Depraved by Trent Evans
Chapter 7
As he held her there, her smooth, delicate throat against his palm, her skin warm and supple, her pulse strong, frightened, he wondered at his own words.
In the past, though it was now as if viewing it through a thickening fog, consent of the people he’d been assigned to detain hadn’t been important at all.
It was as immaterial and trifling to him as what sort of clothes the woman wore before he’d torn or cut them from her trembling body.
Had he even enjoyed the idea of rendering their desires immaterial, moot from any consideration?
Perhaps he had, but it was as if the memory itself were on shaky ground.
He couldn’t be certain that what he remembered about that was the entirety of the truth, or if it carried the full depth of context.
How could context really matter though? There either was, or there wasn’t, Jon.
What he did know was that he savored far, far more the idea of breaking her down, of getting her to admit it, to succumb to the desires he knew she harbored deep inside. He could sense it both on the air, and in her body, an almost electric current coursing through her.
He was speaking to her body, but it was in a language her conscious mind perhaps didn’t yet understand.
Or maybe it wasn’t ready to entertain its true meaning.
Why had he told her all of that though? In the past, he’d simply carried out his mission, the feedback, considerations, even feelings of his subject completely irrelevant to him.
Had he liked that? His callousness to another’s plight? Why was that possibility so unsettling?
It was him, after all. The same Jon.
Why was it so different with Yulia?
“Be quiet, and stay where you are, girl.”
Her eyes went wide as he ordered it, and he wondered if that was surprise or perhaps even petulance. He would have liked to have kissed her luscious lips then, so close to her, to taste her fear, her hesitation, her warring with her own nascent desires.
But it would have to wait.
He wanted to experiment a little first.
Retrieving the item he sought from the implement wall, he returned to her. When she saw what he carried, she tried to back away, dashing her heel against the bars of the cell with a clang, her brow furrowing at the pain, her teeth gritting.
When she opened her mouth to protest, he grasped her jaw, popping the black rubber ball between her upper and lower teeth.
“Unnnggg!” she said, outrage, and not a little fear, clear in her tone.
Taking a moment to snap the gag tight at the nape of her neck, he again stood before her, deciding what he wanted first.
“Do you touch yourself?”
He almost laughed at the outraged flutter of her adorably thick eyelashes.
“Unnn ooo!”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She tried to scream at him through the gag, but he wagged his finger.
“Your tongue may be out of commission, but don’t mistake that for license to curse me. You watch it, or you’ll have another dose of the whip.” He flicked a hard little nipple. “Plenty of other things that can be flogged.”
Her nostrils flared, but it seemed to get through to her, no further protest coming from behind the rubber ball.
“Good. Seeing some sense, finally.” He took her by her bound wrists. “Right this way, Yulia.”
Only used a few times since he’d installed it, the bench was something he had, up until now, reserved for the punishment of a prisoner’s buttocks, thighs, and sometimes, cunt.
It perfectly presented the hindquarters, head down, ass up, equipped in a way that completely immobilized the victim such that only her head could wave about—and if he were feeling particularly cruel, there were straps to prevent even that.
Instead of rendering her utterly still though, as he folded her lush, soft curves over the hard wood angles of the bench, he left many of the bonds somewhat looser, which allowed her to wave her hips quite a lot, and indeed afforded her enough movement that the straps that were affixed to her strained and groaned a little as she pulled reflexively against them.
Soon enough though, he stood behind her, staring at the succulent, dark slot of her sex, like a forbidden, succulent fruit he was about to devour. Indeed, his mouth watered as if it were that very thing.
He spoke to her as he stared at it, as if he were addressing her cunt directly, rather than her person, knowing it would humiliate his charge—and help imprint upon her that she was very much, in every way, under his complete control.
Emphasizing that fact with his captives not only made it more likely they’d be docile, but more importantly, it made his cock hard. Luxuriating in his prisoner’s helplessness excited him in a way he savored, every single time.
“I need to assess your responsiveness. If, as I suspect, you’re a wanton, drippy little slut, then this should go quite quickly, and I’ll have a very good idea which direction to take you.” He stroked her rounded bottom almost lovingly. “On the other hand, if you resist, if you foolishly try to pretend that I’m not getting through to you, well, you’re going to find that I have far more patience than you have stubbornness.” He leaned over her, squeezing one of her buttocks harshly. “You won’t win, Yulia, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope you tried to find out the hard way that what I’m telling you is the truth.”
She squealed something from the other end of the bench, but in truth, he really didn’t care what she had to say. Her thoughts, opinions, and emotions weren’t important to him at that moment.
Only assessing the wantonness of her responses was.
He traced the slit of her sex, noting its lips were already beginning to swell, the tell-tale sheen of moisture between them just a hint now, but promising to be a flood once he really got her worked up.
She bucked slightly against the straps as he plunged a finger inside her wet heat. He laid a palm on her whip-scorched bottom, giving it a caress of faux tenderness.
“It’s okay… just a finger now. Be still for me.”
Stroking it in and out, he noted with pleasure the bud of her clit beginning to engorge, just peeking out, bright pink, from the prominent hood.
Taking the opportunity, he slicked it back, then pushed knuckle deep inside her, the wetness inside growing by the second.
He blew on the swollen clitoris, and she jerked, a plaintive cry accompanying it.
“Sensitive, aren’t you? I think I’m going to enjoy this even more than I thought.”
He’d wondered about this part of her during her documentation sequence in the glass enclosure, the pictures, video, and biometric data being entered into her file; he kept meticulously detailed files on all of his missions, and Yulia would be no different.
Or so he thought.
He’d longed to get a closer look at her, to see the sort of playing field he had at hand—which always opened up possibilities unique to every detainee—but he’d have been dishonest if he said he hadn’t hoped she had a generous clit.
As he pushed the hood all the way back, revealing it in all its glory, he grinned, his cock twitching in anticipation. While not quite what he’d have termed outright big, her clitoris was indeed quite prominent and the increase in its size as she’d become aroused was mouthwatering, and to him at least, was the clearest sign yet that she was a wanton little slut, with a body to match. Perhaps she might not know the truth of that, at least not consciously—but to a man like Jon, that didn’t matter one bit.
He would show her, Oh, yes, he would make it clear to her what she really was.
And he’d enjoy every second of it—even if she didn’t.
He’d probably like it even more, if she didn’t, truth be told.
She shuddered as he touched the very tip of the sensitive bud, her bottom cheeks clenching, relaxing, then tightening once more. Her entire sex spasmed as he touched her again, rolling a slow circular pattern against the base of it with his calloused fingertip.
Her breath drew in sharply as he gave it a gently proprietary pinch, before adding a second finger to the squeezing clutch of her now very aroused pussy.
“You feel how wet you are already? You’ve got a man who’s abducted you, made you completely helpless, stripped you of both your clothes and your pride… and your cunt is awash. What do you think that makes you, Yulia?”
She screeched behind her gag, but the petulance dissolved into a panting mew as he took up a stronger, more persistent circling of that now almost red clit, her hips beginning to pump as he moved both fingers slowly but firmly within the depths of her.
“That’s it… you can’t help what the body knows it needs. You hate it don’t you? Hate me?” He laughed, planting a kiss on the swollen, warm flesh of the crown of one of her buttocks, then giving it a little bite. “Females like you, you fascinate me… spending so much time running from who—and what—they really are. But it’s not going to work with me, girl. I see. I know. The only question is how long it takes for you to surrender to the truth.”
His words appeared to have the desired effect, and she pulled angrily at her bonds, the bench even squeaking along the floor a tiny bit as she lunged and bucked futilely against her bonds.
“That’s enough,” he barked, abandoning her clit to smack her ass once, and again, the sound like a pistol shot in the room. She mewled, but a third smack seemed to drive the point home, her hips growing still once more.
He grinned at the ghosts of broad handprints just beginning to fill in with pink across her already marked, and no doubt aching, buttocks.
It was a point of pride with him that his detainees would rarely have a single day where they didn’t wear at least a few of his marks, and often they’d be quite plentiful, depending of course on his charges’ varying levels of defiance and stubbornness.
The level of foolish will displayed by his captives held an almost direct correlation with how often—and harshly—he needed to discipline them.
The willful ones were a lot more work, yes, but in the end, they were far, far more satisfying for him, in every way.
What fun was there in breaking a meek, gentle spirit?
Returning to circle her desperate bundle of nerves, he frictioned it still more, faster and faster, until her breath was coming quick and frantic.
His penis was so hard, it was becoming a real distraction, but there was nothing to be done about it at that moment. Assessing her responsiveness came before he did.
Slipping a third finger inside her, she tensed, but her hips didn’t completely cease their now clear, circular bump and grind as he worked her higher and higher. Yes, his thick fingers were likely stretching her past the point of discomfort, even pain, by now, but it wasn’t nearly enough to distract her from the rising desire his working of her clit was apparently causing within her.
She began to moan against her gag, even as he pushed all three fingers quite firmly, as deep as they’d go, his fingertips tickling the rounded firmness of the cervix deep inside. On a chance, he rubbed her there, and she let out a shocked wail, bucking against the bench hard enough that she’d likely bruise her hips, if she kept on with it.
So, he did it again, and again, each time eliciting an even more desperate cry from the captive female.
“Like that, did you? Or did it hurt? Or maybe it was a little of both?” He kissed her right at the top of the humid cleft of her bottom. “The truth is? I don’t care, Yulia. You’ll suffer it as long as I want you to.”
Going back to pumping his fingers callously within her, and working her clit harder and harder, she’d soon been reduced to almost continuous moaning, her hips waving side to side quite lewdly, the female entirely subject to her body’s needs now.
It was a beautiful sight, indeed.
Which made what he did next even crueler.
He withdrew his fingers, and left her swollen clit completely alone.
She made a frustrated grunt, and another, when it became clear to her he wasn’t going to touch her anymore.
“I think you need to cool down, dirty girl. You might come.”
He walked around to the front of the bench, and submerging his fist in her tresses, raised her head up by her hair, forcing her to look up at him.
He painted the wetness of his fingers along her stretched lips, even tickling under nostrils until they too shone with the liquid, fragrant evidence of her arousal.
“Tell me you don’t want this, Yulia. Tell me your body doesn’t cry out for what it needs. Tell me you don’t want to be taken—and taken very, very hard. You want it. You can’t deny that now.”
The rage in her eyes almost made him smile, but he managed to hold it in, distracting himself by drying the last of her remnant juices by running his fingers along her blushing cheeks.
“Do you smell that, girl? That’s the smell of a whore. A wanton little slut who can’t resist her baser desires. Her animal nature. It’s written all over your face.”
She snarled something behind her gag, her nostrils flaring, gorgeous eyes flashing. The girl was quite lovely in her pique, he had to admit.
He wondered how much lovelier she’d look sobbing, her tears cascading down that face.
His cock was screaming at the dark allure of the imagery.
Oh, he’d find that out too. In time.
He left her with an arrogant laugh, letting go of her hair and strolling back around her, trailing his hand down the line of her spine, loving the feel of each vertebrae against his fingertips.
Plunging his fingers inside her again, ruthlessly working her clit more and more, in no time she was almost back at the precipice, her moaning taking on a desperation that made him want to fuck her so badly, that for a moment, he thought his self-control might abandon him and he’d find himself balls deep inside her, listening to her cries of pain as she stretched her tight little cunt around his thick length, showing her for the first time that every time he took her, helpless little Yulia was going to have a very long, hard ride indeed.
Soon, Jon. Hold it together now.
There was something strange though, and it came back to him at that moment, the otherness, the eerie feeling he was almost watching himself, a sort of third party to what was happening,
Normally, he knew he’d have taken any other of his captives numerous times by now. She’d have become intimately familiar with his cock, and just how much work she was going to have to do to keep it satisfied—or else.
But with Yulia… why was it different?
He pushed as deep as he could with his fingers, caressing her cervix again, relentless, her hips bucking as she reared up, trying to retreat from the stretch, the overwhelming sensation of having the mouth of her womb so ruthlessly stimulated. He kept at her that way until her moans were pitiful cries.
Then he pulled back again, just as her cunt began to ripple against his fingers, her frantic keening ringing out as she squeezed her bottom cheeks hard, then again.
She’d come very close that time to going all the way over, but he grinned in self-satisfaction as he watched her come down from the precipice, her buttocks now trembling like leaves in the breeze, the fatigue of her repeated tease and denial beginning to take its toll on her impossibly lovely body.
As he watched her though, his thoughts darkened. While he did want to fuck her—oh, how he did—something kept him from doing it. What was happening?
It wasn’t that fucking her was wrong per se… was it? She was his captive, and sexually exercising captives was as normal and expected as the sunrise.
Or it used to be.
What if that memory… wasn’t quite right?
He didn’t like the fact that he was beginning to question what was memory and what was a figment of his imagination.
Something… something had happened to him. He remembered, a few days ago. When he’d awoken, face down in the vehicle stall of his base of operations, a pool of his drool spreading on the concrete floor below his cheek. Disoriented, and with no memory of how he’d even gotten there, it was the first time he’d felt it. That sense of… being off kilter. Of something being not quite right.
He’d chocked it up to passing out from exhaustion—which was plausible. The problem was that it had never happened to him before.
And it didn’t explain the black hole of short-term memory loss either.
It had to have been what had happened though. The simplest explanation was most often the correct one.
But there was nothing. It really could have been simply passing out, a transient bout of fatigue, not unexpected, even for one such as him, considering his grueling schedule of missions.
What if it were as simple as that?
Yes, it’s got to be.
It felt better to settle on that conclusion. Clearer. The confidence borne of new certitude buoyed him… even though he’d never needed to be buoyed before.
It would pass, he was certain of it.
In the meantime, he had a luscious female specimen to distract him. He’d indulge himself a little, a welcome respite from his troubled thoughts—the breaking of this beautiful and deeply sexual woman into the female animal she truly was inside.
While something had changed, and perhaps he would wait to fuck her, it didn’t mean he didn’t eagerly look forward to working on his unwilling captive. Yes, he would still take her, and he very much wanted to… it wasn’t the only thing he wanted from her.
But rather than simply breaking her by brute force, something which while it did hold its own simple, sadistic appeal, left something to be desired with him now, he’d use her own impulses, her deep-seated sexual drives against her.
What he desired most now, was a woman broken down into her elemental, instinctual self. Her lustful nature, and the will of the flesh, overruling even the objections of her own mind, her conflicted emotions.
As he stroked the swelling, angry red clit, Yulia shuddering in her bonds, her broad bottom jiggling as she struggled against her straps again, he smiled.
Penetrating her with two, then three fingers once more, curling inside her cruelly, he promised himself one thing.
No matter what, he’d never fuck her… until she begged him with all her heart.