Vow of Silence by Roxy Harte Read Free Book Online Page B

believing that .
    Our gazes collide and she blushes sweetly before ducking her
head. She’s thinking about it already, possibly about me knelt before her,
giving her an exam in the room just below us.
    Turning away, I start gathering the supplies I’ll need to
make omelets and the song plays in my head. It’s all I can do to keep myself
from humming. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in looooove, I’m in
love with a beautiful girl.

Chapter Three
    Gigi
     
    Darkness holds me suspended. I’m uncertain how much time has
passed since entering this hotel room. Hours? It could as easily be days. It
feels like forever.
    That’s what I wanted, wasn’t it? Yes. Bound. I am prisoner
of someone else’s wants, needs, desires. I don’t have to think, I can just be.
Theirs. To do with what they will. Tease me, torture me. I deserve so much
worse than I get.
    I don’t deserve the pleasure, but bound, my body responds.
Twisting, writhing, climbing—falling. I don’t seek the pleasure, only the pain.
    Pleasure always finds me though.
    Blindfolded and gagged, I ride his erection, squeezing him
with my thighs and vaginal muscles until I am shaking and spent. The true
problem is the asshole is so focused on finding his own pleasure he forgets why
he is here. Punish me! Humiliate me! Only his commands keep me in motion.
    “Harder, bitch!”
    “Faster!”
    “Goddamnit, whore, fuck me like you mean it!”
    A hard command to follow since I stopped meaning it a while
ago, not giving a rat’s ass right after my third orgasm and just before my
mucus membranes started screaming for relief.
    I reach for the pain and embrace it. That’s why I’m here.
    Pain.
    And although he stopped whipping me with the riding crop
when his own pleasure started rising, he’s created a sort of livable purgatory
without even realizing what he’s done. The soft pillow-top mattress beneath my
knees no longer provides the heavenly comfort promised by the hotel’s ad
campaign. My knees ache. Worse, they feel raw from the constant rubbing against
stiff Egyptian cotton sheets. This is the stuff dreams are made of. Suffering,
discontentment. Yet in my weakness I am reduced to a silent tirade against
Viagra and my inner mantra for him. Please come, please come, please come!
    Close to sobbing, I finally hear him growl, grunt and then
shout.
    His ejaculation should bring me jubilation, because I know I
will be released from the restraints, I will be able to tend to my throbbing
vagina, get out of here and go home; but I’m not elated, not even close.
    He’s done now. Endgame for him. He will release me, I will
get dressed, there will be the awkward moment of uncomfortable silence neither
of us knows how to fill with words, and then I will leave because I have yet to
meet a man who could take his mind off his own goddamn penis long enough to do
the job he’s here for.
    Punish me like you mean it!
    I sigh around the ball gag shoved in my mouth. Drool pools
out with my breath and lands heavily on my chest. Honestly, I decide I’m pretty
miserable. Knees burn, back hurts, and with my hands secured above my head in
leather manacles, my arms have been numb for what seems like forever. I am at
his mercy still.
    I perk up, hopeful he still has a surprise up his sleeve.
Straddling his hips, I push against his stomach with my shaved-bare pussy,
nudging him, reminding him I am here. His half-hard penis slides from my body
in a warm, wet whoosh .
    “Ee-mmm-oo,” I mumble around the ball gag, and more drool
pools wetly onto my chest.
    He wanted me naked except for the ball gag in my mouth and
the leather around my wrists. They usually do once they find out that I’m
inked. Men find my tats intriguing. I find their obsession with my ink
annoying, which doesn’t mean that I’m disappointed that it is a sure thing for
luring them in. When I advertise on the internet, I lead with photos of my
tats.
    Brightly colored koi swim in a teasing zigzag pattern