Chapter Seventeen

 

Joshua

I snap back to reality, staring down at Tamara, who is crouching over the grate in the floor, glaring up at me with fear and hate.

“I’m not sorry,” she yells at me. “You’ll beat me and make me say I’m sorry, and I’ll say it because you’re hurting me, but it will never be true, Joshua Smith. I fucking hate you. I’ll hate you forever, and you’ll never be my master! Never!”

The feeling that surges through me… If I could feel love, I would love Tamara. She’s a fierce, magnificent animal. So worthy of me. So brave, even in the face of her terror, in the face of the awfulness that I’m about to inflict on her.

I stare down at her. My dick could cut diamonds now, it’s so hard.

“You forgot to say Master.” I grab her wrist. She tries to bite my hand as I pull her to her feet. “It wouldn’t have helped.” I drag her across the room and chain her to one of my racks. She’s squirming and swearing and fighting, and by the time I get her chained up, she’s already panting from exertion. I make sure to haul her up high, so she’s dangling on tiptoe.

“Be back in a little while, princess. By the way, did you know that the human body has a hundred billion neurons of nerve cells? And every square centimeter of your body has around two hundred pain receptors. I’m going to become intimate with every single one of them.”

I leave her and return to my office, where I sit down and start running a systems check on my perimeter alarms. I cannot find anything wrong with them. I’m going to order new alarm components and beef up the system immediately.

In the meantime, God help anyone who tries to enter my property.

And Tamara’s waiting.

I take my time heading back to the playroom. She flashes me a mingled look of fear, pain, and defiance when I walk through the door. I’m sure the muscles in her arms are screaming by now.

I walk over to the racks of whips and consider my choices. Drawing out the moment. The terror will be building up inside her, swelling and swelling with nowhere to go.

I snatch a bullwhip from the rack. Lust vibrates through me as I stalk toward my conquered prey.

Her slim body draws taut like a bowstring, bracing herself for an explosion of pain. If only she knew…the physical punishment is just a warmup for the real torture that’s coming.

I slash her across the back with the bullwhip and am answered by a wail of pain that’s sweeter than any symphony.

“What was that?” I taunt. “I didn’t quite hear you. A little louder?” And I strike her so hard that her body bucks and convulses, and her scream is loud enough to shatter glass. The bullwhip flows like an extension of my arm, and with every strike, I can feel the snap of the leather cutting into her soft flesh as if it were my hand striking her.

This will leave scars. This will draw blood. I am tattooing myself onto her with every blow.

My arousal roars through me like an all-consuming bonfire, and I have to pace myself, holding back so I don’t cause permanent damage. My arm moves without direction from my brain. I’m mesmerized by the sight of the whip splaying across her fair white flesh, painting long lines of red from side to side, from top to bottom. The pop that the whip makes as it breaks the sound barrier, the snap of the leather, the sound of her screams…it’s a wonder I don’t come.

Her back is glowing red by the time I finish, and she’s moaning and sobbing.

I walk up behind her and trail my fingers over the livid red welts, and she jerks in pain.

“This is just the beginning,” I croon into her ear as I undo her cuffs. “You had it so good, baby. You’ll never have it so good again. You should have appreciated my kindness to you.”

“You wouldn’t know…” she gasps for air. “…wouldn’t know kindness if it…bit you in the ass…”

My fingers twist in her hair, wrenching a beautiful wail from her lips as I drag her over to a long, padded bench. She flails at me weakly as I strap her to it, face down, but she doesn’t have much fight left. At least not physically. Mentally she’s as tough as hell; she’s cursing me with all she’s got.

“Remember how much you love the cane, Tamara?” I taunt her.

“Go…” She gasps for breath. “Go swallow ground glass…Joshua Smith. You’re fucking useless. When you die, nobody will miss you.” Her voice is a trembling rasp. God, she’s amazing. I’m never letting her go. Never. She’s my sweet, brave warrior.

“I’ve got a different kind of cane here, and I’m going to go to work on your feet. This type of punishment is called bastinado. The soles of the feet are very sensitive. You know how much it hurts when you step on a sharp rock, barefoot? Well, that’s nothing on this. Think about having that soft skin slashed with a red-hot blade. And then multiply that times a thousand.”

She chokes on a sob. “You piece of…piece of shit, miserable head case…” She sucks in air, her whole body trembling. “Everybody hates you.”

That’s my girl.

I smile as I bring the cane down on her foot, smacking it against the sensitive flesh in the middle of her sole. She rewards me with an agonized shriek. I work my way up and down the bottom of her feet, and she jerks her legs madly against the straps. I’ve heard victims of bastinado describe the feeling as being like having their feet dunked in gasoline and then lit on fire. It’s not long before she’s begging. “No, please, no! Master, no, please, I’m sorry!”

It’s as if God designed human bodies just for me—with their delicate nerve endings and lightning-quick panic-messages to the brain. At times like this, the entire world seems to shrink beneath me. Human beings are tiny, doll-sized creatures that I can scoop up in one hand and manipulate as I wish. I can bend them and break them with sickening ease.

I ignore her pleas, snapping the cane with small, precise flicks of my wrist.

“Master, please, oh God, I can’t take it anymore!”

Oh yes she can. Nobody knows better than me exactly how much agony a person can endure before they succumb, and she has a long, long way to go.

“Oh, now I’m your master again?” I smack the soft, tender flesh of the middle of her foot again, and she screams to the heavens.

“You’re my master! I’m sorry, sorry, sorry!”

“You haven’t begun to understand the meaning of the word sorry.” I move back to the other foot and lay down a flurry of sharp, snapping blows.

“You’ll cripple me! Please! I’m sorry, Master, I’ll never— Ahhhhhh!” Her body is convulsing, her eyes huge and desperate. Her muscles are strung taut, twitching with each new slap.

After a few minutes of this, the soles of her feet are bright red from top to bottom. They’ll be bruised and swollen tomorrow.

When I’m satisfied that her feet are in flaming agony, I unstrap her and scoop her up in my arms. I carry her shuddering body over to the electrified floor plate. She’s shaking her head and desperately trying to rasp out pleas for mercy. She should know me better by now.

I hang her from the overhead chains. The musical sound of sobbing caresses my ears. I walk very slowly over to the switch on the wall, my eyes half closed, listening and enjoying. She’s not begging anymore; she’s just sagging there, whimpering and hopeless.

My hand rests on the switch, and I stare at her, fascinated. Her body is quivering and she’s hanging off the chains, trying to keep the weight off her horribly bruised soles.

I’m growing harder and harder. I unbutton my fly, grasp my cock, and stroke myself until I explode, sending my cum flying through the air.

Finally, I can’t make myself wait anymore. I flip the switch and watch her dance on her tortured feet.

Her screams pour into the raw center of me, stroking it obscenely. Even though I came mere minutes ago, I’m hard again and I can barely hold myself back from dragging her over to a bed to fuck her violently. She hasn’t earned it yet, though. I will never, never take a woman who isn’t begging for it.

All too soon, her eyes roll back in her head and she passes out.

Then I unchain her, drag her over to a bench, and dump a bucket of ice water on her head. She wakes up with a strangled scream, flailing wildly.

I look down at her. Her face is white and drawn with exhaustion and terror. The look in her eyes…it’s the look of wounded prey when it’s cringing away from the killing blow and has no fight left.

“Your name is no longer Tamara. You know why? Because you’re fucking nobody. I own you. You’re my toy. So your name is Toy. When I call you by your name, you acknowledge it instantly.”

That breathes some life back into her. She convulses, struggling to sit upright, but she’s so weak that she just falls off the bench and lands on the floor with a thud. I leave her there.

“Oh no!” she wails. “No! I’ll call you Master! I’ll never think that you’re not my master again, never! Just let me keep my name! It’s the last thing I have from my mother. Please let me keep my name!”

Then I see the look of horror and realization on her face. She swore she’d never beg to call me Master. And now she’s pleading for the privilege.

I haul her back over to the chains on the wall, and she cries all the way there, weak little mewling noises. She sags on the chain, her legs quivering.

“What’s your name?”

Her head is lolling and her eyes aren’t focused. “My name is Tamara Bennett!” I remember those words well, because they are the last defiant words she says to me before she breaks.

I can’t believe she’s lasted this long. She’s a wonder. She puts the men I hunt to shame.

Almost done now.

I fetch a riding crop and slash across her stomach with all my strength. Her screams are weakening, her eyes wide and hopeless, as I move up and down her torso, splashing agony across her tender skin. I have to give her credit—she lasts a lot longer than I expected.

I keep whipping her. She loses control of her bladder again.

She passes out again.

When I bring her to with another drenching bucket of water, it’s a different woman whose dazed eyes are staring at me. Her mouth is slack, her muscles limp. She’s a hollowed-out shell, waiting for me to fill her with whatever I see fit.

“Ready to dance on the plate for me again?”

“Noooo…” Drool leaks from her mouth.

“What’s your name?” I hold the whip up, and she just gapes at me stupidly and rasps something. “I can’t hear you.”

There’s no fight at all in her as she mumbles, “My name is Toy, Master.”

The fierce triumph that roars through me almost makes me come on the spot. “What’s your name?” I yell again.

“My name is Toy, Master!”

I slash her breasts with the whip. “Louder!”

“My name is Toy, Master!”

I keep whipping her until the front of her body from tits to crotch is livid red. I make her rasp out her submission again and again, until her voice is hoarse and it’s agony for her, and then I make her scream it some more.

Then I do the cruelest thing I’ve ever done. Far crueler than the whipping.

I break my rule and I lie to her. It’s necessary. She needs this is as much as I do; she just can’t appreciate it. She can’t hold on to hope anymore. That hope, it’s harming her. It’s making her do foolish things.

Things that might make me kill her.

And I don’t want to have to kill her.

So I whisper in her ear. “Nobody is looking for you, Toy. You haven’t even been reported missing yet. I don’t think you ever will be, because nobody out there cares whether you live or die. Why are you even fighting? There’s nothing out there for you.” And the hopeless dry-heaving sobs that rack her body tell me that my arrow has struck its mark.

Then I sling her limp body like a sack of flour over my shoulder and carry her back to her cell. I rub medicated cream on her wounds, but I’m rough and impatient. I force her to take antibiotics and drink water, but I don’t give her any painkillers. She doesn’t deserve it. She tried to leave me.

I send Elizabeth down the next day to take her breakfast and dinner of plain gruel, along with more antibiotics. No more lunch. I don’t bring her upstairs to exercise. It’s fine. Let her get weak.

Toy is in so much pain that she can barely move for days. I hear her cry out in agony as she crawls to the bathroom grate and voids.

I leave her down there in the dark for days. A week. No bath, nothing but a deliberately bland meal served to her twice a day.

One day she starts refusing her food. I send Elizabeth down with a note. “If you refuse to eat, I will shove a feeding tube down your throat and put a hood on your head. You’ll be blindfolded and chained hand and foot twenty-four hours a day.”

So she eats.

And once her feet heal, she stands up and stumbles back and forth every day, walking the short length that the chain will allow.

She’s starting to crack for real now.

Not that shit she was faking earlier, where she was willing to endure some punishment in order to trick me into thinking I was slowly breaking her.

Yeah, she thought she’d fooled me.

This is the real thing.

I sit in my office, watching the last pieces of her fall away. She cries out to the camera, begging me. Her face is twisted with sorrow and desperation. “My name is Toy, Master! Please, Master, I’m sorry! I won’t try to escape again. Please, Master, my name is Toy. I’ll be good! I’ll do anything you want, Master. Toy will do anything you want.”

I believe her when she says she won’t try to escape again. That girl, the one with a will of her own, is dead now.

I sip my bitter black coffee and turn down the volume on the screen to dull the sound of her screams, and go back to work.

I’m feeling itchy and unsatisfied because I don’t get to see my little Toy in the flesh anymore. I miss tasting her delicious pussy. I miss teasing her until she sobs with need and frustration. I miss thrusting down her throat and seeing that look of panic in her eyes as she struggles to take me in—and then her surrender, the way her nostrils flare to suck in oxygen as she swallows my cum.

Depriving her of my presence is part of the punishment, but it’s also hard on me. I wish I could make her appreciate that. What I’m doing to her is for her own good, and I am willing to make the necessary sacrifices, but the dull ache inside me, the need for her, grows with each passing day.

I finally decide to take a day off to kidnap the child rapist. I might as well take him out before he gets custody of his children, not after. Does it really matter? Not to me. I could always tell Toy about it someday.

No! I draw myself up short. That would be weak and foolish of me. Since when do I need to trot my good deeds over to her, for her approval? She exists to please me, not the other way around.

Bagging Stewart Hamilton is pathetically easy. I shoot him with a tranquilizer and bring him back to my estate in the soundproofed trunk of my car.

I am pleased to see that I haven’t lost the urge to hunt. I watch him go through the various stages of outrage and threatening, then on to pleading and bribing and begging.

The running, that’s the fun part.

When I catch him and force him to face off against me, he tries to rise to the challenge. He really does. He feints and jabs, he puts up a halfway decent fight. He even gets one shot in, slamming his fist into my solar plexus, and I grunt in pain and happiness at the sensation rocketing through my body.

The knives, oh, they’re glorious. The peeling away of the skin, exposing the red meat underneath. The shrill, girlish screams, the bubbling agony of his final breaths.

I dispose of him quickly, shed my coveralls, and take them back to my house to burn them.

By the time I get there, though, the elation is starting to fade, and thoughts of Toy are crowding into my head again. That’s much too soon. I think it would help if she was upstairs with me, if I could play with her, spank her, make her beg for my cock. But if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s maintaining self-discipline. She’s not ready to come back upstairs yet, so I will suffer without her until it’s time.

A couple of days later, I’m in my office reading the paper online when I’m hit with a bombshell. The Morton Media Group has been purchased.

Shock ices my veins as I read the details. The purchaser, a real estate development group, offered them less money than I would have, but is allowing them to continue to operate their newspapers.

The purchaser is paying to move the media group’s operations to smaller buildings on less valuable pieces of property. Apparently, Mr. Morton cared more about keeping his newspapers and radio stations running than he did about money. A man with principles? How fucking disgusting.

All the deals I planned to make based on this one have now fallen to pieces. It doesn’t affect my vast holdings, my wealth, in any significant way, but it does affect me personally. I’m not used to failure.

I do not yet know how all these different threads are woven together, but when I find out who did this to me, I will end them in horrible ways. In the meantime, I have to put all future hunts on hold. Frustration coils tightly inside me. Whoever’s doing this to me, when I find them, I’ll stage a special little hunt and I’ll make it last for days.