Ruby

 

 

 

I'm mad at him. I'm mad at him for not appreciating the effort I've shown to impress him. I'm mad at him for being this way, for leaving me in the dark about his plans and his ideas about how this is supposed to go down. How am I supposed to please him if he doesn't tell me what to do? So far, he seems nothing but displeased with me, and I have no idea why.

Well, that's not exactly true. I have a vague suspicion that he's not happy with my acting. I'm not scared enough, not desperate enough. He finds fault with my lack of struggle, my lack of screaming and crying, and even when he found me this morning, a pathetic pile of misery with dried-up tears crusting my eyes, a silent plea on my lips, even then he wasn't happy.

This night was horrible. I hate the dark, always have. But I recovered from it just as quickly as I tend to recover from all the mistreatments I've endured throughout my life. I'm a fighter. I bounce back quickly and come out on the other side a stronger person. I’ve always been that way; I’ve had to.

But I can tell that he wants me weak, scared, and broken, losing my mind in a furious fit while pointlessly lashing out at him.

That's just not who I am, and I don't have the acting skills to pretend I’m that kind of person.

After he wrapped me up in that gigantic towel, the gentle treatment abruptly came to an end. He led me out of the bathroom, and as he pushed me forward, I feared that I'd end up on that damn bench again. There was no other surface to lay on, which is probably why he placed me there while I was still unconscious.

But he's not pushing me toward the stretching bench again. Instead, we're heading toward an open area in front of a St. Andrew’s Cross that's nailed to the wall.

"Down, on your knees," he commands, and I comply immediately, like the good slave I know I can be.

I tilt my head back into my neck, my gaze searching his for approval.

"Spread your thighs, palms on your knees," he orders, and I follow suit. This is a common slave position, and I've been asked to present myself like this before. The towel that's been wrapped around my body falls down as I spread my legs, but I don't bother picking it up.

He pauses for a few moments, observing as I present myself in the way he asked. Then, he drops down on his knees in front of me, coming almost to eye-level with me.

I withstand his strong gaze, almost proud of my endurance. His look is intense, especially coming from a man as handsome as he is. No client has ever turned my insides the way he does, and no one has ever confused me this much, on so many levels.

And as it turns out, he’s only going to make it worse.

"Who the hell are you?" he asks, catching me off guard with that unexpected question.

Do I have to come up with some elaborate background story about the character I'm playing? If so, why was I never instructed about this?

"What do you mean?" I ask.

He groans, knitting his eyebrows once again.

"Well, my name is-"

"I don't need your fucking name," he interrupts. "Your name is ‘toy’ while you’re with me. That's all I need. Do you understand?"

I nod, boiling with anger inside.

"Yes, I understand," I respond. "And what am I to call you? Since you don't like Sir..."

"Master," he says. "You'll call me ‘master’."

I nod again. "Yes, master."

His next question baffles me even more.

"Are you a whore?"

I gasp. Why the hell would he ask that? He knows that I am, even though I despise the word.

There were no instructions about any of this. I have no idea what to do, except to stick to the truth.

"Yes, I am," I nod, emphasizing every syllable and adding weight to my words, as if they were new information for him.

"That explains your fucking get-up," he says. "You looked like the perfect fuck doll."

"Thank you."

He chuckles. "Why do you think that's a compliment?"

"I take it as one."

"Were you waiting for a client?"

I look at him, letting a few seconds pass before I dare reply.

"Yes, I was."

"For several days?"

"Yes."

"I never saw you with anyone," he continues. "Did he not show up?"

I take a deep breath and lift a hand to touch him, but I withdraw it just as quickly. No touching. I remember. I retreat and place my hand back on my thigh, where it belongs.

I lower my eyes before I give him a reply.

"He might have," I say in a low voice.

"Might have?" he probes. "You mean after I took you?"

I look up to meet his eyes again. Why is he doing this? What kind of story am I supposed to tell? I don't want to ruin this for him, because I may forfeit my payment, but I'm also lost as to how I’m supposed to answer these questions.

Lying, acting. That's what I'm being paid for. So that's what I'll do.

"Yes," I say. "My client probably showed up last night, right after my coat was stolen, right after you took me."

He nods.

"How long have you been doing this?"

I bite my lower lip. "A few years."

"Elaborate."

"Four? Maybe?"

"How old are you?"

He knows how old I am; it says so in my file.

"Twenty-five."

He licks his lower lip and scans my naked body. I flinch when he reaches for one of my boobs and twists my nipple.

"When did you get these done?"

"About three years ago."

"For your clients?"

I nod. "And myself."

He sighs, placing a finger below my chin and tilting my face up to his. Our eyes lock onto each other, and again, there are moments of silence, moments that turn into seconds, seconds that feel like minutes.

"Am I doing something wrong?" I dare to ask, while he's still holding my face in place.

He shakes his head.

"Are you not afraid of me?" he wants to know. "I sedated you. I took you to a remote house God knows where, I tied you up and left you alone in the dark - and you just silently sit there and endure it all? Not to mention, you reach for my cock any chance you can get."

He pauses, continuing to observe me as if I was some kind of weird research project.

"That just doesn't seem right."

I swallow hard.

"What are you going to do to me?"

A dark smile appears on his face. Finally, it seems I've asked the right question.

But then he says something that I can’t let go, not like that.

"I'm going to break you," he says. "I'm going to tear you to pieces, break any defiance, tear down any walls, and rob you of any free will. I'll do unspeakable things to you, until you're completely and utterly mine."

My pulse is racing and I feel as if a clamp is closing around my throat, choking me with a overwhelming sense of fear. He's actually scaring me with his words, and if it wasn't for the contract laid out between us, I'd be terrified to no end.

But then it hits me.

That's exactly what he wants. That's what he's paying me for. I should forget about the contract for a while. I should act as if all of this was real, as if my life truly was in danger, as if I had no idea what to expect, as if I had to fear the worst from him.

And it works. As soon as I let myself believe all those things, my breathing changes. I'm panting, and it only gets worse when he moves his hand toward my throat and actually starts choking me.

"That's right," he hisses, his black eyes flickering as triumph sets him on fire. "When I'm done with you, my toy, you won't be able to do anything on your own, you'll depend on me for every step you take, but most of all..."

He pauses, relishing the moan that escapes my lips when he reaches between my legs to find my wet, hot, and throbbing core. I know I'm wet as fuck, and it happened within seconds after his threats started to get to me. That's just who I am. I'm fucked-up. Being terrified turns me on, pain turns me on, being at a man's mercy turns me on.

"Most of all," he continues, drawing circles around my wet clit. "Each and every single one of your orgasms will be mine."

I gasp when he parts my lips and forcefully shoves a finger inside of me, first one, then two. I instinctively start grinding on his skillful fingers, but he keeps me in place.

"You don't get to decide," he repeats. "You are not in control."

I whimper, closing my eyes as a blend of agony and pleasure travels through my body, taking over every single part of me, my core, my limbs, my mind. His hand is still wrapped around my neck, choking me ever so slightly, but not enough to cut off my air. He fucks me with two fingers, and I nearly lose it when he uses his thumb to massage my clit.

"You like this, don't you?" he hisses, moving closer, his face now so close to mine that I can feel his hot breath on my skin.

I want to reach up, I want to touch him. I yearn for his impeccable body and his undoubtedly massive cock. But I keep my hands in place, just like a good girl should. This is what he wants, and for once, I actually know what to do and what not to do.

"You have no fucking idea." His deep voice cuts into my dazed thoughts with a daunting echo. "I don't know what's wrong with you, but whatever fucked-up things you've done so far, you can rest assured, it won't live up to this."

I groan in response, too aroused to make sense of his words. He's playing me like an instrument. My climax is imminent and the only thing I can worry about right now is whether I'm allowed to come or not.

"You think this is a game, don't you?" he piles on. "You think I'm joking. You think I'm going to let you go once I've fucked you senseless."

I pant, trying to hold back the first waves of my orgasm, as I feel them approaching in violent crescendos. But he's making it impossible. He adds another finger, stretching me so much it's almost painful, while he continues to play my swollen nub.

I'm not easily scared. Not really.

But I’ve never heard anything more terrifying than his sinister and triumphant laughter when I explode in a mind-numbing rapture on his hand.