Chapter 3 3. Alma - The Prison 3
Once more, he pins me to the wall before moving to where his pants are and rummaging through his pockets. He finally finds what he’s looking for and turns to face me. My veins turn to ice when I see the pocketknife in his hand, but I force myself to keep my expression neutral, not wanting to reveal how scared I am.
Yes, I might know how to hold my ground and how to beat the shit out of a man, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get scared. It would be stupid not to. Fear isn’t necessarily a sign of weakness—it can just as well be a sign of wisdom, if one takes the time to weigh their options without letting emotions cloud their judgment. I can’t say I haven’t done stupid shit in dire situations, but I can say that I’ve always survived the shitty situations I’ve been in.
“I thought you wanted to help me shower, not kill me,” I sneer, yanking as hard as I can on the damn hook, hoping it will finally give in.
The right corner of his mouth goes up. “I’m not going to kill you, only take off your dress.”
My lips part, but no sound comes out.
I’ve dealt with a lot of assholes in my life, but this one takes the cake. The audacity of this man, thinking he can see me naked. I’ll fucking kill him before that ever happens.
Knowing that the hook will hold, I raise my legs in the air, wanting to kick him right in the chest–good thing I decided to wear my new winter boots the day I was kidnapped–but he catches my right ankle and flips me around so fast, I don’t have time to react.
He moves right behind me, pressing my chest against the wall, while he whispers into my ear, his breath warm on my skin, “Be careful not to hurt yourself, kitten. You might have claws, but be careful you,” he runs the knife along my leg, until it reaches the hem of my dress and the cold blade slips under it, brushing against my skin, “don’t hurt yourself.” The sound of fabric being cut follows, as he cuts my dress up, from the hem all the way up to my hipbone. “But if you keep insisting on playing, I won’t mind.” The tip of the knife moves dangerously close to my pussy, while his cock presses against my ass.
Trapped as I am between him and the wall, there’s little I can do, except go along with what he wants until I find an opening, and when that happens, he will regret messing with me.
“Fine! Fine!” I grit. “I will behave.”
The tip of the knife presses against my clit. “It would be such a shame to cut open your pussy, but I won’t hesitate to do it.”
No matter how hard I try to control my anger, my mouth has a mind of its own.
“Of course, you won’t,” I spit. “You are a filthy Duke after all. You all are a cancer to this world, and the best you and the rest of the men can do is fucking die already.”
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Is that what you say while trying to hide how badly you want to be fucked and dominated by a man?”
“You are not man enough for me,” I snarl.
The knife moves to my inner thigh, gently biting into my skin, and a few drops of blood run along my thigh.
“You know what I think, kitten?” he purrs into my ear, while shoving his cock even harder against my ass. “That I’m not man enough for you? I bet you never had a dick as big as mine inside you, but I promise you that once I fuck you, you will realize I’m the man for you.”
The knife returns to my hipbone, cutting open more of my dress.
“All you men talk about is fucking and all the ways you can make a woman subservient, like that’s our only role in life–to serve men.” I don’t try to hide the disdain in my voice as I speak.
The blade reaches my torso, and it slides all the way to my chest, the tip stabbing me, making me hiss in pain. His hips surge forward, pressing me even harder against the wall.
“Pain is such a wonderful thing,” he says as he finishes cutting open my dress. “It can be used to break someone,” he adds as he starts working on my right sleeve, slicing the fabric in two, “or in bed, turning boring sex into something unforgettable.”
I try to shrug him off of me, but he’s a lot stronger than I am, which means that I need to plan my next steps very carefully, because I don’t know what he wants to do to me, and getting injured is not an option.
He switches the knife from one hand to the other and cuts open my other sleeve–all the way to the neckline. The only thing preventing my dress from falling is his body pressing hard against me.
“You’re a very sick individual,” I tell him, something that he must have heard many times already.
“Why do you think I’m in here?” he says, his mouth so close to my ear, his lips almost touch it.
At least, he doesn’t deny it.
I’m starting to slowly accept that the only way I’m getting out of this situation is to actually allow him to shower me. While his hands will be on my body, I’ll imagine all the ways I’ll break every bone in his body for touching me.
I force myself to stop pulling on the hook and just stay still.
He takes one step back, allowing the dress to pool at my feet. He leaves my panties on. For now.
A second later, he turns on the water. The moment it touches my skin, running down my back, I let out a loud shriek, making him laugh.
“It’s fucking freezing, you sick fuck!” I yell as I try to move away from it. Not to mention that my boots will get ruined. “Turn it off!”
He laughs harder. “Did you really think we have hot water here?”
“What?” I ask over my shoulder.
His body presses against mine once more, his skin against mine. “If you want commodities here, you have to be ready to pay for them with your body.”
“I’m not a whore!” I hiss while I’m trying not to think of how cold the water is.
“Sometimes, you have to whore yourself to survive, especially in this place. The real question, kitten, is–are you willing to do whatever it takes to survive, or are you going to be used, broken, and discarded like so many other women before you?”
