Depraved by Trent Evans

Chapter 10

Her inner thighs ached, she’d been spread open so long now. Her knees, bound in leather straps were pulled so wide, she felt like she was doing the splits from a sitting position. Her arms were outstretched, themselves strapped to the X-shaped uprights, forcing her into a mockery of a position that resembled a human trying to flag down an aircraft—or offering themselves in surrender.

The latter was far more apropos, considering her current predicament.

The brush thrummed over her splayed cunt with the regularity of a metronome, her clit so swollen and throbbing that even the light brush of the horsehair felt like almost fire against her denied, aching, incredibly sensitized sex.

She’d long since stopped begging him to stop, knowing if she kept it up, she’d only be gagged anyway. Either it would be the hated rubber ball, or he’d sometimes use a length of cloth, soaked in some sort of foul-tasting liquid, whose residue would linger for hours on her tongue even after he’d pried the gag back out of her mouth.

That first night, she’d lost count of how many times his fingers had plundered her depths, how many times the fluttering of his digits against her cervix, the firm stroking of the deep spot within her pussy, and the ruthless, heartless rubbing of her clit, had driven her nearly out of her mind.

After who knew how long—it could have been minutes, or it could have been hours—he’d left her in her cell, dropping her onto a cot she hadn’t seen the first time she’d been secured inside the hated cage of those steel bars.

Ironically, as the lights had dimmed, then winked out entirely, she’d never slept so well, despite the fear ever present at the back of her mind.

The reason why was irony in itself—he hadn’t raped her.

She knew enough about the male mind to know that if he was going to, or if he was the sort to really brutalize her, he would have already. After all, there was nothing at all from stopping him from indulging whatever dark, twisted impulses lurked within his mind.

And yet, he hadn’t. Maybe it was a game with him though? To get her to let her guard down? To give her hope, only to watch with sadistic glee as he snuffed out that hope as he skewered her on the end of what she could clearly see was a frighteningly large penis.

She was quite certain she couldn’t even fit such a monster inside her, which made her doubly grateful he hadn’t forced her to try.

Yet.

“Have I lost you, girl?”

The brush renewed its deceptive assault on her privates, and she threw her head back against the wood of the cross and groaned.

“Oh… my Gods… please… no more!”

“I’m afraid not, Yulia.” He fluttered the bristles gently over her hood, stirring the swollen aching of her clit anew. “You know how to stop this. You know how to come, don’t you?”

“Please! Please… please…”

The cross was mounted on a dais of sorts, about waist high to the hulking man, bright lights shining down upon her, warming her even more than her heated, agonizing need already had. Sweat sluiced down her naked form, and she trembled with the unfulfilled arousal he stoked within her like a burning ember.

At that moment though, it was a raging fire.

He took the brush away, blowing cool air across her soaked, molten sex.

She panted.

“Tell me, Yulia. Say the words, and your torture ends.”

What was, if anything, possibly the worst about all of this, was that she knew she could endure. He didn’t make her go longer than an hour or two, before locking her away again in her cell, standing outside the bars—his cock as obviously hard as the steel caging her—and watching her as she writhed on her bed, her frustration long ago having overwhelmed her humiliation at having her body used against her in such an elemental, intimate way.

His gentle handling of her each morning, as he fed her, then led her to the shower, those same gentle hands washing her, but avoiding her sex beyond a quick, almost perfunctory run of the sponge across those swollen lips.

In truth, after she stepped out of her shower, holding her arms up to be dried, her pussy was soaked all over again before the towel even finished wiping the droplets from her naked body.

It was the third day of this treatment, and as the brush went at her tortured sex once more, she began to plead with him.

“Please… please… I’ll… I’ll do anything. Tell you… anything.”

He beamed at her. “But you already know what I want you to tell me.”

“Please… Gods, please…”

His fingers splayed her labia wide, and pushed forward a little to expose her clit to the cool air. The bristles played a circular pattern right upon her throbbing, aching bead, and the pressure, the agonizing need was instantly close again. She pushed her hips against the brush, long past embarrassed at her instinctive reaction of long-denied need.

“I can’t take this… I can’t take it. Oh please… I can’t anymore…”

His warm breath was at her ear then, his whisper a caress against her neck, sweat running in rivulets below the curve of her ear. “Then give me what I want. Give in, Yulia. You can’t win. You don’t want to win, anymore.”

“No… I don’t… not… I can’t…please let me… please!”

“Give it to me, Yulia. I need to hear it.”

You can’t do this. It’s the end if you do. He’ll have you.

But would he? He might have her body—and at that moment, she was almost beyond caring about that anymore—but he’d never have her mind. In the fortress of her psyche, she could still maintain control. He couldn’t penetrate her there—unless she let him.

Never.

Physically, she was at the end of her rope. She’d hoped, done all she could, but…the need was simply too much now.

“Please… Jon… please… oh Gods, please… fuck me!”