Page 139 of Breaking Rosalind
“I always take care of my property.” I say and remove the bandages around her crotch. “Your pussy is as hairless as ever.”
“If it’s a bush you’re looking for, find another pet,” she says.
My brow furrows, and I run the pad of my finger along the barely visible scar. “What else did the firm remove beside your hair?”
She steps away from my touch. “Are you going to bathe me like a dog or continue to ask creepy questions?”
I lower her into the bath, chaining her wrists to the hooks I installed at the sides of the tub. She sighs in the warm water. This is the first time I’ve allowed her to bathe since her latest escape.
Her gaze is fixed on my chest as I pull off my shirt, revealing my abs and pecs. Her gray eyes dilate, confirming that she’s enjoying the show. When I unzip my pants and let them fall to the floor tiles, her gaze jumps to my erect cock.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice breathy.
“You didn’t think I’d allow you to bathe alone.” I climb in behind her, and she stiffens.
“Relax, pet,” I murmur, my hands sliding over her shoulders. “I’m just here to scrub your back.”
“If you released my hands, I’d be able to wash myself.”
I unravel the bandages around her left hand. It’s a lengthy process because of the splints attached to each finger and the way I taped them together to restrict her movement.
An important part of sensory deprivation most torturers miss is the control of their subject’s ability to self-soothe. If Benito hadn’t threatened to intervene, I would have kept her in this state until her dependence on me became absolute.
After removing the last of the restraints from her fingers, I move onto the other.
“What’s the point of freeing my fingers if you’re restraining my wrists?” she mutters.
“You want to wash yourself?” I ask.
“Do you even need to ask?”
“Good pets would appreciate the attention.” I squeeze liquid soap in my palm and slather it onto her back, my fingers easing her knotted muscles.
She hisses at the pressure but doesn’t resist. Why would she, when her body craves physical touch? Eventually, her muscles melt and her posture relaxes.
“I hate you,” she murmurs.
“That’s just a few inches away from love.”
My hands travel around to her front, where I massage her breasts, my fingers tracing over the skin where I carved my initials. The flesh has completely healed, leaving just a hint of a scar.
Her breath quickens as I roll her nipples between my fingers, and she throws her head back, resting it on my shoulder. “I could never love a monster.”
“Because I’m a murderer?” I ask. “Every man I ever killed was in defense of the family, and I sure as hell didn’t take out my own parents. Can you say the same?”
She flinches. “You don’t know anything about me.”
My hands slide over her ribs and down to her belly. “Patricide, matricide, homicide, and slow sororicide.”
Her elbow lands in my gut. “I never killed a sister.”
“Dying doesn’t always result in the loss of life.” I slide my fingers over the subtle scar tissue above her pubic bone. “How did you get this? A hysterectomy?”
Her shoulders rise to her ears. “I was getting horny until you started boring me with medical jargon. What kind of mafia prince talks like an encyclopedia?”
“Don’t change the subject.” I bite her ear.
“Then don’t bore me with your pretensions of being a doctor.” She moans, her hips lifting to brush her ass over my cock.