatically-peaked points.

He lifted his head, dragged his focus from the mask to where she straddled his ribs and arms, and wasn’t sure which had his heart pumping faster. The blood-red bra and panties that bared her body or the latex body bag that sheathed his.

An impending sense of doom sparked the compulsion to fight. His muscles tightened, heating his skin and constricting against the stretchy rubber. He could give into his rising panic and shout, writhe, and wear himself out. Or he could conquer his impulses, behave with reason, and deny her the satisfaction of his fear. At least his backside was safe at the moment.

He peered into the eyes behind the mask and searched for a human being. The pupils, lifeless and frozen, might as well have been painted glass. His jaw tightened. “Damn. I’m still in this nightmare?”

There, a flicker of raw umber in the glass. His heart danced in his chest. Then the flicker disappeared with a sweep of latex as she stretched the covering from his neck to his crown.

He gulped against sudden claustrophobia, catching pockets of air in the see-through plastic wrap. Bucking and kicking and straining his neck, there was no room to maneuver. The transparent rubber clung to every inch of him, his skin sweating and slipping along it uselessly.

His inhales thinned, every other breath sealing the bag against his mouth and nose. He squirmed toward the top opening, but it cinched around his neck and ensnared his head. He could lift his head to scan down the expanse of his body, but he couldn’t roll, couldn’t sit up. It was as if he was cemented to the floor.

The whine of a motor screeched through the room and vibrated the wood against his back. Oxygen vanished. The latex shrunk, compressing his arms to his sides and sinking his body to the floor. His nerves rampaged with realization. She was sucking the air from the bag with a vacuum, trapping him, suffocating him.

He grunted, tried to scream at her to stop. Breathless. Constricted. Fire lit his lungs, and his heart exploded with terror.

The motor shut off, and the bag loosened. She peeled back the flap, cool air stroking his face and filling his lungs. She smoothed his hair from his forehead. “If there’s a definition for waking up on the wrong side of the bed, this is it.”

Was that a joke? Was the vile witch mocking him while she tortured him? He mustered his most sarcastic tone and smiled. “I’ll pray for your soul, Liv.”

Her fist slammed into his cheekbone.

Ow, dammit.
A jolt of pain seared through his skull and burned his eyes.

The bag covered over his face again. The motor roared. He fought for air, his chest burning. The suffocation seemed to double this time.
Trapped. Can’t breathe. Too long.
Black spots speckled his vision.

When she turned it off and pulled back the plastic, he couldn’t catch his voice. He didn’t want to.

One of her cold, heartless fingers traced his jaw. “You failed two of the simplest requirements.”

He panted, his lungs on fire. The requirements…the requirements… Strip. Kneel. No sex with her. No touching her. No masturbating.
Eyes down
.

His gaze flew to his stomach, taking his heart with it. Chest heaving, instinct screaming to insult her with every curse word he knew, he tried to shed the fear from his face.

“That’s one.” She placed a hand on his groin, the heat of her palm seeping through the thin barrier.

A moan caught in his throat. He didn’t want to feel her hand there, and he definitely didn’t want to like it. Dammit, which requirement was he missing? Sifting through the list, he grit his teeth. “Mistress.”

“Good.” She stroked his penis through the latex with a skill that infused his body with lust and fury. Keeping his eyes averted from hers, he flexed his muscles, drew calming breaths, and blanked his mind. Years of practice in controlling his desires should’ve overpowered the sensations she was weaving through him, but with each twist of her wrist and drag of her fingernail, the traitorous erection swelled.

Her touch disappeared. His pulse tapered then hammered anew as she shifted down his body. Her mask hovered over his crotch, her hands braced on either side of his hips. The long silk of her hair curled around slim, bare shoulders. If his hands were free, he could snap her in half.

She slid the mask to her forehead, her face angled out of view, and the heat of her breath penetrated the thin material, sweeping over his groin. He arched, straining against the compression of the bag. His legs trembled as quivering energy tingled over his thighs and tightened his balls.

This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t stop his release from building. He must’ve looked ravenous, the transparent latex adhering to his genitals, revealing every detail under her close inspection.

It was wrong. She was violating him, molesting him—

Her tongue dragged over his length from root to tip, wrenching a moan from deep within his chest. Despite the layer of latex between them, all he could feel was the concentrated heat, the soft stroke, the atrocious pleasure of it.

With an invasive grip, she adjusted his erection to lie flat between his pubic mound and the latex. “You have permission to speak. Tell me what you want me to do with this monstrous cock.”

“Mistress, release me.”

She raised up, shifting the mask to cover her face, and straddled his hips. “I’m so wet, if you weren’t wearing a full-body condom, you’d slide right in.” She ground against him, and he thought, for a terrifying second, he might come just from the contact.

“My pussy would stretch to accommodate your girth. It would grip you like a vise and cream all over your cock as you rub in and out, sinking deeply, withdrawing reluctantly.” She leaned toward his face, her breath whispering behind the mask. “You would finish with hard, hurried fucks, punching every inch of my cunt.”

Vulgarity could be a form of torture, along with character assassination. He knew she was taunting him, trying to coax him into abandoning his beliefs and begging her like those before him. Even knowing this, he couldn’t stifle the overwhelming desire gripping his body. He’d never wanted to come so badly, but he would
not
beg.

She slid the red satin crotch of her panties to the side and rolled her hips up. The sight of her plump, pink creases of skin, hairless and glistening with moisture, wrestled his wildest, most insane fantasies to the forefront of his thoughts. He curled his toes and tensed against the warmth rushing to his groin. His breathing and heart rate quickened, yet he couldn’t look away from her body.

No cheerleader, no pastor’s wife compared to her beauty. She moved with the grace of a dancer, lithe and muscular, shifting over his privates as if she were floating. For a thick moment, he was convinced he’d found an angel. Then he remembered she was his captor, a rapist, the devil incarnate.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers digging into his thighs, his penis unbearably hot and uncomfortable.

“Open your eyes, boy.” Her voice was commanding, the mask adding another layer of detachment. “Watch me.”

Startled by the ease at which he followed her command, he watched her finger as it traced her slit, up and down, gathering wetness. He couldn’t stop his mind from darting to the conclusion of sex, wanting the mystery of her flesh wrapped around him and not caring about his virginity or his parents’ promise to God. It was enlightening and reckless.

Lowering her hips, she parted her folds with the latex-protected length of him, rocking, fingers reaching to pinch his nipples through the rubber buffer. The bulges of her chest overflowed the satin, the color of the bra accentuating the red pout painted over her hidden expression.

She was a demon in the form of the most beautiful girl on earth. If he peered into her liquid brown eyes, he might’ve found the cruelest corners of the world there. But when she ground against him, the lustrous sheen of her hair swishing around her, her fingers curling against his abs, she seemed more human, less wooden. She seemed to desire him.

The thought made him needy in a way he didn’t comprehend. He wanted her to slide her heat over him faster, longer, and hear her hypnotic voice cry out in bliss.

No. He blinked, tried to clear his head. He wanted her to stop.

Another bout of quakes tumbled through him, coaxing the climax that was teetering on a razor’s edge. What was her true intention? Was any of this real? Could she produce moisture between her legs if she didn’t want him? If he could recognize her authenticity, he might be able to explain the meaning of her actions. “Mistress. Remove the mask.”

She threw her head back, the sinews in her slender neck straining against the skin. She moaned, and the sound transformed into a harmony of
Ahh-Ahhhh-Ah
. Her voice was an offering from God and a temptation from hell, a tone so potent it could corrupt a man, or save him.

Blood surged to his penis, raising his testicles, and his inhibitions fled. His heart rate skyrocketed, his lungs labored, and his thighs and butt tightened. She continued to grind on him, hitting the right spot, the right speed. He was doomed.

“Requirement number eight.” Hips flexing, she rubbed against him with the mastery to finish him. “Slave will not orgasm without permission.”

A series of contractions gripped his cock. He’d reached the point where he couldn’t stop, didn’t care about anything but the rush of pleasure barreling down on him. It was happening, and oh sweet Jesus, his body shook with the violence of a spasmodic freefall. Sensations flooded him from the waist down, pulsing against the friction of her heat, and he forgot where he was.

Her weight vanished. Latex covered his face, and the vacuum roared to life.