He traced the curve of her bare breast with tip of the knife. It wasn't meant to cut, but rather to scrape it's way along.
Her breath caught for a moment and then a small moan escaped her lips.
"Good. You are learning. This doesn't have to be completely unpleasant for you. Channel the pain the way I told you."
Even in the lamplight she was a vision. The shadows and light seemed like a garment draped over her giving a dramatic effect. Teasing, tantalizing, showing some pleasant features while wholly hiding others, much like the slinky red dress she had been wearing earlier. The 1500$ piece of clothing lay in tatters on the floor around her, having been removed with the knife the man still held.
The man walked into the light and then into shadow. His dress shoes clapped on the concrete floor with each step as he paced in circles around her. Into the light and then into the shadow again. Always a shadow across his face when he was in front of her.
"I'm not exactly sure what to do with you. I was hoping you were wearing undergarments of some sort. I do so enjoy cutting, as you know. But you have deprived me of that pleasure."
He was wearing slacks and a button up dress shirt, his jacket draped over a chair sitting on the other side of the worn wooden desk that the lamp sat upon. The man pulled at the sleeves of his shirt and tossed the cuff links onto the desk and began to roll the sleeves up each arm.
"Not that finding you naked underneath that fabulous dress wasn't a pleasure all its own, of course. This would be the first time I found a lady such as yourself in such a manner. Not even a gun."
He shook his head and tisked.
She shifted her naked body against the rough, thick rope that held her in place. Testing it she could find no weak points in the man's knot work. Each movement caused the rope to drag and score her skin.
The woman couldn't deny that the man's unique "pain management technique" was effective. She accepted the pain of the knife, felt each bite of it and then, at his suggestion, channeled it to her cunt. The moisture between her pussy lips and the wooden chair was undeniable. The rope chaffing her was making those lips engorge with warmth. A part of her knew she shouldn't be feeling like this, that it was against her training, but she wasn't sure how she would make it through this ordeal without making some concession to pleasure.
Gregor Ivanovich. On paper the man seemed like a monster. Twelve women in the last year, one a month she noted in the file, had appeared wandering the forest beyond his estate naked, bruised, cut, and obviously sexually assaulted. Whenever they were found they were sobbing and broken as a result of the ordeal but never pressed charges. One spent months in the ICU but even then wouldn't press charges. When he had a girl brought across State lines, the last girl a month ago to the day, Gregor made his first mistake. He made his hobby a federal crime and the FBI no longer needed anyone to press charges to act.
"Ciarra. Agent Ciarra......if that is actually your first name." He didn't seem to care to speak her last name.
It was hard to reconcile the thick file of abuses to the man in front of her; the monster to the charming man named Greg who had brought her champagne at the Gala, who danced with her and actually made her feel as lovely as he thought she looked.
She could still feel his warm hand at the small of her back. The dress had dipped almost inappropriately low to maybe an inch or less about the cleft of her ass. She relished the warmth of his hand, the strength in his dancing embrace, the firmness with which he led.
So many men these days didn't lead dancing well enough, so caught up in not being too overbearing that they were almost wimpy. Greg, rather, knew who he was, knew where he was heading with the next step and you either followed or quit dancing. Ciarra followed.
The agent kept telling herself that it was only because of the job that she agreed to go home with him after an hour of dancing, conversation, and hors devours. She kept telling herself that it was only because of the four glasses of champagne that she felt butterflies in her stomach at the prospect of him touching her again.
"You are beautiful."
She could hear the hunger in his voice, and for a reason she couldn't explain, it thrilled her. Maybe it was the timbre of his voice, or just his seductively charismatic nature, but her body began to betray her. Her nipples stiffened. She hoped he wouldn't notice.
Greg stepped closer, each step on the concrete rang against the walls.
He leaned in and she could smell him; sandalwood, clove cigarettes and the same champagne that she could smell on her own breath.
Greg traced the outline of her face with a finger.
She felt the urge to bite at it, which would make sense in a situation where she was captured. The part that didn't make sense was that it was an urge to gnaw not draw blood.
He traced his finger over her bare shoulders admiringly. Ciarra noticed. Where some women had great hips, legs, or breasts she thought her shoulders were her best feature. The red dress had accentuated them in a lovely fashion, being bare entirely. The dress had held together around her neck in a collar-like fashion she had hoped would lure Gregor in, given his apparent fetish proclivities.
His finger caused tingles as he ran the same route as his knife tip. The sensation went straight to her cunt without her having to purposely channel it.
He brought his head up and if the lamp wasn't shading his face she was sure they would be locking eyes. She found it hard to breathe. No matter how deeply she took in air it all seemed too dense or too lacking in oxygen. The ropes around her chest, one above her breasts, the other just below, hadn't been too tight a moment before.
Greg stepped away quickly, his appraisal finished, and it was like someone had turned on the air conditioning. She felt cold and shivering.
"Let me tell you how this is going to be Agent Ciarra. All you need to do is sit there and receive what I am going to do to you. You could struggle and fight every step of the way, and on some level that might please me but you...." He paused to pace back and forth into light into shadow.
"You would end up exhausted, worse for wear, and not having enjoyed a single moment."
He made his way back into the darkness and came up right behind her. Greg placed his hands on her shoulders and gently caressed them.
"Or, you can decide to enjoy it. You can decide right here and now to accept what is going to be done to you regardless, and get a good amount of orgasms out of it and when we're done you'll have had a sexual experience second to none. Something you will remember at home, in your bed, between the sheets, vibrator in hand, for decades. Now,"
His left hand slid down from shoulder to breast. He cupped the entire breast, placing the nipple between his forefinger and thumb.
"What do you say to that."
He lightly pinched and twisted her nipple.
She moaned and arched into his hand.
"Very good, Agent Ciarra."
Greg removed his hand and stepped away towards the table.
"I know you may not believe this, certainly they don't put it in whatever report they've given you to read about me, but your reaction there, your all but silent consent, is the same reaction all twenty four girls have given me."
A change came over him. He still was firm and in control of the situation but now each step had new energy. He was gleeful, she realized. He had caused her to want him.
She looked at the floor with a whine.
How had it happened, she wondered. How was it that now her training had flown out the window, her mission was all but forgotten, the chair under her warmer and more moist, and all she wanted now was him to touch her again. She didn't much care whether it was a stroke, a pinch, or a savage fucking without any lube it all. She wanted his touch, his physical attention and, suddenly she realized, she didn't care what she had to do to get it. Any humiliaiton, any act, she was game.
