MARY
My clit aches and throbs as he plays with it. This is not pleasure. This is a punishment which feels good.
Ken’s other hand spreads my thighs wide. He makes me open myself for him as he kneels there between my legs and strokes the very same part of me he just disciplined.
I know what he wants from me. He wants me to be his. He wants me to be normal, insofar as anyone in this line of work can be normal. But I can’t meet even that dubious standard. I am missing so much of what it means to be human. He might be a warrior, but he was one who grew up in a loving family, with a big brother who looked out for him. He was a boy before he was a man.
I was never a girl. I was a thing. A tool. I was trained.
And now he has brought me here and he wants to train me too. I only function when I am being handled, that is the truth of the matter. And now he has taken over where the others left off.
Except they never did this to me. They never made me feel. They always tried to dull the feeling out of me. Self control, that was key. I have cried more in the last few months between Ken and Tom than I ever did in the first eighteen years of my life.
He pinches the fabric and skin over my clit just firmly enough to get my attention.
“Come back to me, Mary,” he growls softly. “What were you thinking about?”
“I was thinking how I’ve always had a handler,” I say. “Other people have mothers, fathers, teachers, and then when they grow up, they have lovers, husbands. I have none of those things.”
“I have been your lover,” he reminds me, giving my pussy another squeeze.
“You’re the closest,” I agree. “But now you’re just another handler.”
“I am not just another damn thing,” he growls, rising up. He comes up, I go down, laying back against the bed as he looms over me. The hard lines of his face, the impassioned look in his eyes, I drink them all in. His hand has not left my pussy for a second. He is cupping it now, holding it possessively.
“You do need a handler,” he says. “Without one, you’re a vicious little animal.”
I smirk, because he’s right. And he’s only seen a fraction of the things I’ve done, and the things I’m capable of.
“I’m going to be more, Mary. When we’re done here, I’m going to be a lot more.”
Promises promises. What do they mean? Nothing. This is what handlers do. They put a carrot on a stick and they dangle the promise of normality in front of you. There’s never any going back though.
“You don’t believe me,” he says, his eyes searching my face as his fingers start to work my clit. I’m wet. My juices have been seeping since he started touching me and now his fingers have found the sore little bud that hides between my lower lips and they’re working it roughly. “You know what?” He breathes against my neck as he strums my cunt. “You don’t need to believe me. You just need to do as you’re damn well told.”
I let out a cry as he rubs me to orgasm. This isn’t elegant. It’s not romantic. But it is urgent and fierce and it is all about showing me what he can do to me. He can cane my pussy and then make me cum, because I am his. His material.
Impending climax forces thoughts from my mind. Makes me a wet, wanton little animal, writhing beneath her male. He watches me the whole time, his eyes never leaving my face. He wants to see me give in to orgasm. He wants to know the moment he forces my nervous system to overload.
I have no choice in giving him what he wants. He pinches my clit and I cum, bucking against his hand, clutching at the thin sheet of the bed, lifting my hips to him and grinding my wet hole with desperate motions as he gives me those few last precious touches which take me all the way and then leave me panting on the bed beneath him.
I’ve lost control. Again.
Ken taps my cunt and stands up, a smile on his face. “You’re going to be just fine, Mary,” he informs me. “Get some sleep.”