Carpe Victim

Carpe Victim-5

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I can't move, I can't fight, I can't stop him as he works open the lowest button. Reveals a patch of my skin and hair.

"Ah, there, that's a little better, but what's this?" The line of hair running from my navel disappearing beneath my waistband entrances him. Sketches the ley line with his mouth and tongue, moist, concentrated flame flickering briefly into my umbilicus, blows air across the wet trail he leaves on my skin, just to watch me jerk and the gooseflesh rise.

"Wonder what other interesting bits I can find if I keep looking?" And, just as maddeningly, just as slowly, frees the next button, revealing that much more of me. Inches his way up my shirt. Relishes the trembling I can't control as each gesture, each word, each displaced button knifes away that much more of my fading self-control.

When the last button slips away, he lifts me easily, lets me dangle between his hands. Pulls my shirt down to trap my arms. He might as well play with a doll for all the resistance I can offer as I'm laid bare for his touch. He circles my nipples leisurely, brushing through chest hair to find and twist them, graze them with his nails. Traces the lines of my ribs and my hollowed, quaking abdomen, his movements still relaxed and careful—and far more frightening than if he'd simply torn me out of my clothing and done as he liked.

His mouth fastens on the mound of a nipple. Bites down hard.

I buck, aroused and appalled—equally. Oh, dear, God—no—he is doing exactly as he pleases; worse, he's doing exactly what I intended. He slides one hand down, still so damned hot against my chill skin, fingers sowing trails of heat over me, strays long enough to retrace the line of hair running from my navel to my traitorous prick.

He cups me, his heat searing me even through cloth.

Whimper? Did I just whimper?

I arc into his palm. Hate the knowing, complacent twist of his mouth when I do.

"Seems I'm not the only healthy handful."

But...how? I never said...?

He gives me no time to pursue my thoughts. Chooses, instead, to stretch out beside me to dig the heel of his palm into me. Forces me to writhe and thrust into his heat, whispering a running litany against the sensitive back of my ear. "C'mon, baby, that's it: give it to me. Fuck my hand. You wanted my ass, but my hand'll do for now. Give me all of it."

"All of what?" My self-loathing grows with every uncontrolled jerk of my hips he orchestrates.

Hear him inhale sharply. Feel his skin flush against my cheek. "You." To my shock, a trickle of bloody pre-cum seeps from me, bleeds through to stain my slacks. He rubs my own dampness against me. Drips more poison on my skin, in my ear. "Bet that's a jolt for you, huh? After so long off the rag an' all."

My confusion spikes—he...where would...he can't know that.

"Oh, can't I?"

How much more do I despise myself, then, when he withdraws his hand, and I lunge, chasing his heat? Abhor, as well, the despairing sigh I can't suppress.

His fingers dip under my waistband, brushing my navel, a silent, potent threat. "Would you really prefer I—?"

"No, don't—I...."

"Need to wear something on the way out?" He finishes my statement. "Assumes you're leaving."

"Damn it, if you're going to rape me, do it and have done."