Riley: Tortured by Ecstasy
I blush even though I’m trying to control myself. He’s going to do it. He’s going to take me. I tense my body, waiting for him to undo the chastity belt, to tug it off and plunder my body. My pussy is wet and throbbing against the cage, and I cringe in embarrassment at the thought that he’s about to see just how aroused he can make me.
And then he stands up and walks out of the room. “Wash, get dressed, and report to Christie. You have chores to do.”
Once I’m sure he’s gone, I let out a little moan of frustration. I almost scream at the top of my lungs again, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing my frustration. I pick myself up and shower off my sweaty body. Jack’s made it clear that I’m not allowed to masturbate, but feeling defiant and desperate with arousal, I try to do it in the shower. I can’t. The belt fits just right to prevent me from getting my fingers under it in any satisfying way.
I don't know what's wrong with me. I've never felt a need like this. I've never been particularly horny. I'm no nymphomaniac, for sure. At least…I thought I wasn't. I did always seem to want more than Caleb could give me. I always needed more in bed. And when we first started going out, I was always shaving myself smooth and dressing in the most revealing lingerie I had to try to get him to notice me. But after the first few weeks, Caleb's attention had seemed to fade, and eventually, I told myself that was how marriage would work: desire would be replaced by habit and affection, I supposed. As the months passed, every part of me seemed to turn ever so slowly to stone. It happened so gradually that I didn't even think about it.
But now it feels like every modicum of me is on fire. I rinse off in cold water to try to dull the throbbing pleasure still emanating from my bottom and between my legs after the spanking. It doesn’t work.
When I return to my room Christie’s waiting for me.
“Can you pick out your own clothes or shall I?” she says with a faint, teasing smile.
My room in the penthouse has an enormous walk-in closet filled with neat rows of lavish clothing. I only recognize half the labels. Some of these things are pieces I’ve only seen on runways. Some of them look hand-tailored. They all seem to be in my size. Just the fact that Jack could procure so many fitted clothes so quickly is a little astounding.
“How did he get these here already? It’s been a day!”
“Jack gets what Jack wants,” Christie says with a shrug.
I pick out a sexy yet conservative set of black lingerie. Christie shakes her head and takes a tiny, lacy white bra; a matching garter belt and pair of stockings; and six-inch, nude heels. I pull on another little black maid’s dress that once again only barely covers my bottom.
“Dust the apartment, dishes, and then laundry,” Christie says.
“I had no idea gangsters were in such urgent need of hired help.”
She smiles. “Jack isn’t having you do the chores for us, my dear: they’re for you. You have to learn obedience if you’re going to survive Daemon. Jack’s tasks are to help you get used to it—to train subservience into your body.”
Charming. It’s not going to work, though. But I shudder at the thought of Daemon Amontillado, whatever kind of man he is. Maybe I should want the obedience training to work.
I wander around like any other maid in the penthouse. Think, I tell myself. What’s the next step in the dance? Now that Jack’s gone, I can focus a little better.
What’s the first step in taking down and escaping an international crime syndicate? Dream big, right?
I try to get a feel for the exact layout of the penthouse and the floors below. If things get violent or I get a chance to escape, I want to know exactly how to get out.
My new room is adjacent to Jack’s quarters. He seems to have the only room on the top floor, and it seems to be only accessible by the elevator. The elevator is controlled by an armed guard with a golden key.
I’m allowed to ride it down to the next floor to collect laundry and clean the other rooms. Some of Jack’s top men seem to also have rooms in the tower on lower levels. The top five floors seem to be only accessible by the elevator. That can’t be right though—they wouldn’t give themselves only one way out. There must be some other passage. I make a note to keep an eye out for any other exit.
“What if I just run?” I ask Christie when she sends me down to clean the lower levels.
“You wouldn’t make it out of the building. And we both know what would happen if you did.” My family would suffer for it. Maybe my friends, too. I’m free to wander the building, but I might as well be chained.
I work on laundry and cleaning most of the morning, then Christie brings me to a little bar and restaurant another floor down and sets me to cleaning tables and washing dishes. There’s a friendly chef working on lunch in the back. It’s a private restaurant just for Jack’s people. The kitchen is immaculate, and the bar out front is a gorgeous polished wood with red and gold paneling. A rich red carpet covers the floor. Damn, these people live in decadence.
Two of the men from the poker game sit at a table in the center of the room. They have radios and tablets, and they’re listening in on occasional chatter, but they don’t seem particularly busy. They’re sipping whiskey and picking through oysters, and a few other gorgeous-looking delicacies, with little interest. They’re used to all this, I realize with a little surprise. The finest food in the world is an afternoon snack for them.
“You’re Wyatt and Benjy, right?” I say.
“Wyatt Rylance, miss. Nice to meet you again,” Wyatt says with a subtly sardonic deference. He’s the broad one with the flecks of gray in his hair. Wyatt seems like the kind of man that every girl wishes her dad was. Strong and sure of himself. A deep, rumbling voice. A rippling, muscled, protective figure. He just has a confidence about him and a calmness and warmth, even. I’m pretty sure he’s only in his thirties, but he has the wisdom and sureness of a much older man.
“Nice to meet you again, too,” I blurt out, by reflex, before I can stop myself. I remind myself that he’s a violent gangster who helped trap me.
“Sorry about that, uh, poker game and stuff,” Benjy says. He’s younger than Wyatt—early twenties, maybe. He’s a big guy and has the long, goofy ponytail.
“Benjy, don’t apologize to the people we’re extorting. It’s bad form,” Wyatt says. Then to me: “What do you want, kid?”
“Antonio wants to know if you want anything else.”
"Yeah: more drinks and more of all of this," Wyatt says, waving at the plates with disinterest. I walk back to the kitchen and feel their eyes crawling over my legs and bottom.
Do men actually like my body, or are they just looking out of boredom?
When Jack returns in the evening, I have dinner prepared again. I feel even more embarrassed cooking for him now that I know he has master chefs at his beck and call. It makes me push to do my best. I shouldn’t give a shit about pleasing him, I tell myself bitterly. But I do. I can’t help it. I have the same desire to please others that most of us have, even if the circumstances I’m in are absurd.
But Jack finishes everything I give him with satisfaction on his face.
“Come and sit on my lap.”
"What, are you trying to infantilize me? Make me sit on your lap like I'm a little girl?"
“Sure. That’s why men make women shave their legs, right? It’s a way to take away power.”
“We shave our legs because it feels nice.”
He smiles at that. “I’m going to try again. I’m going to tell you to sit on my lap, and you’re going to say, ‘Yes, Sir,’ and do it. Come sit on my lap.”
There’s something in the tone of his voice that scares me, and I obey, even though it’s humiliating. Besides, the shame and intensity of my punishment last night is still fresh in my mind. I’m not sure if I’m ready to go through that again. Maybe just a little bit… something in me whispers, and I clamp it down. No, I didn’t like that, I insist.
I say, “Yes, Sir,” walk to him as elegantly as I can, and sit on his lap. His strong hands encircle my waist and hold me in place. His steel thighs press against my bottom in a disconcertingly pleasing way.
"Tell me what you did today and whether you were good or bad."
I walk him through my chores and he listens as if it’s fascinating, rather than the most boring thing in the world. “I think…I think I was good. I did what I was supposed to.”
I expect him to have some trick, but he doesn’t. “Good girl. When you’re a good little girl you get rewarded, not punished. It’s simple, isn’t it?” he teases. “What do you want for your reward, little Riley?” Lurid images of him pounding into my naked, sweaty body with that enormous thing between his legs force their way into my mind. I fight to shove them aside, but I can’t.
“I want you to never look at me or talk to me or touch me again. I want you to turn yourself in to the police.”
“No, that’s not what you want.”
“It is!”
“Riley, you’re not being a good girl now,” he almost purrs. “Tell me what you really want. What’s flashing through your head, even now?”
He seems to be enjoying himself. He places a hand between my breasts, right over my heart. It’s pounding and my skin is damp with sweat again.
“What makes your heart race?” he breathes into my ear, still holding me firmly on his lap with his other hand.
“Probably being inches away from a psychopath—evil men scare me.”
“No. I don’t think you’re afraid right now. Although you should be. I think you’re very, very, very aroused.” Jack sighs. “You were doing so well today, Riley.”
He stands and lifts me effortlessly, which only turns me on more. Why do I like being carried by him? I always hate it when the girl has to be carried around in movies. But right now I feel like a princess getting carried off to a dark tower by some terrible rogue. And I like it, a lot. I shouldn’t want to be treated like this. I shouldn’t like this. Oh fuck, why do I like this?
I’ve never been controlled and used by a man like this. Caleb always got his way with whining or manipulation. Jack just takes what he wants. But he’s so clever, too. I have the uncomfortable feeling that, if we’d met in a bar somewhere, under totally different circumstances, he would’ve had me out of my engagement and out of my panties with about an hour of flirtation. He can nearly control me with words alone, and when he can’t he sweeps me off my feet.
This is fucked up; it’s wrong. But my heart hammers in my chest all the harder when I think of what he’s going to do to me back in my room. I can’t possibly enjoy this. I can’t possibly want him.
But I do. He's like a demi-god fallen from the skies and wandering the earth, preying on mortal women. He's like something out of a myth. I've never encountered a man like him. For all the evil in him, he's beautiful. There's a magnetism in him that I can't keep from affecting me.
When a man’s this beautiful and this powerful, what do morals matter? Is it so wrong to be drawn to him? Would it be so wrong to just let myself go? The thought forces itself into my mind and it scares me. I try to push it away, but again I can’t.
The monster lays me on my bed, strips my dress, shoes, stockings, and bra, and fastens me into my chains. I blush again, being naked in front of him. It still feels unnatural and intensely embarrassing.
And then, again, he denies me.
Jack straightens up and steps away from me, then goes to a drawer I haven’t examined yet and unlocks it with a silver key. He takes out a huge bulb with a long handle. I bite my lip. It’s one of those things that’s advertised as a “back massager” on various online retailers. I’ve always wanted to try one, but I was too embarrassed to order it.
I thought it would annoy Caleb if he found it. He even got annoyed when I touched myself during sex—“Babe, come on. What, you don’t like this?” Of course, I would’ve been at least a little satisfied if he’d bothered to touch me, but he was never particularly interested in that, either. Yet he would’ve felt like I was making some comment on his performance if I’d ordered a vibrator to do it myself. I can’t believe that I spent years tiptoeing around the preferences of that man.
Jack seems to have no such qualms. He actually seems alarmingly intent on my pleasure.
He takes two white leather straps and binds the long vibrator handle to my inner thigh. The head just barely touches the edge of my chastity belt.
Then he turns it on.
Pleasure hums through the metal surrounding my most tender entrances and vibrates into my body. I gasp and arch my back. The toy seems to be on its lowest setting, and it’s just barely touching the chastity belt, but it feels incredible. I let out a long sigh.
Pleasure and desperation make dirty words spill out of my mouth. “Fuck, fuck! Please take it away! I can’t take this!” I’ve spoken before I can think. Don’t let him see you beg! my pride says. But the rest of me doesn’t care. I’m already so desperately aroused that I feel like I’m going to lose my mind if I’m teased anymore.
I feel so ashamed. My naked, heaving breasts and stomach are on full display for this vile man. I’ve never done something so shameful. But a small voice inside of me says, Thank you, thank you! Oh, at least it's over! No matter how shameful it is, I'll finally have a release.
But…I can’t. Jack’s adjusted everything perfectly. The vibrator stimulates me and lets the pleasure build and build and build, but it can’t make me orgasm. It’s not quite enough pressure, not quite enough intensity. How can he know my body so well? I think furiously as I moan and writhe in frustration.
Stop it. Control your body. You’re humiliating yourself! part of me screams. But I just don't care. There's too much pent-up arousal. I've been kept on the edge for too long. I feel like it's driving me insane.
Jack steps back and smirks. "Since you can't think of a suitable reward for being good, I'll leave you to ponder it for the night." And then he's gone.
I scream after him—a scream of primal, animalistic desperation and rage. It doesn’t do any good. I try to twist, clench my legs, open them—try to somehow press my body harder against the vibrator. But it’s useless. It’s positioned perfectly to both stimulate me and deny my release.
The vibrator eventually turns off and I gasp in relief. I almost sleep once my body’s stopped pulsating. Then it clicks back on again and I sob in frustration. It must be on some type of timer. My night passes like this—stretches of sleep interrupted by infuriating stimulation.
When Jack comes in the next morning, it takes everything I have to not beg him to let me touch myself. The bed beneath my legs is soaking wet.
I’ve always felt a little ashamed of masturbation—ashamed when I had the urge to do it. My mom caught me one time when I was younger, and even if she hadn’t screamed at me afterward, the revulsion and disdain in her eyes would’ve stayed with me for a long time. “Disgusting…in my house…unbelievable!…” And later, I felt like I should turn my passion towards pleasing Caleb instead. That seemed like part of a healthy relationship to me. But…but I always had this urge to freely explore the darker fantasies teasing at the edge of my mind and intertwine them with the pleasure of touching myself. And now I’m just too desperate for release to care about the propriety of it.
The images running through my mind aren’t of me touching myself, though. They’re of Jack’s strong hands kneading and massaging my tender, throbbing place. I grit my teeth and desperately fight back the swell of sensations in my body.
“Have you thought of anything you want, Riley?” he asks nonchalantly.
“No, nothing at all, Jack,” I manage to gasp out.
He considers me for a long moment and then he smiles. It’s not exactly a cruel smile this time. If I didn’t know better I’d say he looked fascinated. “You’re going to be fun.”
My torment goes on for a week.
I think every day that I’m going to lose my mind, but somehow I bear it. Each day I perform menial tasks as Jack’s little French maid: I clean, cook, do laundry, and serve whatever men are on duty for the day down in the bar.
Christie corrects my posture each morning and throughout the day and makes subtle adjustments to how I walk in heels. Try all you want; I’m never going to have your poise. Antonio and Christie teach me how to make drinks, and I’m put on display as their little bartender.
I’ve never had men devour me with their eyes like this. I’ve always tried to dress nicely but conservatively—housewife, not seductress. My mother always told me, “Plain girls trying to dress themselves up only look desperate and pathetic; dress for what you are, not what you wish you were.” But in the little outfits that Jack makes me wear, it’s as if suddenly I’m appealing. Who knew that you just needed to exchange cardigans for cocktail dresses?
Each night Jack questions me. Sometimes I try to lie, but somehow he always seems to find out if I’ve made some infraction. Then it’s down on my knees; he makes me crawl to him in my little maid uniform—the hem riding up and revealing my bottom and chastity belt. He holds me firmly on his lap and the spanks crack down on my naked flesh. Each day I tell myself I won’t make a sound—won’t react. Each day I can’t resist. Sometimes he spanks me until I’m sobbing like a little girl.
I try to bite my lip. I try to be silent. I can’t. Worse: the sobs usually turn to gasps, and they always, eventually, turn to moans. It hurts, but it feels so good. He rubs in each spank—spreads the sting out across my ample bottom, kneads it in until it’s warm pleasure, then spanks me again. By the end of each spanking, my nipples are hard, I’m wet, and we both know it. Each spanking makes me blush in humiliation. I’m a grown woman. I shouldn’t be treated like this! He doesn’t have the right! But to my even greater, secret shame: When he doesn’t spank me, I’m disappointed. Sometimes, during my more boring daily chores, I find myself drifting off and suddenly I’m back across Jack’s hard lap, my bottom and thighs getting his rough treatment. Why the hell did he have to pick the one punishment that turns me on like crazy?
Except it gets even worse because he didn't pick the one thing that turns me on. Sometimes he pinches my nipples. Sometimes he tortures me with ice, rubbing it over my breasts and stomach and around the edges of my chastity belt. Sometimes he clips clothespins onto my soft skin. The one thing they all have in common? I'm moaning desperately by the end of each one.
A secret part of me deep inside says if Jack wasn’t “forcing” me to do this, I’d be begging for treatment like this from a man like him.
If I’m reticent when he questions me, I get the vibrator at night. He must have it on some strange, infernal timer. Each night it seems to turn on and off at just the perfect moment to give me the greatest agony. I writhe and twist and wake up from lurid dreams drenched in sweat and passion. Each day my arousal becomes more unbearable. To my shock, I nearly cum several times when he’s spanking me, but he always pulls away and stops just in time to deny my release. For a violent gangster, he’s astoundingly in tune with my body. I didn’t even know it was possible to cum from being spanked by a man, but I’m so erotically charged that sometimes it seems inevitable. Sometimes, just going about my chores during the day, my legs will start to tremble and I’ll have to clench my thighs together and just suck in breaths until I’ve calmed back down.
I feel the eyes of Jack’s men following me, and a few times I catch them whispering about wanting to fuck me—about how bad I need it. But they quickly stop when I approach.
It’s clear: I’m off limits to them. I belong to him.
I break down time after time and try to masturbate when the chastity belt is removed—when I'm given a chance to use the bathroom or wash without it. But each time, Jack or Christie catches me before I can have my release and replaces the cage. I'm left whimpering in frustration, and I'm spanked for it every time I try. His hands are rough—callused—and so firm and sure. They're the same hands I imagine a cowboy would have, or some barbaric warrior out of the mists of history. They're the hands of a real man, but they're so deft, too—he knows just when to be hard and just when to be soft, and sometimes he tortures me more with the faintest caress than the meanest grope.
Why are you playing a game with him? I berate myself. Why are you bothering with this petulant resistance? I know this isn’t helping me gain my freedom. And Jack is going to take me eventually, whether I want it or not. I realize, with a sickening feeling in my stomach, that I’m compelled to resist by a desire darker and more inexplicable than the pragmatic need to escape. I’m playing his game because of some need he’s awoken in me. I don’t see the point of lying to myself, even if I’m lying to him: Somewhere deep, deep inside, beneath habit and convention and rational thought, there’s that voice whispering, I want what he’s doing to me. Badly.
How is this happening to me? When did this become reality? As each day passes my life feels more and more like an incomprehensible fever dream. How did I get here? Right: the poker room. Caleb losing the game. The deal. None of it makes sense. It’s all too strange and unreal.
Yet I continue to try to resist him, and each night my cruel master comes and continues to torment me.
On the seventh day of my captivity, I find a gorgeous crimson dress laid out on the bed, along with an immaculate set of black lingerie. A small, cream-colored note is laid on top of it: You are to prepare to join Jack Turner at Club Six for a meeting with his associates. And then I spot something in the folds of the dress.
They can’t be real. There’s too many.
String after string of diamonds lay before me: an enormous necklace, earrings, bracelets and—I blush—a circlet to go around my waist that can only be seen if I’m naked. That’s just for him.
“I am going to break you down and make you submit.” I spin around and Jack’s leaning in the doorway. “But that won’t save you from Daemon. You need to learn how to operate in his world. Put on your pretty jewels. You’re coming out with me tonight.”