Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance by Savannah Rose (e book reader pc TXT) 📕

They felt as though they were being compressed in a machinist's vice. My dick was feverish, and miserable. And as my erection ebbed, Sofia sat beside me, saying nothing. She watched in bookish fascination as I gasped for air, trying to regulate my breathing, as if she were studying a new, unexpected result in a laboratory. She sat crosslegged, her fingers steepled beneath her chin, resting her jaw on the edge of the knife.

Once I'd gone limp – both inside and out – she rose to her knees and I thought, fearfully, that she was going to do it again.

Maybe not, I tried to convince myself. Maybe she's had her fun, got her revenge, and now the party's over and she'll have to find something else to do.

Sure, but what sort of fun does she have in mind?

Not that I could ask her. I mean, I still had the stupid rag in my mouth. By this time my arms were completely numb, and my shoulders ached as much as my sad, blue balls.

The few sips of water she'd given me weren't nearly enough and I was thirsty again. Cotton mouth was slowly, but surely kidding me. Not to mention the fact that I was starving. My stomach groaned and griped and ground me teeth against nothing, but hoping nonetheless that the simple action would kill the hunger pains.

Sofia was sated, though, having had enjoyed a nice fish breakfast. How she got fish was anyone's guess. My brain was in a thick, soupy fog, and it came up with a theory that perhaps she'd salvaged pre-packaged stuff from the boat. But I didn't remember any fish dishes, other than the salmon I initially ate on the first night of our cruise. The salmon, I may add, which I was kind enough to share with her.

Which begged another question – when did she have time to salvage anything?

I didn't care anymore. I wanted to eat, to drink. I wanted to feel my arms again. I wanted my crotch to stop aching.

“Brings the term 'cock tease' to a whole new level, doesn't it?” she asked, buttoning up her shirt and straightening her hair.

My throat was scratchy, the gag was sponging up what saliva I had left, but I did manage a quiet, muffle, “Why?”

She tossed her head back and laughed. Shook her head, as if she'd never heard anything more stupid. As if she almost felt sorry for my ignorance. Like I was nothing more than a slow-witted puppy and I amused her.

“For me to know, and you to find out,” she winked. “Maybe.”

Sofia brushed the sand from her knees and then her hands, and went to tend to the fire she had started.

She tossed the blunt end of that primitive little spear of hers into the flames. It was the one I'd broken when I'd first wandered over here. If I'd known any better, I would have kept hold of that spear. Hindsight, as they say.

Taking a small notebook from the Insatiable's survival bag, she took a seat beneath the little shelter she'd fashioned, and began to write. Once in a while she would glance over to me, think of something, and jot it down.

As the afternoon waned, I could only hazard to guess what she was so engrossed with. And with every hour that passed, the trunk of the tree was becoming even more wickedly uncomfortable. I tried to adjust myself, find a position that would be more bearable, but only succeeding in taking a few layers of flesh from my shoulder blades.

How long was this going to go the fuck on?

What made her think she was going to get away with it, anyway?

And who for the ever-loving love of shit is she?

Sofia shut her notebook, tucked the pencil inside, and took what looked like a sewing kit from the bag. No, not a sewing kit. It had a hook on the end of the thread – an emergency angler's utility.

She knew how to fish? And build a fire. Construct a decent shelter like a god damn boy scout. What a bitch.

The Bitch Scouts.

And Sofia was the leader of the troop.

“Hey, so I'm going to go get some dinner, honey. You need anything?”

I glared at her.

“Alright. Be good,” she sang, and made her way down to the water.

She traipsed down to the surf, and waded in to just above her ankles, shielded her eyes from the sun, and headed toward a little outcropping of rocks. Something, perhaps, like a tide pool.

She attached one end of her line to a small boulder, eased the other end into the pool, and sat down on the outcrop to wait.

The breeze coming off the water blew her hair back, and the way she was sitting – her hands clasped about her knees – made her look like an image from a post card. Or the model of a sports magazine, because no one sent post cards anymore.

Wish you were here, I thought. Having a great time. Weather's wonderful. Say 'hi' to everybody at home. Aloha.

The fog around my mind began to thicken. My eyes stung from the salty air and if I were going to write a postcard, who would I send it to?

I couldn't think of anyone.

Sofia turned to check on me, presumably. She was wearing a garland of lovely island flowers around her neck. Her skirt was made of grass, and she had an anklet made of tiny white orchids that contrasted beautifully against her brown skin. Another was pinned in her hair.

She got to her feet, her dainty bare feet, and began to do the hula. Her hips swayed, her hands snaked to her sides, then to the front, one hand stroked her hip as the other went to her lips. She brought her arms to her chest, cradling and rocking an invisible infant. Rinse and repeat. The island dance move for “love”.

I shook my head. I did not have time for hallucinations. The