Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

“So be good,” the Beast said sternly. I thrashed and fought as he placed the gag over my mouth, but it was useless. He clamped the thing tightly around my skull. When he was done, he lightly caressed the pad of his finger along my jaw. “That’s a good look on you, Frankie.” I was fuming. My jaw hurt, not just from the gag, but from biting down against it in anger. My chest rose and fell in furious breaths, and yet, I was powerless.

Beast backed away and began undoing his belt. He dropped his pants just enough to spring forth his cock. I was so certain he was going to make me su

ck it this time. I thought I’d been certain in the kitchen, but now I knew. The gag he’d placed on my mouth prevented me from fighting back. The circular metal trapped my mouth into perfect blow-job formation. I was helpless.

And I just knew he was going to do it—he was going to make me suck him.

But then he did something that surprised me.

Something that was even worse.

He stepped back and started stroking himself. Gaze fixed on me, he stayed about a foot away, rough fingers curled around his length. Going up and down in a continuous, enthralling motion, I was helpless to do anything but watch, feeling my control slipping. I got lost in the way his callused fingers stroked the smooth, wet skin.

If I closed my eyes I could pretend he wasn’t there.

I should close my eyes.

God, I need to close my fucking eyes.

There wasn’t anything forcing me to watch him, and he knew that. He knew that I was powerless to watch him, not because I was strung up on the wall, but because I wanted to look. By hanging me up and gagging me, he’d made my walls crumble so that instead of forcing himself inside me, he’d forced me to acknowledge the desires inside myself. He’d made it easy to fall into his hell.

And hell looked a lot like heaven.

It was like all those little voices I’d been fighting since the beginning, the ones that told me I shouldn’t want this, that I should be afraid, that I should run, were silenced. All I could hear was that one dark voice, the one that said it was okay to want it. The voice was emboldened in my weak state. The walls I put up were gone and my body was responding, eager to see him. Somewhere, one of the silenced voices was saying This is what he wants. It was saying I should stop, I should close my eyes, because this was more dangerous than everything else he’d done.

But I didn’t care.

I was becoming hot and demanding. I stared at his hand stroking up and down, rapt, feeling hungry. The movement was mesmerizing and drugging.

He didn’t moan.

He didn’t groan.

He didn’t even come.

It was like he didn’t even enjoy it. I knew why, too—because he was doing this for me, to make me fall and cave. Despite the small part of myself crying not to give in, it worked. I was getting lost. I hazarded a glance up at him, and it was an absolute mistake—but one that would save me for a little while, at least. My eyes locked with his bluegreen ones, and for a moment I was trapped inside his head. It was like tumbling down a tunnel of razorblades and chewing on broken glass.

I quickly closed my lids.

Cut off from the drug, my senses came rushing back. I realized how much I’d almost given away, how far I’d let myself go. I refused to open my eyes; I didn’t trust myself. I held my eyes shut tight as if he was about to come over there and pry them open lid by lid. Instead I heard the shuffle of clothing, the sound of a zipper. Next, Beast ripped the bindings from the ceiling. With my eyes still shut, I fell to the bed in sweet comfort. My muscles ached in places I didn’t even know existed. All I wanted was to disappear in the sheets.

I kept my eyes closed and listened as the door clicked shut. When I was sure he was gone, I still didn’t open my eyes. In the blackness I didn’t have to acknowledge what had just happened.

The worst part wasn’t that I’d caved, it wasn’t that I’d lost a bit of myself. The worst part had been the way we’d locked eyes. For that brief second, he’d not been inside me, but I inside him. No amount of showers or therapy would ever erase that.

Ten

She was trying so hard to stay under control. Brows slowly pulling inward, mouth just parting, releasing the most tempting sigh, still she wouldn’t just give in.

“Give in, Frankie,” Anteros said, surprised at the edge in his voice. Anteros was not used to losing. He’d never lost. In his thirty-odd years of life, he’d never once lost—it was how he’d survived so long. In the mafia, you lose, you die. He’d started out thinking Frankie would eventually lose, would give in to him, but the edge in his voice was the kind he’d heard thousands of times before. It was the kind that came just before a man gave into his fate.

Hardening her gaze, she breathed heavily and said, “Never.” He upped the intensity on the vibrator, but all that served to do was to cause her to bite her bottom lip until blood welled beneath the surface like water in a balloon. She gripped the sheets, not even trying to get away. She was resigned to her torture, willing to take whatever he gave her, but never willing to give anything back.

No matter how hard her cunt seized against it, now matter how her clit throbbed and pulsed, she kept her morbid stare, as if her insides were stone. He could make her body come, but her mind stayed stone. Yesterday there had been a brief glimmer. While she’d been strung up on the wall, she’d let go and nearly come to him, but it had faded—just like all the other brief glimmers with her. Her self-control was all at once a powerful aphrodisiac and completely maddening.

Abruptly he turned the device off, throwing it to the floor. It was a rare device he’d ordered just for her, shaped like a rose. It slammed against the hardwood, splitting in two. He stood up and walked toward the door. When he looked back at her, she was blinking, as if coming out of a fog.

“We have company coming,” he said.