Depraved by Trent Evans
Chapter 19
He held her by the chin, at the first link where it attached to her collar, as he washed her down.
She blushed to the roots of her hair as he plied the cloth over her bared flesh, forcing her to open her thighs. As she reluctantly revealed herself to him, he made sure to scrub every inch of her skin. He especially loved the way she covered her face with her hands as he took awfully long indeed, ensuring he was most thorough with washing between her legs.
When he told her to turn and face the tiled wall, and spread her bottom open, she whimpered in mortification as he cleaned her there, too.
Finally, the girl just beginning to shiver, he shut the water off, drawing her out of the shower and over to stand before her cell door.
“At attention, girl.”
“W-what do you…?”
He slapped her breasts, a thick spray of droplets arcing away. “Tits out. Shoulders back. Arms at your side.” He kicked lightly at the insides of her bare, wet feet. “Spread your legs.”
She obeyed, revealing herself to him, reluctance dripping from her body, every bit as much as the water still sluicing down her skin. He took a step back, looking her up and down slowly, taking his time, letting her know he was doing this simply because he could.
For over a minute, he stood there watching her not even acknowledging her presence, simply evaluating what he saw before him. Though she was by no means the first young woman he’d taken captive, she was in his estimation, easily the most beautiful.
She possessed the sort of body style he much preferred, curvy but still fit, though even there she had the softness of femininity, the gentle curve of her lovely belly sweeping down to the plump, thickly furred mons, the closely-seamed sex on mouth-watering display between trembling thighs.
Though she had blonde hair, the dense pelt at her mound was dark with only the very tips of the hair fading to a fairer shade, a most pleasing sight indeed. He ran hands up both of her hips then down again, loving the broadness of them the way they swept out from the narrow waist. He dipped a fingertip inside the well of her navel, loving even that. Running a palm down the smooth, flat plane of her belly, he luxuriated in the way she shivered at his touch.
Sensibly, she made no move to resist him, as if she knew at this point such a thing was utterly futile. But he suspected there was more to it than that, that she’d become, well, used to his touch. Perhaps even craving his touch?
He eased his palm down her left thigh then up the back, loving the play of her muscles there and yet there too, he found a mouthwatering lushness, a softness that he could not help but revel in, a truly lovely specimen of femininity.
“What are you…what are you doing?” she whispered, not daring to lift her gaze from the floor.
Rather than answer her though, he chuckled softly to himself. “Put your hands on your head. And lace your fingers together. Hold them there until I tell you otherwise. Understand me?”
It seemed to shock her into silence, and he loved that too, the subtle ways she seemed to respond to command, to being told what to do.
Yes, most lovely, indeed.
He played with the silky curls of her pubic hair, then ran his hands up her belly once more, until they met the humid warmth under her breasts. He took their weight in the palms, and she sighed shivering again as he held them, vulnerable, soft, heavy.
So beautiful.
He found the hardness of her coral-colored nipples fascinating, testing the pliancy of her flesh, pulling and twisting them, marveling at their length, at the feel of them. Their prominence, their hardness, they goaded him, provoked him. How he wanted to hurt them, to suck them, to soothe her pain with the soft mercies of his tongue—only to then hurt them once more.
“These tits are so large for your frame, slut. I bet you’re always self-conscious of them, aren’t you?”
She shook her head, biting her lip, looking down at the floor, a pink blush blooming at her cheeks. Her embarrassment only made her lovelier.
“Tell me. Were you made fun of as a girl? Did the other girls tease you when these grew so large? Did they call you a cow, a heifer? A big-titted slut? Whore? Tell me.”
She shook her head vigorously, but couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. “I… I never knew what to do with them. They were so much bigger than all my friends’ breasts. I felt… alone.” She sighed, and he could see that even then, she was replaying that pain. And in that one moment he both loved it, and hated it. He both wanted to take away that hurt, and at the same time, part of him loved anew the sweet vulnerability it lent her.
“Are you ashamed of your body, Yulia?”
“I… sometimes? I know that… I’m not the prettiest of girls.”
He tried to keep his expression neutral, shocked she would say such a thing, that such a pretty woman could possibly think that about herself. And yet, that odd sense of humility in her, it made her even more appealing. “That a female as gorgeous as you could say such a thing about herself baffles me. It makes me wonder about your faculties, or perhaps there’s a problem with your vision?”
Her head drooped, her hair swinging. “I … I wish I were like the others, sometimes. To not stick out like a sore thumb, I guess.”
“Ah, I see. It’s that you wanted to fit in. You didn’t want to be special. I’m afraid, Yulia Wyndham, that you will always be special. And not just because of your beauty. And I won’t lie to you. That fact, that it embarrasses you, that it makes you self-conscious? It excites me. I like that it’s hard for you, that it makes you want to hide your blushing face, when I make you confront the reality of who you are. Of what you are.”
“What…what am I? I mean… who do you think I am?”
“It’s not so much what I think you are, it’s what I know you are. You’re your father’s daughter. And you’re my prisoner.” He gave her breasts a squeeze, kneading them firmly, loving the way she winced, her sharp intake of breath as he crushed those lovely nipples between his fingers again, and again, until she was almost panting with the pain. “They are very responsive, which is what I prefer. Do you like to have your nipples hurt, Yulia?”
“No… never … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t think I believe you. Your nipples are even harder now. I can almost feel them throbbing in my fingers. It makes me wonder, if you’re the sort of dirty, twisted girl who likes pain. The sort of girl who likes men who hurt her breasts, her nipples, who give her what she needs—but what she will never, ever, admit she wants.”
She blushed furiously, her face crimson. Then she met his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what I like, here. You’ll do whatever you want to me. Won’t you?”
“You are a smart girl, after all.”
He took his time then, arms crossed over his chest, strolling around her, getting a good look at her ass. It was perhaps his very favorite part of Yulia Wyndham. Blessed as she was with those broad hips, and those luscious thighs, it was no surprise then that she was also blessed with round, lush, pale buttocks, twin globes that cried out for the stinging smacks of a hand, the whistling cuts of a cane, and then the soothing caress of a man’s lips.
He intended to give her all of that, and more, but right now, all he wanted to do was bask in her beauty, to commit it to memory, and to anticipate what he might do next to enjoy it, to exploit it, to demonstrate to her that her body was no longer her own.
That her body, like her mind, was now his plaything. His to enjoy, and torment, and dispose of exactly as he wished. Showing the captive girl that her wishes, that her desires, that her autonomy, no longer were factors here.
That was the sweetest lesson of all.
He grasped her upper buttocks in his hands, squeezing and lifting them, loving how they felt against his skin. They were so soft and luscious, and he could not wait to punish them, to hear her cries and pleading, as they bounced and jiggled and reddened. To hear her weeping, as the welts swelled upon her skin in the wake of his lash.
Soon, Jon. Very soon.
Dropping to a crouch behind her, he pressed her bottom cheeks as far apart they would go, revealing the clenched circlet, the waft of her spicy arousal filling his nostrils. Despite her shame—or perhaps because of it—her labia were engorged, clear, thick wetness glistening in the bright pink slot of her splayed sex.
This inspection was getting to her on an elemental level, whether she wanted it to or not. As he stared at her tiny little anus, he couldn’t help but wonder, the possibilities tantalizing.
He eased a thumb over the vulnerable opening. Her ass tensed against his hands, but he merely tightened his grip, Yulia whining softly as he sank his fingers brutally deep into her richly fleshed buttocks. “Stop that. Keep them relaxed.”
“I… please don’t do that.”
“Does it make you nervous? Wondering what I might do here?”
“No… it’s just. I… don’t like that.”
He touched the silky smoothness of her circlet, tracking its outline. “Soon enough you’re going to learn—and accept—that what you like isn’t particularly important. And you’ll realize that what I like is.”
“You… you can’t.”
“Oh, silly girl. You don’t understand. When the time comes, I can—and I will.”
She shuddered as he teased the very center of her bottomhole with the tip of his finger.
“So much to look forward to, girl. I’ll teach you everything. Show you how to serve a man here, too.”
“Gods…” she said, her voice trembling, mortification and anxiousness clear in her tone.
He rose to his feet then, his cock an iron bar in his pants now, despite how recently he’d spilled his seed down her throat.
He wondered though as he stood there and looked at her, playing his hand now along the pleasing trough of her spine, the smooth, flawless skin of her pale back, tangling his fingers in the thick locks of blonde hair. He wondered if any man had ever touched her this way, had ever shown to her, in so concrete a manner, that he could do with her whatever he willed. That her body was his to enjoy, to plunder, to train. To discipline. Had she ever felt more like property, than at that very moment? He hoped not. He wanted this moment to be indelible in her memories, for the rest of her days.
For it would be exactly that, in his.
Yet at that moment, the conflict, the doubt sprung to mind once more. Why was he even having those thoughts? Had he ever done this before with a captive? What did it mean if the answer to that question… was no?
In a way, somehow, he knew this was all new territory for him, that this was a novel way of thinking for him. But where had it come from? Why were these thoughts filling his head? Perhaps he’d never know. Perhaps that didn’t matter either.
But he suspected that was a cop-out, a dodge. That the answers to those questions…likely mattered very much indeed.