Page 93 of Bend
I groaned and squeezed her ass. She pulled away, blowing me a kiss before turning to catch up with Teri.
I knew the Devil and lust were in us both.
But if I was going to hell, the trip would be worth it with Hope by my side.
About K.I. Lynn
K.I. Lynn spent her life in the arts, everything from music to painting and ceramics, then to writing. Characters have always run around in her head, acting out their stories, but it wasn’t until later in life she would put them to pen. It would turn out to be the one thing she was really passionate about.
Since she began posting stories online, she’s garnered acclaim for her diverse stories and hard hitting writing style. Two stories and characters are never the same, her brain moving through different ideas faster than she can write them down as it also plots its quest for world domination…or cheese. Whichever is easier to obtain… Usually it’s cheese.
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kick.
Songs of Perdition - Book One
CD Reiss
Kick
Copyright © 2014
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental
Cover Art designed by the author
one.
My ankles were shackled. The chain between them clicked when I rolled over, and the steel bit my anklebones when I rested my feet together.
My brain chemistry had been set for arousal at the touch of hard metal edges on my skin, and even though I felt a growing swirl of lust when I pressed my legs together, I was preoccupied. Deacon hadn’t put the leg irons on me, nor had I squeezed them tighter than I should, just to feel them holding me while he played me like a musician at an instrument.
I didn’t know what had happened.
The last thing I remembered was rain.
No. The last thing I remembered was being in scene with Deacon and entering subspace, outside of myself, where pleasure and pain merged.
No.
Nuzzling Snowcone as he huffed and clopped his hoof on the stable floor, I held his bit. I thought, he’s slow, it’s over, he’s slow, he’s old, it’s over, he won’t take the bit, he’s slow. My thoughts repeated as if they were stuck.
The last thing I remembered was hanging from the ceiling, listening to rain on the windows. It never rained in Los Angeles—unless it did, and then it rained like a holy hail of fuck yous.
The last thing I remembered was wet thighs. Feeling so sore I couldn’t sit. Thinking about fucking. Finding someone to fuck.
There was so much fucking.
