Anna Zaires - Twist Me

Apparently tired of chasing me all over the bed, he unties my hands and then ties them above my head, securing my wrists to the wooden headboard.

“Julian, please, I’m sorry!” I plead, desperate to make him stop. “Please, I’m sorry I was prying. Please, I won’t do it again, I won’t—”

“Of course you will, my pet,” he whispers in my ear, his breath warm on my neck. “You’re as curious as a little cat. But sometimes you should let things slide. For your own good, you understand?”

“Yes! Yes, I do. Please, Julian—”

“Shh,” he soothes, kissing my neck again. “You need to accept your punishment like a good girl.” And with that, he pulls back again, leaving my back and buttocks exposed to him.

I try to scramble away, but he catches my legs, holding my ankles together with one hand. He’s strong, far stronger than I could’ve imagined, because he’s able to hold my flailing legs with just one arm while whipping me with the other.

I can hear the swishing sound his prop makes, and I can’t help the screams that escape my throat each time it lands on my ass. My butt and thighs feel like they’re on fire, and the blindfold is soaked with my tears. I want it to stop, I’m begging him to stop, but Julian is immune to my pleas.

It seems to go on forever, until I’m too hoarse to scream and too exhausted to struggle. I can’t even gather enough energy to keep my muscles tense, and somehow that seems to help the pain. I relax further, make my body go limp, and the pain becomes more manageable, each lash feeling less like a bite and more like a stroke.

As the whipping proceeds, my world seems to narrow until nothing exists outside of the present moment. I’m not thinking anymore; I’m simply feeling, simply being. There’s something surreal, yet incredibly addictive in the experience. Each swish brings with it a sharp sensation that pulls me deeper into this strange state, making me feel like I’m floating. The pain is no longer unbearable; instead it’s comforting in some perverse way. It’s grounding me, providing me with what I need at that moment. A warm glow spreads throughout my body, and all my worries, all my fears disappear. It’s a high unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.

When Julian finally stops and unties me, I cling to him, trembling all over. Without the blindfold and the restraints, I feel lost, overwhelmed. As though knowing what I need, he pulls me onto his lap and cradles me gently in his arms, letting me cry against his shoulder until I no longer feel like I’m going to fall apart.

After a while, I become cognizant of the hard length of his erection pressing into my buttocks, which are sore and throbbing from the whipping. The little toy he put in my ass before is still there, lodged securely inside me, and I realize that the warm glow within me is different now, more sexual in nature.

Apparently sensing the shift in my mood, Julian carefully lifts me and positions me so that I’m facing him while straddling his lap. My hands are on his shoulders, and I can feel the powerful muscles playing under his skin. With my thighs spread wide, the tip of his cock presses against my sex. The smooth head slides between my folds and rubs against my clit, intensifying my arousal. I moan, my head arching back, and he slowly enters me, penetrating me inch by slow inch. With the toy in my ass, he feels even bigger than usual, and I gasp as he goes deeper, filling me with his thickness.

It feels good, so unbelievably good, and I moan again, tightening my inner muscles around his shaft. He groans, closing his eyes, and I do it again, wanting more of the sensation.

He opens his eyes and stares at me, his face taut with lust and his eyes glittering. I hold his gaze, fascinated by the fierce need I see there. He’s as much in my thrall right now as I am in his, and the realization adds to my desire, further heating up my core.

Raising his hand, he curves his palm around my cheek, wiping away the remnants of tears with his thumb. Then he bends his head and kisses me, as tenderly as I’ve ever been kissed. I revel in that kiss; his affection is like a drug to me right now—I need it with a desperation I don’t fully understand.

I close my eyes, and my hands slide up his shoulders, finding their way into his hair. It’s thick and soft to the touch, like dark satin. Pressing closer to him, I rub my naked breasts against his powerfully muscled chest, delighting in the feel of his hair-roughened skin against my sensitive nipples. His lips are firm and warm on mine, and the cock inside me is unbelievably hard, stretching me, filling me to the brim.

Still kissing me, he begins to rock back and forth, causing his shaft to move within me ever so slightly, sending waves of heat throughout my body. However, each movement also serves as a reminder of the earlier beating, and a pained moan escapes my throat as my sore buttocks rub against his hard thighs. He swallows the sound, his mouth now consuming mine with unrestrained hunger.

His hand slides into my hair, holding it tightly as he devours me with his kiss, his hips rocking harder, adding to the pressure building within my core. His other hand moves down my body, and then he presses on the toy, pushing it deeper inside my rear passage.

I fly apart. My orgasm is so strong, I can’t even make a sound. For a few blissful seconds, I’m completely swamped by pleasure, by ecstasy so intense that it’s almost agonizing. My body shudders and undulates on top of Julian’s, and my movements trigger his own release.

In the aftermath, he holds me, stroking my sweat-dampened hair. I can feel his shaft softening within me, and then he reaches between my butt cheeks and tugs on the toy, carefully pulling it out.

Then he makes me get up and leads me into the shower.

He takes care of me in the shower again, washing me, soothing me with his touch. He’s especially careful around the tender area of my thighs and buttocks, making sure not to add to my discomfort. To my relief, it doesn’t look like the skin is broken anywhere. My ass is pink with some reddish welts, and I’m sure there will be bruising, but there is no trace of blood anywhere.

When I’m clean and dry, he guides me back to bed. He’s silent and so am I. I’m still not fully out of that strange state I was in earlier. It’s as though my mind is partially disconnected from my body. The only thing holding me together is Julian and his oddly gentle touch.

We lie down together, and Julian turns off the lights, wrapping us in darkness. I lie on my stomach, because any other position is too painful. He pulls me closer to him, so that my head is pillowed on his chest and my arm is draped over his ribcage, and I close my eyes, wanting nothing more than the oblivion of sleep.

“My father was one of the most powerful drug lords in Colombia.” Julian’s voice is barely audible, his breath ruffling the fine hair near my forehead. I had already begun to fall asleep, but I’m suddenly wide awake, my heart hammering in my chest.

“He started grooming me to be his successor when I was four years old. I held my first gun when I was six.” Julian pauses, his hand lightly stroking my hair. “I killed my first man when I was eight.”

I’m so horrified that I just lie there, frozen in place by shock.

“Maria was the daughter of one of the men in my father’s organization,” Julian continues, his voice low and emotionless. “I met her when I was thirteen, and she was twelve. She was everything that I was not. Beautiful, sweet . . . innocent. You see, unlike my father, her parents sheltered her from the reality of their lives. They wanted her to be a child, to know nothing about the ugliness of our world.

“But she was bright, like you. And curious. So very, very curious . . .” His voice trails off for a second, as though he’s lost in some memory. Then he shakes it off and resumes his story. “She followed her father one day to see what he was doing. Hid in the back of his car. I found her there because it was my job to be a lookout, to guard the meeting spot.”

I can barely breathe, unable to believe that Julian is telling me all this. Why now? Why tonight?

“I could’ve told her father, gotten her in trouble, but she begged so prettily, looked at me so sweetly with her big brown eyes that I couldn’t do it. I made one of my father’s guards take her home instead.

“After that, she came to see me on purpose. She wanted to get to know me better, she said. To be friends with me.” There is a note of remembered disbelief in Julian’s voice, as though nobody in their right mind could’ve wanted something like that.

I swallow, my heart stupidly aching for the young boy he had been once. Had he even had friends, or had his father stolen that from him too, just as he had destroyed Julian’s childhood?

“I tried to tell her that it wasn’t a good idea, that I wasn’t somebody she should be around, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She’d find me somewhere almost every week, until I had no choice but to give in and start spending time with her. We went fishing together, and she showed me how to draw.” He pauses for a second, his hand still stroking my hair. “She was very good at drawing.”

“What happened to her?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything else for a minute. My voice is strangely hoarse. I clear my throat and try again. “What happened to Maria?”

“One of my father’s rivals learned that she was seeing me. We had just raided his warehouse, and he was pissed. So he decided to teach my father a lesson . . . through me.”

Every little hair on my body is standing on end, and I feel a chill roughening my skin with goosebumps. I can already see where this story is heading, and I want to tell Julian to stop, to go no further, but I can’t get a single word past the constriction in my throat.

“They found her body in an alley near one of my father’s buildings.” His voice is steady, but I can sense the agony buried deeply within. “She had been raped, then mutilated. It was meant to be a message to me and my father. Back the fuck off, it said.”

I squeeze my eyelids together, trying to keep the tears burning my eyes from leaking out, but it’s a futile effort. I know Julian can probably feel the wetness on his chest. “A message? To a thirteen-year-old boy?”

“By that time, I was already fourteen.” I can’t see Julian’s bitter smile, but I can sense it. “And age didn’t matter. Not to my father . . . and certainly not to his rival.”

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. I want to cry—for him, for Maria, for that young boy who’d lost his friend in such a brutal manner. And I want to cry for myself, because I now understand my captor better—and I realize that the darkness in his soul is worse than anything I could’ve imagined.

Julian shifts underneath me, and I become aware of the fact that my hand is now on his shoulder and my nails are digging into his skin. I force myself to unclench my fingers and take a deep breath. I need to get a hold on myself, or I’m going to burst out sobbing.

“I killed those men.” His tone is casual now, almost conversational, though I can feel the tension in his body. “The ones who raped her. I tracked them down and killed them, one by one. There were seven of them. After that, my father sent me away, first to America, then to Asia and Europe. He was afraid all that killing would be bad for business. I didn’t come back until years later, when he and my mother were killed by yet another rival.”

I focus on controlling my breathing and keeping the bile in my throat down. “Is that why you don’t have a Spanish accent?” My question comes totally out of the left field. I don’t even know what makes me ask something so trivial at a moment like this.

But it’s apparently the right thing to do because Julian relaxes slightly, some of the tension leaving his muscles. “Yes. That’s partially why, my pet. Also, my mother was an American, and she taught me English from a young age.”

“An American?”

“Yes. She was a model in her youth, a tall, beautiful blond. They met in New York, when my father was there on a business trip. He swept her off her feet, and they were married before he told her anything about his business.”

“What did she do when she found out?” I know I’m probably focusing on the wrong things here, but I need to distract myself from the gruesome images filling my mind—images of a dead girl who’s a younger version of me . . .

“There was nothing she could do,” Julian says. “She was already married to him, and living in Colombia.”