Chapter Nineteen

 

Toy

We’re in the playroom.

I’m naked and chained to the St. Andrew’s cross, trembling with anticipation.

My master is finally going to fuck me. Will he stop hating me someday? Will he let me show him how sorry I am for being stupid?

He takes out one of his floggers and begins whipping me with it. Slowly, sensually, the leather fringe caresses my back, and I find that it’s too gentle. I want more. My pain tolerance has grown considerably, and now I find I crave it. I want that heady rush of pain and pleasure. I want the tendrils of the whip to bring me back to life.

He seems to sense that, because he begins whipping me harder and faster. The leather stings as it splays across my back. My skin grows hot with his attention, and a delicious lightness flows through my body. Soon I’m drifting away, the whipping somehow releasing me from my bonds, and I’m nothing but pure sensation. I feel every smack of the whip, and I love it. He moves down to my ass, and I feel each cheek grow hot, and I arch my back and push my ass toward him, rocking from side to side.

I am floating on a cloud of delirious pleasure when he unchains me, and I slump into his arms. He slings me over his shoulder, his muscles bunching as he carries me across the room.

He drops me roughly onto the bed, on my back. He strips slowly, his glazed eyes watching me, a cruel smile of conquest curving his lips. Then he grabs a condom from his dresser drawer and slides it onto his thick, erect cock as I greedily watch.

“Yes.” I breathe out my surrender. Yes to the end to my torture, yes to giving up another piece of my soul. Yes to sinking lower than I ever dreamed possible and begging for the privilege of my kidnapper’s cock.

Walking over to the bed, he climbs on and parts my thighs, and bends down to caress me with his tongue. At first it’s the gentlest and softest of touches, like a feather trailing over my heated flesh, and then it grows firmer and firmer. He spreads me open wide with his fingers and penetrates me with his tongue, drawing agonized whimpers from deep inside me.

Please, please, let me come.

My thighs start to tremble as I reach the peak. He pulls away. He lifts my legs so my ankles are wrapped around his neck, and the thick head of his erection presses against my opening. I moan as it slides into me.

“Oh, Master.”

He’s so big that I feel the burn of my muscles stretching as he forces his way in. He keeps thrusting, advancing, inch by punishing inch, until the head of his cock is nudging up against my womb.

I squirm impatiently, but he holds me still and makes me wait.

He draws it out, cruelly. Pumping his hips, stretching me, hurting me in the most deliriously wonderful ways. Then withdrawing. Then starting again. Waves of sensation rising and receding.

It’s ecstasy. It’s sweet torment. He’s every bit as amazing as I always dreamed he’d be.

I start to cry, to wail, to beg.

Tears stream down my face as he picks up the pace, slamming into me, balls slapping against the cheeks of my ass.

When he finally lets me come, I scream with pleasure and shock. Wave after wave of orgasm washes over me, drowns me. I am high on sensation, floating in some strange netherworld of unbearable ecstasy.

He groans as he comes, his fingers sinking into my thighs hard enough to bruise. My inner sheath is convulsing, squeezing him, and my legs quiver uncontrollably as orgasm after orgasm rocks my entire body.

“Yes,” he growls. “Yes. So good.”

He withdraws very slowly, and as I lie there, gasping, he trails his fingers down the small of my back. It’s more intimate than sex; it’s a connection between us, an acknowledgment of our delirious connection.

Then suddenly he snatches his fingers away, as if he realized he was being sweet and tender and stopped himself before it could go on too far.

I lie perfectly still and hold on to hope. If I’m really, really good and obedient, perhaps someday he’ll touch me like that again.

Afterward, he puts the thin collar on me and clips a leash to it. He lets me put on a robe, then leads me, stumbling and weak-kneed, down the hall.

We go into his media room to watch television. He sits down in his chair and gestures at me. “Kneel.” I kneel at his feet, and he props them up on me.

I try to shut out the sounds of the television, going tense with the effort. I sing songs in my head and make silent screaming noises. I can’t know about the outside world. There is no outside world for me.

Elizabeth comes into the room. “Nothing for me right now,” Master says. “And I didn’t ask you to come in here. Please don’t bother me when I didn’t summon you.” There’s a moment of silence.

“What?” he snaps.

I sneak a peek, and I see that she’s just staring at him, swaying where she stands. Then she falls to the ground with a thud.

Master pulls his legs off me and runs over to her. I don’t know what I should do, so I just stay crouched on the ground, a silent piece of furniture, as he scoops her up in his arms.

I noticed that she was getting paler and thinner. She’s miserable because I’m here, and she’s not allowed to take it out on me or bully me, so she’s just shrinking in on herself.

I feel no pity at all.

I crouch where I am for a long time, close to an hour, humming loudly to myself to drown out the sound of the television. I need to pee, and my bladder starts to throb with urgency.

When Master finally returns, I have to decide what will make him angrier—if I pee on the floor, or if I ask permission to go to the bathroom. I am very brave, and I risk asking him. He rakes me with a look of contempt. “Of course you can fucking go to the bathroom. What are you, stupid?”

Pain courses through me. His words bruise me so badly.

“Yes, Master, I am very stupid.” Why can’t I be smart? What should I have done instead? Should I have just peed on the floor?

I hang my head in shame as I hurry to the bathroom, but I also feel an emotion that is something like anger, but it can’t be anger because I would never dare to be angry with Master.

He isn’t being clear about the rules. All I want to do is follow the rules.

But I banish that thought from my head. I cannot criticize Master. If anything is wrong, it’s my fault, not his.

That night, he asks me if I want to sleep at the foot of his bed or in the cell. And I am so grateful. I beg and beg to sleep at the foot of his bed.

He’s looking at me with an expectant expression. I don’t know why at first, and then I think I have figured it out. This is the last thing that I swore I would never do. Master wants to know if I am devastated by breaking my final vow to myself. Of course I’m not.

I’m far too broken for that.