Chapter 10: The Taste of Submission
The warm, wet stroke was obscene. Wrong. Christie’s tongue, flat and deliberate, moved from the base of Wanda’s sex upwards, a slow, deliberate violation that ignited a fresh wildfire of sensation in the wreckage Ken had left behind. Wanda froze, every muscle locked rigid. Not this. Not after… that. The gentleness of the silicone invasion had shattered her. This felt like desecration.
"You're mine now, stepmom," Christie murmured, her breath hot against Wanda's oversensitized flesh. Her voice held a terrifying mixture of command and… affection? "Every inch of you." Another long, languid lick, this time swirling around the exposed, swollen nub Ken had ignored. A choked gasp escaped Wanda, part agony, part a betrayal so deep it stole her breath. Pleasure, sharp and unwanted, spiked through the haze of pain and shame, making her hips twitch upwards uncontrollably.
Christie chuckled, a low, intimate sound. "See? Responding already. Like you were made for it." Her tongue flicked, precise and relentless, finding places Ken had only bruised, coaxing reactions Wanda couldn’t suppress. Moans tangled with raw, shuddering sobs in Wanda’s throat. She clawed at the quilt, the vibrant purple fabric blurring as tears welled. The contrast was unbearable: the brutal ache deep in her hip and pelvis, the sting of bruises on her ribs and thighs, counterpointed by the insistent, building pressure Christie was expertly stoking. Her body, the traitor, remembered the slow, devastating climax Christie had wrung from her before. It craved release from this new tension, even as her mind screamed no.
"Stop," Wanda rasped, the word barely audible, thick with tears and desperation. "Please… Christie… don't…"
Christie paused, lifting her head just slightly. Her pale eyes, luminous in the dim light, met Wanda's shattered gaze. There was no pity. Only cool assessment. "Don't what?" she asked softly, her lips glistening. "Don't make you feel good? After Ken just… used you?" She gave a small, dismissive shrug. "Seems unfair. Letting you stay all wound up like that." Her tongue darted out, a brief, teasing touch. "Bad for your migraines."
The casual cruelty, wrapped in mock concern, was suffocating. Christie dipped her head again, her focus absolute. Her tongue became an instrument of torture, alternating broad, wet strokes with tiny, focused flicks. She explored Wanda with a methodical, almost scientific precision, cataloging every flinch, every stifled moan, every helpless tremble that ran through the older woman's broken form. The pleasure built, a relentless tide washing over the rocks of Wanda's pain and humiliation, eroding her will, dissolving the last fragments of her carefully constructed self. The smell of sex, turpentine, and Christie's faint, clean shampoo filled the air, thick and cloying. Wanda's fingers spasmed in the quilt. Her back arched slightly off the bed, a silent plea for more, for less, for oblivion.
"Tastes like him," Christie murmured against her, the words vibrating through sensitive flesh. "And you. Like… failure." Another slow, deep lick. Wanda cried out, the sound muffled against her own arm. The pressure coiled, impossibly tight, a spring compressed within her ruined core. Christie felt it.
The pressure coiled, a wire pulled taut inside Wanda’s shattered core. Christie felt it, that telltale tremor, the involuntary lift of hips seeking friction. A predator sensing the kill. Her tongue paused, hovering. Observing. Wanda’s breath hitched, ragged and desperate. The promise of release warred violently with the crushing weight of shame and Ken’s lingering, brutal imprint. Christie’s lips curved against her skin. Not a smile. A smirk of pure ownership. "Gonna come for me now, Wanda?" The use of her first name, stripped of ‘stepmom’, felt like another violation. "Just like you did before?"
Wanda squeezed her eyes shut, fingers scrabbling weakly at the tangled purple quilt. No. Not again. Not with her. The overload was too much – the sharp ache deep in her hip socket where Ken had pinned her, the dull throb of countless bruises, the raw, hypersensitive nerve endings Christie’s tongue kept lighting up. Her head swam, the room tilting violently. Starvation and dehydration, ignored for hours in the wake of terror and unwanted sensation, slammed into her. A wave of dizziness threatened to pull her under. "PLEASE... I NEED WATER... FOOD... I CAN'T THINK STRAIGHT..." Wanda pleaded, the words thick, slurred, cracking on a sob. It was pure, abject need, stripped of all pretense or control. A surrender deeper than any orgasm Christie could force.
Christie lifted her head slowly, studying Wanda’s tear-streaked face, the glazed panic in her eyes. For a long, heavy moment, the only sound was Wanda’s ragged breathing and the hum of the laptop across the room. Then, without a word, Christie pushed herself up. She padded barefoot to the cluttered desk littered with art supplies and half-drunk energy drinks, picked up a plastic water bottle. Unscrewed the cap. Took a deliberate, unhurried mouthful, letting a little trickle down her chin. She walked back with predatory grace, water sloshing in the bottle. Stood over Wanda, gazing down at her broken stepmother sprawled amidst the wreckage of her life. Christie’s expression was unreadable – cool, assessing, devoid of pity.
She knelt. Not beside Wanda this time, but over her. One hand slid behind Wanda’s head, fingers tangling roughly in sweat-damp blonde hair, forcing it back. Christie leaned down. Wanda flinched, expecting another blow, another bite. Instead, Christie’s mouth covered hers. Cool water flooded Wanda’s parched mouth, a shock against her cracked lips. Instinct screamed to swallow, to gulp down the precious liquid. Wanda reciprocated, parting her lips wider, sucking desperately at the offered moisture. Her tongue met Christie’s, not fighting, but seeking, drawing in the water with animal hunger.
But it wasn’t just water. Christie’s lips were soft, insistent. Her tongue, moments ago a weapon between Wanda’s legs, moved with a different purpose – coaxing, almost gentle. The kiss deepened beyond mere sustenance. Wanda felt the cool slide of water, the surprising warmth of Christie’s mouth, the faint taste of mint gum beneath it. A bizarre, intimate fusion. Her body, starved and broken, responded traitorously to the contact, a confusing jolt of sensation entirely separate from the water’s relief. It wasn’t just the quenching of thirst; it was a terrifying connection, a shared breath in this awful intimacy. She felt Christie’s slight shift, the subtle pressure. Felt… so much more.
Then Christie pulled back, breaking the seal. A thin strand of saliva, tinged faintly pink, connected their lips for a second before snapping. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her pale eyes fixed on Wanda’s, which were wide with shock, confusion, the barest flicker of something else beneath the terror. "There," Christie said, her voice unnervingly quiet. Calm. "Water." She didn’t offer the bottle. She placed it just out of Wanda’s reach on the floor. "It won’t fix you." She ran a fingertip slowly, almost thoughtfully, down the curve of Wanda’s jaw, tracing a fresh bruise. "But it helps you last." The implication hung heavy in the turpentine-scented air. Christie’s gaze drifted lower, back to the intimate wreckage between Wanda’s thighs. "We’re not done."
Christie’s gaze, unnervingly focused, remained fixed on the core of Wanda’s vulnerability. She traced a fingertip along the inside of Wanda’s trembling thigh, a chillingly casual gesture that made Wanda flinch violently. "Still so jumpy," Christie murmured, almost to herself, a ghost of amusement in her voice. "After everything." Her touch lingered near the evidence of Ken’s assault – the raw, abused flesh. "Hurts, huh?"
Wanda squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of Christie’s intense scrutiny, the posters on the walls mocking her helplessness. The coolness of the water Christie had forced into her mouth was already a fading memory against the renewed heat flooding her body, a traitorous response to Christie’s proximity and the lingering phantom sensations of her tongue. "Yes," Wanda choked out, the word tasting like ash. "It hurts."
"Good," Christie stated simply, her voice devoid of malice, merely stating a fact. She shifted her weight, the mattress dipping slightly, bringing her face dangerously close again. Wanda braced for another kiss, another violation disguised as mercy. Instead, Christie leaned over her prone body, her small hand snaking past Wanda’s hip to retrieve the plastic water bottle from the floor. The crinkle of the plastic was absurdly loud in the charged silence. Christie unscrewed the cap with deliberate slowness, the sound grating on Wanda’s nerves. She took a small sip, swirled it in her mouth, then swallowed, watching Wanda all the while. "Thirsty again?" she asked, her tone deceptively light, conversational, as if discussing the weather.
Wanda’s throat felt like sandpaper, her head throbbing with dehydration and the aftershocks of adrenaline. The brief taste of water had only amplified her desperate need. She managed a tiny, desperate nod, tears welling anew, blurring the image of Christie’s composed face. "Please," she whispered, the plea scraping raw. "Just… the bottle."
Christie tilted her head, considering. She held the bottle just out of Wanda’s straining reach. A slow smile, devoid of warmth, touched her lips. "No," she said softly. She placed the bottle carefully beside her knee on the rumpled quilt. Then, without shifting her gaze, Christie lowered her head. Her breath ghosted over Wanda’s sensitive skin, a prelude. Her tongue touched Wanda, not with the broad strokes of before, but with a single, precise, exploratory flick high on her inner thigh, near the junction with her hip. It was a shock, electric and intimate.
Wanda gasped, a strangled sound torn from her chest. Pleasure and revulsion warred, her body trembling violently. Christie lifted her head barely an inch. Her pale eyes locked onto Wanda’s, gleaming with a predatory certainty. She reached for the bottle beside her, her movements unhurried, deliberate. She took another small sip of water, holding it in her mouth. Then, leaning down once more, her lips brushed the exact spot her tongue had just touched. Cool water trickled onto Wanda’s fevered skin, a startling contrast. Christie’s tongue followed immediately, lapping the moisture and Wanda’s skin in one slow, deliberate stroke.
The sensation was bizarre, intimate, utterly overwhelming. Christie repeated the action – a sip, a trickle of water onto a different patch of tender skin near Wanda’s sex, then a slow, wet lick to gather it. Each time, the cool water was instantly replaced by the heat of Christie’s mouth, a cycle of relief and renewed violation. Wanda whimpered, her fists clenching the quilt, her body arching minutely off the bed despite her terror, caught in the unbearable rhythm.
Christie lifted her head, water still glistening on her lower lip. She watched Wanda tremble, a scientist observing a fascinating, broken specimen. "You look desperate," she remarked casually, unscrewing the water bottle cap again. The plastic crinkled loudly in the thick silence. "Pathetic, really."
Wanda couldn't argue. Her throat burned, her head pounded. Every nerve screamed for water, for relief from the fire Christie kept stoking and the deep, sickening ache Ken had left behind. "Just... give it," she rasped, her voice cracking. Shame warred with raw, animal need.
"Ask nicely." Christie swirled the water inside the bottle, the sound torturous. "Properly."
"Please, Christie," Wanda gasped, tears leaking from the corners of her squeezed-shut eyes. "Please, give me the water. I'm begging you." The words tasted like surrender, bitter and complete. Her carefully curated dominance lay in tatters at Christie's bare feet.
Christie considered, her pale eyes calculating. "Okay." She shifted, moving directly over Wanda’s prone body, her knees straddling Wanda’s ribs. The position pinned Wanda down, vulnerable, exposed. Christie held the open bottle aloft. The clear liquid inside caught the dim glow from the laptop lamp. She tilted it slowly, deliberately.
Wanda’s parched mouth opened instinctively, anticipating the cool rush. She needed it. Craved it more than air. Confusion flickered briefly – why the sudden compliance? – but was instantly drowned by overwhelming thirst. The first drops hit her dry tongue, shocking in their coldness. She gulped, trying to swallow the precious stream.
Then Christie tipped the bottle further. Water poured steadily, forcefully, into Wanda’s open mouth. Too fast. Wanda choked, spluttering, water spilling over her lips, down her chin, onto her neck and the quilt. Reflex took over; her throat worked desperately, trying to swallow the deluge. Her body arched, struggling against Christie’s weight as panic mixed with the desperate need to drink.
The sensation was chaos. Choking. Gulping. The shock of cold water flooding her senses. Then, as the water hit the back of her throat, as her body fought to ingest it while Christie kept pouring relentlessly, the trigger fired. Deep in her shattered core, a jolt of pure, involuntary electricity surged. It ripped through her, bypassing conscious thought, bypassing pain and shame. It was instantaneous, overwhelming, a brutal, convulsive wave crashing over the wreckage of her control.
Wanda’s body seized. A ragged, guttural cry tore from her throat, muffled by the water still pouring in. Her back arched violently off the bed, legs kicking uselessly beneath Christie’s weight. Her vision whited out, consumed by a pleasure so intense it felt like agony, a brutal physiological betrayal orchestrated by Christie’s cruel experiment. The orgasm wasn't release; it was another violation, deep and absolute. Like she'd been trained to do.
The water bottle emptied. Christie pulled it away, watching dispassionately as Wanda convulsed beneath her, gasping, choking on air and the remnants of the flood. Wanda’s senses overloaded. The room dissolved into fractured shards of light and noise. Christie’s distant voice barely registered. "See? Just needed the right signal."
Wanda gasped, her body still shuddering with aftershocks. Water dripped from her chin onto Christie’s purple quilt, mixing with sweat and tears. Her hip screamed where Ken had pinned her, a deep, grinding counterpoint to the raw sensitivity Christie had exploited. She felt hollowed out. Used twice over.
Christie shifted off her ribs, the sudden absence of weight leaving Wanda strangely colder. She swung her legs off the bed, landing silently on the worn rug beside discarded jeans. Her back was to Wanda as she stretched, a casual yawn escaping her. "Well," she said, her voice unnervingly normal, like discussing homework, "that was... efficient."
Wanda flinched at the word. Efficient. Like she was a machine Christie had simply learned to operate. She tried to push herself up onto trembling elbows. The world tilted violently. Nausea churned, bile rising in her throat alongside the phantom taste of chlorinated plastic. She collapsed back, a weak groan escaping her.
Christie turned, watching her struggle. A flicker of something – satisfaction? – crossed her face. "Whoa there, tiger. Easy." She didn’t move to help. She just observed, hands on her hips. "You really are a mess, aren't you? Ken did a number, huh?" Her gaze drifted pointedly down Wanda’s body, lingering on the darkening bruises blooming across her ribs, the angry marks on her inner thighs. "And then I... well." She shrugged, a tiny, dismissive lift of her shoulders. "Added my own flourishes."
"Please," Wanda rasped, the sound scraping against her raw throat. Just water hadn't been enough. The dehydration was a vise around her skull, sharpening every ache. "My head... I feel sick."
"Yeah, dehydration'll do that." Christie stated it like a fact from a textbook. She padded over to a laundry pile, pulling out a faded band t-shirt. "After Ken went at you, then all that... excitement... you're depleted." She tossed the shirt onto the bed near Wanda's feet. It landed with a soft thump. "Here. Cover up. Can't have you wandering around the house like that." Her tone held a note of mock propriety.
Wanda stared at the crumpled shirt. Putting it on felt insurmountable. Every movement promised fresh agony. Yet the thought of exposure, of being seen by anyone else in her current state, was worse. With immense effort, twisting to avoid putting weight on her screaming hip, she managed to drag the soft cotton over her head. It settled loosely, mercifully covering her torso. The fabric smelled faintly of Christie’s shampoo and turpentine.
"Good girl." Christie’s praise was a knife twist. She watched Wanda struggle to sit fully upright, swaying slightly on the edge of the bed. "Can you walk? Or do I need to drag you?"
Wanda swallowed hard, tasting blood where she’d bitten her cheek during the convulsions. The polished floor tiles of the hallway outside Christie’s room seemed miles away. Cold. Hard. "I... I can try." Her voice was a ghost of its usual commanding tone. She pushed off the bed, bare feet hitting the rug. Pain shot through her hip socket, white-hot. She gasped, stumbling, grabbing the bedpost for support. Her legs felt like water, muscles betraying her.
Christie sighed, a sound of exaggerated patience. She moved closer, not touching, but her presence was a tangible pressure. "Lean on me," she ordered, not offered. She positioned herself beside Wanda, presenting her shoulder. "Don't make this harder than it has to be. Mother."
The word, delivered with chilling casualness, froze Wanda more effectively than the pain. Mother. Not stepmom. Not Wanda. It was a claim. A branding. Wanda hesitated, her knuckles white on the bedpost. Christie waited, her expression calm, expectant. The silence stretched, charged with the memory of Christie’s tongue, her water, her control. The predatory stillness was worse than movement.
Finally, defeated, trembling, Wanda let go of the post. Her hand grasped Christie’s offered shoulder. The contact sent a fresh jolt of revulsion through her. Christie’s body was deceptively strong beneath the thin strap of her tank top. She bore Wanda’s weight easily, guiding her towards the bedroom door with unnerving steadiness.
The hallway outside was a stark contrast to the dim, cluttered chaos of Christie’s room. Harsh recessed lights glared down on sterile marble floors and expensive abstract art. The silence was profound, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock from the foyer far below. Each step was agony. Wanda limped heavily, leaning into Christie’s support, her breath hitching with the effort. The cool air raised goosebumps on her bare legs beneath the t-shirt hem. She felt exposed, vulnerable, a broken doll being paraded.
They passed the top of the grand staircase. Wanda glanced down the sweeping curve into the cavernous, shadowy foyer. The front door seemed impossibly distant. Freedom. Escape. But the thought of navigating those stairs alone, with her hip, was pure terror. Christie’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly on her arm, as if sensing the fleeting thought.
"Kitchen's this way," Christie said lightly, steering Wanda firmly away from the stairs and down a wide corridor lined with closed doors. Her voice was almost cheerful. "Bet you're starving. All that... exertion." She didn’t look at Wanda as she said it, her gaze fixed ahead. "Gotta keep your strength up." The implied threat hung between them, heavy as the antique clock’s next tick. They moved past silent, darkened studies and sitting rooms, the opulence feeling like a gilded cage.
Finally, they reached the double doors leading to the vast, stainless-steel and granite kitchen. Christie pushed one open. The bright, clinical light inside made Wanda blink, spots dancing before her eyes. The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and coffee grounds. Christie propelled her forward, her grip unrelenting, towards the cold expanse of the central island. Wanda stumbled the last few steps, catching herself on the smooth, icy stone surface. She clung to it, breathing raggedly, the polished granite biting into her palms.
Christie released her shoulder, moving with a predator’s grace to the enormous refrigerator. She pulled it open, the bright interior light illuminating her face for a moment, casting sharp shadows. The cold air wafted out. She surveyed the contents, humming softly under her breath. Wanda watched her, dread coiling tight in her gut. What now? Another game? More water torture disguised as sustenance?
Christie didn’t look back as she reached inside. Her voice, when it came, was light, almost sing-song, cutting through the hum of the fridge and the frantic pounding of Wanda’s heart.