Perdition-Last Chance [Open, but you MUST read the OOC before hopping in]

[OOC link: http://forum.literotica.com/showthread.php?t=1509755]


The day dawned heavy and cold, the rain pouring down especially hard. Small streams formed quickly in the gray dirt, running between cracks of cobblestone and broken glass.

In the distance, beckoning like a lighthouse, was the soft glow of the lamplight above the doors to the Dogskin Bar. Soft murmers of conversation and the occasional smell of something sweet floated on gusts of wind from the entrance.

Ella felt something soft rub against her calves as she stretched. She knew where she was, so she didn't bother to open her eyes just yet. She did however, pull the warm blanket up over her head and breathe a long sigh. She new she had to get up. Her back ached from sleeping for so long, and she just really had to pee. Finally she dragged herself up and rubbed her eyes, then still blury eyed, reached for the bottle of rum next to the bed. As she took a slow sip she looked around the room.

It hadn't changed while she slept. Sometimes it would. Little things. Like the color of the walls, or how bright the lights were. Today they seemed glowing. Soft. Just like yesterday.

One more small sip to get her going, then she sat the bottle down and made her way to the bathroom. After she was done peeing and had showered, wringing her white hair out before stepping out and drying off with a towel, she sat down to do her daily routine of chopping it all off. It was a pain in the ass to do it every single morning, but every single night it grew back. The same thick, white blond hair that almost reached her ass.

Once she was done, the chop night quite as short as a pixie cut, but definitely too short to reach her shoulders, she brushed herself off and wrapped a light blue bandana over most of it, to help hold it out of her face. The bangs she tucked behind her ears.

When she turned around to fetch her old clothes, she realized they were gone, and instead there was simply a brown dresser in their place. Jumping to her feet, she ran to it and flung it open. She stared at the pile of new clothes: a few shirts with the sleeves cut off to make a rough tank top, and some assortment of pants and shoes. But she didn't care about the style. What she cared about was that it was new.

Quickly she pulled out a bra, a tan shirt, and some cutoff brown jean shorts. She had them on within seconds-only pausing to make sure the deep scars that ran all along her back were covered. Then she ran to the door. Her hand reached out to turn the knob, but just before her fingers touched the metal, she stopped. It was cold.

She pulled her hand back and closed her eyes, struggling not to cry.

For so many the castle and bar was a place of refuge, but sometimes that refuge was not always a choice. Ella had tried, for the first time, to take her own life. She had wanted out, desperately seeking Oblivion, but instead she had awoken in her own unique room with all the comforts she could possibly imagine. When she had tried to leave, she couldn't. The door was ice to the touch and try as she might, it would not unlock.

She lost count of how many days she had been trapped in her room, like some sick joke of a fairy tale princess. She had gotten over wanting to kill herself-she knew now that it was pointless, but she still needed to be out. She needed to be free.

"Please..."

Her voice trembled, and she didn't dare open her eyes as she layed her hand upon the door.

It was warm.

______________________

She quickly ran down the last flight of stairs and once she was at the bottom, she breathed in a deep breathe and let it out on a smile. She could hear some soft music playing from somewhere and smelled the familiar scents of the bar. It was good to be back.

Quickly she made her way over to the counter, pulled out a seat, and reached. Almost instantly a drink was in her hand and she lifted it to her lips, tasting it. Savouring.

Patrick

He saw her and liked the look of her.

No rush, no rush.

Patrick sipped his gin. It was a curse. He remembered when he used to like talking with women, person to person, about things that mattered to him, and to them. About life, and flowers, and hopes, and children, and even politics, at a pinch.

Now when a new woman walked in, even into the periphery of his life, like the new woman on the bar stool, he saw her naked. He wondered how she would look in rope. He tried to imagine whether she would be the sort who would be excited by the humiliation and pain he might inflict, or whether she would submit dully, vacantly, like the last hopeless one he had foolishly approached.

How had this change happened? He had done something bad. Just one bad thing, among all the good. And now here he was, wondering how to torture her, if the opportunity arose.

He sipped his gin and tried to catch her eye. Of course, the manners in this place were all shot to pieces. He could just walk up to her and take her by that handsome hair of hers and do what he wanted. He had missed out on some good-looking female souls by not doing that: the cowboy in the corner, for instance, or the Russian by the door - they were both ruthless bastards.

Patrick was a little old-fashioned perhaps, but he liked a little manoeuvring. Flirtation, conversation, mood music. He coughed, as if spontaneously, and looked at her hard. If you look my way I'll offer to buy you a drink. And something will begin.

He kept looking.

The coke mixed with the rum was sweet on her tongue, and felt like hot butter as it slid down her throat. God she had missed this. Booze was booze, but it was the experience she had really wanted. A distraction. Something different than staring at the walls and being left alone with her thoughts.

She already had a pretty nice fuzz in her head from the sips she had taken up stairs, so she was in a considerably better mood and more open to invitation from the stranger. If he was what she wanted. What she needed.

Her baby blue eyes looked his way, but she made no move to smile or greet him. She wondered what move he would make. Come at her soft and sweet, trying to start up a conversation? Probably. And she didn't even mind the idea of that. She craved a gentle touch just like anyone else, but gentle touches were simple, and kisses too sickly sweet. She still felt the memory of the sting on her palm after she slapped the last man who had been in her bed, trying to get him angry. He had just gotten up and walked away, and she had been too disappointed to try and stop him.

She took a good long drink then sat her glass down and looked across the bar to Patrick. She gave him a look, not quite a glare, but close to it. Testing the waters.

Would he puss out and walk away?

I don't want a stupid lovers game, boy, she thought.

The look was all he needed. His green eyes stared back frankly into her blue eyes. He drank the rest of his gin, too quickly so a little trickled into his grey-brown beard. He licked it there, still looking at her as he rose.

He saw the cowboy moving from the door at the same instant, but Patrick was quicker. He smiled as he approached, that melancholy half-smile that his last woman-friend had complained about. Why don't you smile for real? This is as real as I get.

He stood close to the woman, alongside of her. 'Two large ones of what this lady's having, if you please.' He knew the bar could probably read his mind, but he liked saying it out loud.

He turned to her. He liked the fresh smell of her. There must be something good about her, for her to return so fresh and clean. He always feared there was something sour about him, though he could never track it down.

His voice was low. 'You'd look great in rope. Just rope.' Then, louder, as the drinks arrived, but still to her: 'Were you here that night the cowboy hung up a woman by her ankles over the bar? That was some night. Although there's a room, you know. A private bondage room. Down among the ruins. I believe the key's right here.'

He didn't even have to reach for it. The key just appeared. He picked up the two glasses of rum and turned to the woman again: 'Care to join me?'

He didn't back down? Well that was a nice change of pace. Maybe she should have done that earlier.

You would look good in rope. Just rope.

Her eyes stared into his as he said it, and a small smile touched her face.

"No, I happened to miss that event. Would have loved to have seen it though."

She took a drink, looked at the key, then looked back up to him. Through her light eyelashes, she searched his face.

"And what if I say no? I would rather sit here at this bar and enjoy my drink?"

Again, that little smile. She leaned her body just ever so slightly towards him as she asked under her breathe,

"Would you take no for an answer?"

They were interested in one another, Patrick and the white-haired woman. It was a relief: her searching look, the slight shift in her posture, the way his own smile leaked into his face. Sometimes people here seemed to have given up, and they almost wanted you to know they were just going through the motions. But not her.

Would you take no for an answer.

He leant back a little on the bar. But he smiled, his arms were either side of him, open to her. 'I would take whatever you said for an answer. I doubt I would take no for an acceptable answer, though.'

He felt in the inside pocket of his slightly tattered brown waistcoat and brought out the old handcuffs. 'See, we could start with these and my hand on your arm and see where we got to. I still work out a little, you know. In spite of everything.'

The cuffs in his right hand, with the key, he set his drink down on the counter, and gripped her upper arm with his left hand, pretty hard. He was trying to hold her gaze. But be aware of the movement in the room. There was another man, edging closer.

'See, we can talk right here, but pretty soon the cowboy 'll come over and just fuck you. That's him. In and out. Whereas I'm more of a tease and torment kind of a feller. Care to try the bondage room?'

The smile turned into a full blown grin, lighting up her young face as he showed her the cuffs. He had her hooked now, no doubt about it. Though still, she wondered...

That cowboy...

Oh yes. The cowboy.

She knew that cowboy. Smooth talkin little boy that hadn't been able to break her. Hadn't been able to handle her. She had been, how had he put it? 'Too fucking sick' for him. She scoffed just a little at the mention of him. He was probably only walking over now to put some kind of possessive claim on her.

A hand on her arm, rough and commanding. Her eyes shot right back to his and her pulse quickened a little.

"Well I'm yours now. Whether I care to join you or not."

She stood from the stool, taking her glass gently, and gave him her full attention. She hoped she wasn't wrong about him. She hoped that...he could satisfy the type of craving she had.

Well I'm yours now. Whether I care to join you or not.

He took his hand from her upper arm. He wondered if she bruised nicely. 'Here, let me take care of that for you.' He took her drink and placed it on the counter. 'We'll be needing a...'

He didn't have to say. The rest of the bottle of rum appeared on the counter.

He caught hold of her again quickly; he saw her looking at the cowboy, who had halted in his approach. Patrick clipped a metal cuff on her left wrist then pulled her right arm behind her to join the left; clipped the other cuff on her right. Behind her, he pulled her to him, his hands round her bare belly, the two of them facing the door by the bar that no-one ever used. Her hands were forced against his crotch. 'Heck, you've got me hard already. And we haven't even started. Here, you look after this.' He felt inside her bra for her nipple; just touched it with his fingers; left the key there, nestling against her left breast, as he removed his hand.

'Sir?' There was a middle-aged man in a pinstripe suit who always sat at the bar, reading and re-reading the financial pages, as if it still mattered. 'I wonder if you'd mind lending me your tie?'

The man hesitated; then smiled, and undid his silk blue tie, and handed it over. 'Be my guest.'

'Thank you. She may be available later if...'

'I lean the other way, thanks all the same.'

Patrick, in front of her now, knotted the tie round her neck. He picked up the rum bottle and tugged on the tie, leading her to the door that no-one used. A couple of drifters shifted away from there double quick. When he opened the door a stink of cold decay entered the bar. From a small platform a deep, deep spiral staircase of metal wound down into the hell of the old city below. He shut the door behind them. The little torch on his old phone lit their path feebly. 'Know this song? Why not sing along?'

As he led her slowly, carefully down the dark, dusty stairs he sang:

She'll be coming through her screaming when she comes
She'll be coming through his creaming when she comes
She'll be coming through her screaming
until she prays she's dreaming
She'll be coming through her screaming when she comes

Singing ay-yie yippie-yippie ay
Singing ay-yie yippie-yippie ay...

Her heartbeat went from a suttle putter to a full adrenaline rushed drum beat. He was touching her, everywhere, and god did it make her ache.

"Heck, you've got me hard already. And we haven't even started ."

She tried not to groan as she felt him beneath her, so hard beneath her small hands. She leaned back against him then, the feel of his warm chest making her blush. She almost didn't care that he grabbed a bottle-his sent was intoxicating enough.

When he moved his warmth away from her back, she did let out a little whimper, then quickly followed it up with a real glare. A collar? Really? She was about to protest when he opened the door and the stench hit her.

A strong shiver ran up the course of her spine and left her with gooseflesh on her arms. She hadn't really been paying attention when he had been talking, too focused on the green of his eyes and the way his voice hit her ears. She didn't want to go down there, not there; but it was a little too late for that now, wasn't it?

Her eyes were wide in the dark, her breathing fast and shallow. The stench of the place made her stomach flip, and the only thing that stopped her from losing her drink was the odd tune he started to sing.

At first she just stared at him. Then she let loose with a giggle, full of panic. In a higher voice, made quiet by the fear strangling her throat, she asked:

"What in the world kind of cover is that?"

It was so absurd, such a parallel to the dark that it seemed downright silly.

Ay yie yippie yippie..

Patrick's song faded as they reached the bottom of the spiral stairs. He turned and put his finger to his mouth.

They both listened. The putrid odour was strong, but there were only distant shouts.

The door at the bottom was barricaded. 'It's ok, we don't have to go out into the street. Too fucking dangerous. This is the old bar in the old city.'

It looked like a corridor to nowhere, with fallen masonry and pictures askew on the walls. Still holding the tie to her neck like a leash, he reached behind the portrait of some past City Fathers in their robes and chains of office. The wall behind the two of them parted. He pulled her through, and tapped a button on the inside. The opening closed itself.

It was an old bar-room, stripped of anything of value. A few upturned tables, a collapsed counter. He led her behind the counter. He pulled back a filthy carpet. There was a kind of a door in the floor. He turned to her. He didn't reach inside her bra; he just ripped downwards, and the key fell into his hand. Her breast flopped forwards out of her torn clothing. He gripped her breast. 'Rope,' he said, 'I can't help it, I see rope everywhere. Rope around the base of your breast. If it's tight enough, the breast slowly turns blue. The slightest touch is sensitive. Would you like that?'

He didn't wait for an answer. 'Kneel.' He didn't want her behind him while he unlocked the thing. So he told her to unlock it. As she turned the key the door swung downwards. There was heat, and the smell of air fresheners countering the stink of the old city. There was a wooden staircase. A chain dangling from the ceiling. Ropes and whips on the walls. A leather sofa, was it? 'After you.' He was smiling when she turned to face him, he was close. They could kiss or bite each other. 'You can have a name, if you want to give me one. Like I said: after you.'

Every step further they took made her heart beat faster than she thought it could, until it was a tight ache in her chest, pinching her ribcage. Stories had been told, about people who had managed to make it back up from the old ruins. Though the stories were probably highly exaggerated, just the fact that so few ever came back up was telling.

She wanted to run, handcuffs be damned, and she contemplated doing just that. He didn't have his hands directly on her, and she knew if she bolted there was a good chance that the grip on the tie wasn't enough for him to hang on. Maybe she should...

You don't deserve that.

You don't get to run away.

Her step faltered, briefly, probably not enough for him to notice. She shut her eyes tight and swallowed hard, and for a while she let him lead her blindly.

'Rope,'

She shivered as he touched her, grateful for the distraction. She kept her eyes locked on his as he spoke to her, blocking out everything that wasn't him. His touch, his voice, what he was going to do to her...

When she saw the whips, she visibly flinched. He was going to use those on her, and she wouldn't be able to stop him. Good.

'You can have a name, if you want to give me one...'

She stretched up a little bit so that her lips almost touched his as she spoke softly, more than a little out of breath.

"If you can make me give you my name, I'll scream for you."

Her feet carried her to the middle of the room, and she slowly turned around to him. Her body quivered with anticipation and fear.

He pushed the heavy door shut, locked it, and put the key in his jeans pocket. When he turned she was already below him. Arms handcuffed behind her. Looking up at him as he slowly descended the stairs. Waiting.

He listened. Her breathing was a little irregular. There was a slight quiver to her upper body, inside the tan shirt he had earlier begun to tear.

On one of the metal pillars was a handle. 'My name is Patrick,' he said. He turned the handle, and above and just behind her a chain, with a hook on the end of it, began to lower towards her. The sound of the chain was startlingly loud. He didn't speak again until he'd lowered it to the height of her waist. Then he moved towards her, softly in his light tan shoes. 'I think we could smell something about each other, don't you? Here.'

He was behind her, even as she tried to swivel round he stopped her with his hand on her shoulder. The hook on the end of the chain fitted neatly into the single link between the two handcuffs. She was fastened to the chain.

In the corner of the room was a small neat pile of yellow bricks. He brought four over. 'Until you tell me your real name, I'll call you Perdita. The lost one.' He balanced one brick on top of another, just in front of her, then, a foot away, a fourth brick on a third. 'You stand on these now.' He lifted her, hands at her sides, gently, until she stood on the bricks. 'That's good,' he said, appraising her. 'You can jump off them any time you like. I'll just lift you back on, using only your breasts and your cunt to lift you. Up to you.'

He smiled, took two steps backwards, still looking at her, to the handle in the pillar. He turned it, half a revolution, raising her arms a little behind her. 'This is an old torture called strappado.' He walked back to her, taking a multi-function knife from his right pocket, till he was standing right in front of her. 'Every few minutes I raise the chain. Eventually you tell me what I'm asking, or you dislocate your shoulders. Meanwhile...'

He didn't explain. He steadied her with his left hand at her side; with his knife, he cut down through the shirt, and the bra. A couple of shirt buttons pinged away to the wooden floor. He closed the knife and put it back in his pocket. Then he did what he'd been longing to do since he first saw her: his two hands cupped her two breasts. Without force, just holding them there. 'Tell me your real name, Perdita,' he said. 'And all the terrible things you've done.'

'I think we could smell something about each other, don't you?'

"If you like the smell of broken things, then I must reek of it..."

'Until you tell me your real name, I'll call you Perdita. The lost one.'

She frowned as she watched him lay the bricks down. She wasn't lost. She knew exactly where she was, and why. He was being nice, even though he was about to cause her unbelievable pain. Giving her a little nick-name. Humanizing her.

The bricks felt cold against her toes, and she struggled just a little to keep her balance. She watched his every move, and winced as he cut her shirt. Her back was exposed now. He hadn't seen it yet, but he would. The deep, puckered scarred lines covering almost every inch of it. It was always the hardest part to explain, but the one thing that she could, because even as he told her what the chain would do, it didn't scare her half as much as him wanting her to confess her sins.

She would never do that.

He could kill her here tonight, and even with her dieing breath she would not confess.

"Hurt me..."

If you like the smell of broken things, then I must reek of it...

He began with her right arm: taking out his knife again, cutting into the cotton or whatever it was , all the way up her arm and then across to just below the collar.

Hurt me.

At her left arm, cutting through the shirt, he wondered if he'd misheard her. Had he missed a 'Don't'? The inflexion in her voice would suggest not.

He had felt her willingness, but he hadn't expected her to want what he wanted to do to her.

He reached the collar at her left side, and it was only as the material fell away that he saw her back. Criss-crossed with scars. Scars that seemed to beget scars. Scars overlaid on scars. he couldn't help but caress them; her shoulder blades, and downwards. Her back was a thing of extraordinary, terrible beauty. 'How lovely,' he said into her ear.

He went to the handle in the pillar. Another half-revolution. Her arms behind her were lifted again.

There was a cupboard next to the whips on the wall to her left. He brought across two small rubber bands and the metal device. It looked like a set of complicated pliers. He stretched the blue rubber band across it; pressed the metal to her left nipple, which he teased with his free hand until it was erect. He looped the rubber band on to her nipple. 'These are small but surprisingly painful, over time. I'm sure you'll enjoy them.' He looped the second rubber band on to her right nipple. Pushed it on her, tight, constricting.

He stood back, reached to the floor. Took a swig of the rum. Moved to her, yanked her head back with her hair, poured a little rum down her throat. 'Ready to tell me about your back?'

He smiled, putting the rum down. His two palms just touched her constricted nipples, and circled.

Her legs strained a bit to keep her balanced as he worked, the position uncomfortable, but bearable. The warm blade tickled the fine hairs each time it came just a little too close, and she watched him as best she could. When he touched her back, she went rigid. It never felt good when someone touched her there, physically or mentally.

As he lifted the chain one more time, she grit her teeth and closed her eyes for a moment. He had said her scars were lovely, but she wondered if he had any clue as to just how deep they ran, and how many times her muscle tissue had had to re-heal. For anyone else, this position might have been an ache, maybe even a strong sting that left them wiggling, but for her it was already enough to make her sweat. It was a welcome distraction when he began to torment her nipples.

'Ready to tell me about your back?'

A sharp breath through clinched teeth as the warmth of his hands made her breasts feel like they were on fire. She leaned her head forward to rest on his shoulder, and it was the first time during their evening that she didn't meet his eyes.

"They...they're very old scars."

She knew that he knew she was holding back. The full details, how they got there. Why they got there. It was all right there on the tip of her tongue. She could spill it all out now, but she knew the moment it came out she would have nothing left to tell him for the rest of the night, and she would be left too mentally exhaused to entertain him.

And she did want to please him.

She needed this. She hated it, but it wasn't something she could do to herself. It was never enough if she did it to herself.

Something shifted between them. In their mutual smell, or whatever it was that passed between them. Her head on his shoulder. Her eyes evading his. Patrick, his palms circling her nipples, felt a bewildering stirring of something like - compassion. He'd thought he was beyond all that.

He wanted her naked. It took little more than a moment. Her cut off jeans and panties: his knife cut through the left leg, then the right.

He didn't touch her there, not straight away. It was time for rope. To frame her body as he'd imagined her on first sight.

He went and took three strands from the wall.

Her back - he hadn't expected anything like her back. How was she still sane, after whatever had been done to her?

Two strands over his shoulder, he doubled the third, and began on her left breast. Circled it, then lopped back inside the loop and wound three, four, five times around her breast.

He lifted her chin so she would look him in the eyes again. 'Patrick. Your name would be welcome, Perdita.' He began with a second strand on her right breast: the first loop, then the five circles. He finished at the top, then tugged the two trailing ends behind her neck.

He moved behind her. He had a great desire to touch her scars. To trace the lines of them, into her soul.

He knotted the two ropes behind her neck. The third, still behind her, he doubled and wound round her waist. Looped it, cinched it tight, so tight he heard her gasp. Then he took the free end down through the crack of her anus and up, moving around her, his fingertips grazing her buttocks and belly,through the cleft of her cunt, tight, tight as he knotted it inside the rope round her waist. Tighter.

His palms on her nipples again. 'You look good in rope. Shall I keep you like this for eternity?' His palms circled. He tried not to feel compassion again.

Her breathing picked up again as she watched him reach for the rope, and she tried to calm it but found it difficult. She looked at her feet and tried to readjust her balance, almost fell off, but managed to grab the chain and use it to hold herself up. The cuffs dug into her wrists painfully and she wondered if they would cut through her skin. This was such a different experience than she was used to, having only been with two types of men before this. The type that liked to please, and the type that liked to degrade.

As he begin his work she wondered about him. The way he touched her, determined in his torture of her, yet gentle as he once again sought her name. Or perhaps just her screams.

She panted, small breaths, but gave no indication that she was ready to give it up just yet.

As the ropes dug into her flesh, she found it even harder to focus on keeping her feet on the bricks. She squirmed and whimpered at the uncomfortable intrusion, and the pulse in her breasts sent pain straight through to her nipples. She hissed hard when he touched her, and tried to move back, away from his hands. The motion made her teeter dangerously, so that she was forced to grab the chain again. The pain that shot through her scars ran straight up her neck and made her eyes start with tears.

"Patrick, please!"

She didn't know what she was asking for. She had felt so much pain, but never in such varying degrees as this. The pain she had felt before had always been rough, hard, or so searing that her mind could only focus on one thing at a time, or flood her body with so much adrenaline that she all but became detached from it.

This was different. It was focused. Clean. Made her stand and pay attention or risk consequences. She was beginning to have doubts if she could ride this out in the same way she had before.

Patrick, please.

This was the first time she had said his name. Something surged through him. It wasn't precisely desire, no. It was a connection of some kind. In her plight she was reaching for him.

He found a strange sexual pleasure, though, every moment she struggled to balance, on the bricks, her arms behind her. He went to the handle in the pillar, and turned it half a revolution. She made an abbreviated sound.

He went back to her, naked, roped, helpless. The doubled rope at her crotch ran along the crack between her cunt-lips. With thumb and finger of both hands, he parted the two ropes slightly, so they were instead either side of her vulva. Then he looked at the fingers of his right hand. Pushed them into her mouth, not far, just to wet them.

His right middle finger went into the crack of her cunt. He pushed a tiny way inside her, then rubbed upwards to her clitoris.

With the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, he teased her right nipple. Then, as his right hand continued very gentle to rub back and forth at her cunt, his left hand went to her left nipple. He would alternate, as he rubbed.

'Tell me what you want to unburden yourself of,' he said. 'Say my name.'

And he rubbed, and teased, and smiled, looking at her face, then down her body and up again to look into her blue eyes from his own intense green eyes, for she was naked and entirely in his possession. His voice was very low. 'Tell me. Say my name.'

"No no no...nng!"

Her muscles felt like they were tearing, and for just an instant, she felt nauseous with the familiarity of it. She almost gave in right then and there if it would mean getting her hands out of those cuffs and letting her shoulders go back to a more comfortable position. But instead of begging, she shook her head hard and took a couple of deep breaths.

She made a quiet noise in the back of her throat as he wet his fingers, and when he touched her soft lips, it sent such a hot jolt of desire through her that she gasped. Instantly she was wet.

As it continued, she tried so hard, so hard, not to move away from his hand on her breast. It was like a drug being injected through a hot blade; she wanted it so badly but to get it was to cut and burn yourself.

'Tell me. Say my name.'

Her head dropped momentarily as she gasped and bucked.

"God, what are you doing to me?"

She couldn't keep the wanton tone out of her voice, and as she looked back up into his eyes, she was crying.

"Patrick, please. I want you. Please, please, I want you..."

Her legs shook as he slid his finger once more up her now soaking cunt.

Patrick, please. I want you. Please, please, I want you...

Did he want her to fall? He felt her shaking, as he touched and touched her nipples, made so sensitive by the rubber bands, her breasts, made so sensitive by the ropes around them. He felt her wanting him, in the slickness of her cunt, in the pleading of her voice, in the smell of her, in the look in her eyes.

Now it was his thumb at her clitoris, while with two fingers he began to push deeper into her vagina, slowing a little to begin with, as his thumbnail circled the base of her clitoris...

He whispered in her ear: 'I could push you and make you fall and tear your shoulders and would you scream for me?'

Not that he would let her fall, would he? It was as if she were some kind of extension of him now, as if his hands at her breast and cunt connected them together, as his right hand's fingers pushed deeper into her and his thumb began to flick her clitoris, oh and then, massage the base of her desire...

And to his own puzzlement he realised he was kissing her face, the side of her face, the tears that had flowed from her eyes.

'When you're ready to cum,' his own voice sounded strange to him, 'as me to bite you, and I'll bite your breasts as you cum for me...'

And it didn't matter who they were and that she was nameless for she was naked and bound and on the edge of agony that he could inflict and he wanted, wanted, wanted her, said his mouth and fingers and his pumping heart...

Every feeling was so intense. Every hot bolt of pain, every soft touch from his fingers-she didn't know it was possible to feel this way, to feel this good. A small part of her mind still wanted to rebel; still felt like she needed to be punished, not coddled, but that part was quickly lost to the sound of his voice in her ear and the warmth of his breath on her skin.

'I could push you and make you fall and tear your shoulders and would you scream for me?'

She shook her head in confirmation. Yes she would scream for him. She didn't care anymore about why she had been willing to follow him down here, about that need. She could deal with it later. All she cared about now was how good it felt, and how much she wanted out of those handcuffs so that she could feel him beneath her. Now, his lips against her cheek, her nuzzling back, seeking more.

'When you're ready to cum,'...

God, yes! She had been ready! She had been ready to let this man do whatever he wanted to her since he first gripped her arm at the bar.

Her panting grew heavy as his fingers, so warm, explored her. Finally, shaking and bucking and gripping the chain, she nuzzled into him and whispered her name.

"Ella. My name is Ella.

Now; please Patrick, now, bite me! Make me cum, please!.."

Ella. My name is Ella.

Now; please Patrick, now, bite me! Make me cum, please!...

Her body, nude, roped, stretched, was his. His to do with as he wanted.

His two fingers pushing into her cunt moved faster, as his thumb circled her clitoris, then his thumbnail dug into its hood, and he circled and nailed...

...and his two fingers became three, as her cunt seemed to suck him in, deeper with each stroke...

...and of course he didn't quite do what she asked because who was in fucking charge here? Instead he sucked hard at her right nipple, and very deliberately twisted her left nipple, twisted and then beyond the limits of twisting kept twisting so she would make a loud sound, something like pleasure and something like pain all at once...

...and his mouth and left hand changed places so he could suck, suck deep on her twisted left nipple while his thumb and forefinger twisted her right nipple...

...and his thumb played with her clitoris and his fingers thrust deeper and deeper into her...

...and only when he felt her cumming did he begin to bite, and although he was erect and flushed with desire he kept in control, he bit at the very base of her left nipple where he had fastened the little rubber band that made his touch excruciating, and his teeth tugged the rubber band slowly over her nipple till it was half-off, and he knew that must be hurting her but he didn't fucking care, she was thrashing now and his right hand at her cunt gripped her so she wouldn't fall and she would feel the strength of his possession of her, as he bit on her right nipple now slowly tugging the little rubber band and licking as he bit and thrusting as his free hand twisted the other nipple and...

She had told him she would scream for him. And scream she did.

It started as a moan that quickly worked up into a wail as he tortured her nipples. It only got louder and more high pitched as he worked her body, fine tuning it to his desire.

This was what she had wanted-what she had needed.

It felt as if he had reached deep into her subconscious and plucked it, bringing it out where he could see it, and control it. She felt relief, but more than that, she felt free. Free of the guilt, and now free to scream and let her body live through the pain. She could take it. She would take it.

"Patrick! Patrick!!"

She screamed his name at the top of her lungs as he sucked, so hard she saw stars, and all at once she was crashing, hot juice flooding his hand as every muscle in her body seemed to tense and shudder. As his teeth begin to work that little rubber band down her nipples, she screamed again, loud and long until she ran out of breath, and the lights in the room grew dim to her eyes.

She let go of the chain...

Her screams were glorious noises: of rage, release, anger and joy. The writhing of her body was marvellous, as if a devil had inhabited her, and now was expelled. And her slow collapse into arms was beautiful. She had given herself over to him.

He didn't let her fall. His hands still gripped her cunt, that still spasm'd as she fainted. His left hand reached behind her. It was difficult, with all her weight against him, but finally he managed to push up the link between the cuffs on her hands so that it was freed of the hook on the overhead chain. Now he could lower her to the ground, still wriggling, half-conscious. His right hand went under her thighs so he could lift her, his left hand under her scarred back.

Over against the far wall was a futon. He carried her there, and laid her on it, face down. He squatted beside her, exhaling, breathing deeply himself. She was coming round. Lifting her shoulder, he reached for her nipple and tugged off the rubber band. He went to her other side, and did the same at her right nipple. She squealed.

She lay there, still handcuffed. 'Ella,' he said. 'It isn't over. It's only just begun.' He stroked her white hair.

He had only just begun.