Pleasure Unbound

He stops at my lower abdomen, and although he leaves his finger there, the floorboards broadcast his methodical movements. I frantically track the sounds as he walks around the perimeter of my bed, my prison. My chest deflates and my body freezes-fear firing anew despite his words promising relief. I feel the bed dip near the end by my feet and the anticipation of what is going to happen is almost as numbing as the fear that is now a constant.

His finger never moves, but I can feel it shake, the bed sway, as he adjusts his positioning, it’s ridiculous because I can’t see him, but I swear I can feel his eyes scraping over every inch of me. Observing.

Assessing.

I force a swallow over the fear that chokes me and mentally prepare myself for what’s coming next. The pain, the brutality, the loss of my consent. I try to control my trembling because I have to assume he likes the fight-is turned on by it-so if I don’t give it to him, will this be over that much quicker? Will he discard me and move on to someone who gives him what he wants? Because let’s face it, only sick fucks get off on shit like this, and if I don’t give it to him, won’t he want someone who will?

I garble a cry at the unexpected, my body and mind shocked to the present when the wet warmth of his tongue traces the seam between my thighs. I try to snap my thoughts in line, but his unpredicted action bewilders me long enough that I don’t even think to fight him. And because my body is still and my senses attuned, I can feel the softness of his tongue, the languorous, heat-inducing trail it blazes up to my clit, circling over it not just once, but twice, before sliding back down and deftly parting my folds down to my opening.

My breathing shallows, my teeth bite down on the gag, and I attempt to comprehend, assess, and come to terms with what I’m feeling. How I can be scared boneless and yet still have that slow burning ache unfurling in my lower belly? I tell myself I’m crazy-that my mind is playing games on me, my subconscious shutting down so I can compartmentalize everything-but I know I’m kidding myself. I can’t even concentrate long enough to sell myself my lies because it’s impossible to ignore, impossible to deny the traitorous warmth that spreads through my core and simmers there. Amidst the haze of desire that assaults me, my rationale tries one more attempt-one last ditch effort. It must be the after-effects of whatever drugs he gave me because there is no way in hell I should even be remotely turned on by his touch on my skin, his tongue delving into me.

I shouldn’t.

But I am.

I adjust my hips some and tell myself it’s not real, but the ache doesn’t dissipate with movement. In response to my squirming, his finger leaves my skin for the first time but is back instantly, this time in a different place. Hands grip my inner thighs and pin them immobile. I’m still gasping in the air from the sudden, bruising hold he has on my legs when his tongue plunges into me.

My cry is involuntary. The buck of my hips and the arch of my back in response isn’t even a coherent thought but rather a reflex. I fight to ignore the blissful warmth between my thighs, rationalize that it’s my body’s natural reaction, that I won’t succumb to his persuasion of pleasure.

Unwelcome pleasure.

The pleasure that is still a pleasure.

His tongue slips in, wetting me, opening me up, manipulating me. My nerves ride a disloyal roller coaster as he plunges in, circles around, and then withdraws to slide up, circling my clit, sucking on it, igniting it, before moving back down and licking back into me.

The first moan that falls from my mouth startles me. My logic attempts to validate why my body reacts this way when I should be locked like a vice … but I can’t focus on anything because his tongue just keeps moving: up, down, in, out, around, and around. A tantalizing assault that leaves my head reeling and my body humming.

My muscles tighten as his fingers dig deeper and his tongue laves more fervently. I can hear his panted breath. It disrupts the silence of the room, but the other sound I hear is even more disturbing: my stifled moans as I try to fight the sensation swelling through me. Time lapses and warmth spreads, nerves ignite, and then my body detonates, splintering into a million pieces of pleasure.

I have no choice but to succumb to the tidal wave that hits and then drowns me momentarily. I can’t close my legs or relax my body as I normally would, so for some reason the exposure makes my orgasm seem more intense, more explosive.

More traumatic-emotionally and physically.

His hands hold me-my muscles still spasming against his possessive fingers-when I feel his lips press against my inner thigh. They curve into a smile against my sensitized flesh like a familiar lover would, and the contradiction hits me-the tenderness displayed in a situation so contrary- makes it that much harder to process what just happened. What I just succumbed to and derived pleasure from.

Oh my God. Oh my God.

What is wrong with me? How can I find pleasure from this man who is holding me against my will? What kind of sick, fucked up person, am I?

How can I even remotely be turned on?

The bile rises. I try to fight it, try to swallow it down. My head becomes light and my breath shallow as my body becomes starved for the air it needs. I begin gagging, coughing violently, trying to revolt against the object in my mouth. I can’t dislodge it. I yank against my restraints and buck my body as I seek my next breath.

In an instant, his hands one at my head. I feel them tug and manipulate something. I focus on the peppermint again and use it to calm myself, but with the blitzkrieg of sensations and emotions hitting me, my connection to the scent is losing its effectiveness. My head dizzies as his mouth brushes up against my ear. “Bella, Bella, Bella,” he soothes with the deep timbre of his voice. “Calmare la mia bella. Breathe slowly,” he commands as I feel his body against mine, his hands at the corners of my mouth. “Calm down.”

Panic continues its smothering grip on my reality, and I shake my head back and forth trying to shove the gag from my mouth with my tongue. He holds my jaw firm, his heated breath against my hair. “Do not scream. I will remove this, but if you scream, I will put a bigger one in and then there’s no telling how much air you’ll get with your next panic attack.

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My breath rattles in my throat as I try to gulp down air I still can’t draw. My thoughts elevate from the depths of despair which they’ve fallen into momentarily at the chance to yell for help, but I forget them as my consciousness starts to fade.

“Say it goddamn it!”

His voice jars me from the darkness edging my mind, and I try to nod my head in response, but his fingers holding my jaw prevent the action. I know he wants me to say the words aloud, my voice affirming his position of control.

“Yes.” I garble.