Chapter Three
The carpet ends and there is hardwood beneath my feet for a moment, then another rug, this one soft and plush. Immediately I sense that someone else is here. I try to take in my surroundings through the means left me, to retain my balance as the Master has me stop, keeping a hand on my shoulder to steady me. I take in the earthy, sharp scent of ash and wood from a fire burning in the hearth, and behind it is the scent of perfume. It smells expensive, like jasmine and lace. My ass and my thighs still burn from my beating in the kitchen and I’m not quite over the emotion of the tears—I’m really beginning to overload. Taking a deep breath, I try to give myself over to it all. But the trick right now is to give myself over to him. That’s what will help me.
“What do you think of my latest acquisition, my dear Mistress Alexa?” the Master asks.
“Hmm.”
I hear her step toward me, then I can feel the heat of her body as she moves closer.
“Beautiful hair,” she says. “I adore red hair on a woman. But hers is really more auburn, isn’t it? So straight and sleek.” She runs a hand through my hair, her fingers catching in a tangle. “Silky. Very nice. Beautiful, small breasts. The pale nipples are perfection. Sweet.” She tweaks one of them, and I try not to wince, but I do, making her laugh, a low, wicked sound. “Sensitive girl. She’s tall for me, but I could put on my stilettos to fuck her with my strap-on.”
He chuckles. “I suppose wanting to fuck her means you approve?”
She tweaks my nipple again, pressing hard into the flesh and I breathe into the pain, exhale as she does it again, harder this time, not letting the pressure up. I have to really focus to convert the pain, and finally get a small flood of endorphins. Lovely.
“Look how hard her nipple gets,” she murmurs quietly. “How deliciously it darkens. And how naked they look, don’t they, Damon?”
Damon.
I savor the sound of his name on my tongue, a name I will never, ever use. But knowing it is like a gift.
“They might be pierced soon enough,” he says, making me shudder. Or shiver. I don’t know which.
“Of course—you pierce all your House slaves. Except for the beautiful Christopher.”
A slave called by name? Is that possible here? But I’m too immersed in what’s happening to give it more thought.
“He came with the left one already pierced and I liked the way it looked. I like even more that he did it himself.”
“Well, so do I. Speaking of your beautiful boy, I’d like to borrow him if you don’t need him and he’s not promised elsewhere.”
“As long as you bring him back in one piece.”
The mysterious Mistress clucks her tongue. “Come on, Damon. I would never return damaged goods to you. He can take quite a lot, that one. He needs it.”
“He does, absolutely. And he’s yours for the weekend.”
“I can offer you Selina the next time you visit me in exchange.”
“No exchange necessary. He needs to be worked anyway, and as you can see I’ve a new one to work with.”
“I’d like to see more of her, as well.”
She is one of those women who are expert at sounding bored, but I have been a submissive long enough to read the small thrill under that tone of disinterest. Of disinterested interest. I think the Dommes almost have to do these things, playing in this sort of old boys’ club of male Dominants and Masters. The Mistresses have to be tougher. Hide their emotions. They are certainly more cruel than the men.
“I thought you might,” the Master says.
Suddenly, I am shoved roughly to my knees and the blindfold is whipped off. The bright light is glaring and I blink hard, my eyes watering. My heart is hammering, my pulse going at a thousand miles an hour, as if some sort of protection was taken away along with the blindfold, even though I hate the damn things.
“Oh! You didn’t tell me her eyes were green,” Mistress Alexa says. “And such long, long lashes. Even a few freckles across her nose. Dusted in gold.”
She walks in a circle around me, and when she’s circled back around to stand in front of me she bends down, her hand sliding around behind my neck, that firm grip all of the Masters and Mistresses know how to use. It’s that particular touch they subdue you with. Command you with. Such a simple thing, but it works like crazy. She squeezes harder, her hand sliding up into the base of my scalp, where her nails dig in a little as she leans closer, until her face is only inches from mine.
She’s beautiful. Dark hair, almost black, and glittering ice-blue eyes. Her mouth is a cruel cupid’s bow of red lipstick. She’s dressed in red leather: skirt, corset, stiletto boots that come up over her knees. She wears a glass vial on a silver chain around her neck, and whatever is in it is red, as well. I only see it because it swings in my face for a moment before she absently tucks it into her cleavage.
Mistress Alexa stares into my eyes, forcing my gaze to hers. And she begins to explore my body, my responses, by pinching me here and there: at my waist, just beneath my breast, at the side of my neck, the back of my arm. Evil little pinches that don’t last long, but one comes right after another and I’m overloading on pain again. But my body loves this—it’s addictive, being overloaded. As addictive as it is disturbing. I’m soaking wet, my pussy clenching at nothing, wanting to be filled. My clit hard and needy. It’s making me pant, the pain and the desire, and the panting makes me drool a little again—I can’t help it with the damn gag on.
“Oh, poor, poor girl,” Mistress Alexa croons. “Drooling is just not pretty, my pet.” She uses her thumb to stroke the drool from one corner of my stretched lips. She does it again at the other corner, this time her thumb pressing hard into my flesh, her nail scraping as she pushes the moisture away. She does it over and over, and it’s really hurting, but I focus on her lovely blue eyes and manage to hold fairly still.
Finally she straightens. “Her nipples are stiff, her pupils dilated,” she says, her eyes narrowing, her gaze wandering over my body. “She loves it all.”
“Yes,” the Master says, moving around to stand in front of me, and all I can see is the back of his legs, clad in dark trousers. And if I dare—and I do for one brief moment—I can see what a fine, shapely ass he has.
I want to lean in and rest my cheek on that muscular curve. To place a kiss there. Need runs through my system like a shock, like lightning. I try to swallow it down.
“She’s fighting it. Fighting something. I don’t know how far you’ll be able to take her training if you can’t work her past it, Damon. But she does love it. She needs it.”
“She does. Look at this,” he says, bending to swipe his fingers between my thighs.
I gasp, pleasure shivering over my skin.
He holds his hand out to the Mistress, and she strokes one finger over his. She smiles.
“Absolutely soaking wet. It doesn’t surprise me.” Holding my chin in her fingers—one of them still wet with my own juices—she says to me, “You’re turned on by us discussing you, aren’t you, Girl? You like to be objectified. And you love the pain, even if you hate it. But I don’t think you do.” She smiles, then drops my chin.
I want to answer her, but of course I am allowed to do no such thing, even if I weren’t gagged. But she’s right. About everything.
“She’ll get plenty of that here,” the Master says. “Perhaps from you, since you’re staying the weekend, unless you’re too busy with my boy. By the way, I’ll have him sent straight to your room tonight, if you want.”
“That would be wonderful. I’d play with your new toy, but I can only stay tonight, and I really would like Christopher right away.”
“You shall have him.”
“Thank you for your generosity, Damon.”
He nods at her, catches me watching and slaps my cheek. I have to blink the tears away. “Eyes down, Girl, unless instructed otherwise.”
My cheek burns, but shame at having displeased him, at having forgotten myself, burns deeper than the small slap, scalding me to the core. I must remember myself. I was so much better for Master Graham. He called me a “push-button” slave. But Master Graham never challenged my senses the way the Master does. The way the futility of any struggle against this place and the chosen powerlessness of my contract do.
I am so in love with everything about this place.
His attention has turned back to the Mistress as the valet comes into the room, which I know from the toes of his shiny black shoes. My eyes are glued to the Persian carpet.
“Robert, see that Christopher is bathed and sent to Mistress Alexa’s room.”
“Yes, Sir. Right away. Mistress, may I escort you to the east wing?”
“No, Robert—I prefer you see that Christopher is readied for me. Give him a good enema before you bring him.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
I hear her kiss the Master’s cheek. “I may miss dinner tonight. And Christopher may not be able to sit down for a week.”
“Of course.”
“Don’t sound so amused.”
“Alexa, darling, we are always amused at the thought of you fucking one of my boys with your enormous, harnessed cock all night.”
“I think you need to find some way to amuse yourself, Damon. All work and no play is making you a dull Dom.”
“Hardly, Alexa. But luckily, my work is play.”
“As is mine. And I plan to play very, very hard tonight.”
“So do I.”
She laughs, and I can feel it aimed at me. But I don’t mind. All I can think of, all I can hope, is that he means with me. This makes me wet again. It also terrifies me.
I understand perfectly well that part of what I agreed to when I signed the slave contract was being broken in to a new house, to a new Master. This is going to be very, very hard, as he said. I am shivering all over. Wet. Ready. Wanting whatever cruel lessons he sees fit to dole out. I am ready to be his.
The Master stands in silence as Mistress Alexa’s stiletto heels retreat down the hallway. I don’t know what he’s waiting for. What he plans to do. Of course I don’t. My arms have already begun to ache from being bound for so long. Taking a breath, I try to sink into the ache, but my poor brain is too much all over the place. Everything is too new. I try to roll my shoulders, and there is just enough give to get one tiny roll in before the Master grabs me and shoves me to the floor, onto my side, then rolls me over on my back.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Girl?” he asks. “Did I tell you to move?”
He doesn’t need to raise his voice. Every single thing that comes out of his mouth is a threat.
I don’t dare shake my head. He is so thoroughly intimidating, straddling my body. If only I could tear my gaze from his for a moment to collect myself, but he would never allow it. He stares down at me, his blue eyes burning with a dark fire that looks like banked anger and something else. Something impossible not to recognize: banked desire. He wants me.
My heart leaps, my body thrumming as he continues to stare at me, into me. There are long, breathless moments in which I feel as if I am held suspended in mid-air. In which I swear desire is like a sound wave just out of reach, then a buzzing in the room, then a drumbeat pounding between my thighs.
He takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and I can’t begin to imagine what that means. Then he blinks, leans down and slaps my face—one light smack, then another. He pauses only to take the gag from my mouth, and I have perhaps a single second to press my lips together before he starts slapping my face once more, my left cheek, then the right, harder and harder.
Why do I feel joyous? Maybe it’s because he hasn’t taken his burning gaze from mine. He’s hurting me, but I want the pain. I want to take it for him. To be nothing for him. To be everything. I want it because he is the most wicked sadist I have ever met, which makes my heart trip and tumble. Which makes me need to please him all the more. And something in my chest loosens, opens up like a black chasm lined in silver.
Terrifying.
Yes, please.
Finally he turns me over and drags me on my knees to a small sofa, but I don’t have a moment to see what it looks like—the room is a blur of red velvet and gold damask and God knows what else as he bends me over the sofa, my breasts resting on the seat. I hear him remove his belt, and with the first blow I know he’s doubled it, making a heavy loop of the leather. He hits my poor ass with it, hard and fast. The pain is intense right from the start, and at first I get a nice flood of endorphins, pleasure making me wet, making me need to come. But very quickly he’s hitting me too hard for any of those lovely brain chemicals to help, and it’s simply my unbridled desire to please that enables me to take it.
Anything for him.
I hear his ragged breathing over me as he drops the belt and his fist goes into my hair once more. He pulls me to the floor, onto my back again, and kicks my thighs apart. I watch him through a haze of wonder and pain as he drops the belt and smacks my breasts with his bare hand. My body arches into the pain, into his touch, into the lovely brutality.
Anything for you.
“Do not defy me, Girl.” He places one booted foot on my right shoulder, then reaches down to give my breast another hard slap. “In time—and let’s both hope you’re smart enough—you’ll come to find I have little patience for an unruly slave. You are mine.” He slaps the other breast, the pain making my ears ring. “Mine. I will be sure you never have the opportunity to forget that.”
Yes, please.
He stands there watching me for endless moments. Then he leans down and grabs my jaw in his strong hand. He says in a low tone, almost a murmur, “You are too damn beautiful for your own good. Or maybe for mine.”
Before I can help myself, I shake my head my head the tiniest bit, and he allows me to do it.
“Yes. I don’t know what this means, either.” He stops for a moment, takes a deep breath, purses his lips, then squeezes my jaw harder. “If I asked you—told you—to suck my cock, you would,” he says harshly.
I nod, not knowing what else to do, not knowing what’s going on.
“If I beat you—and I will—you would accept it gratefully. And accept me making you come just as gratefully. But if I kissed you… What would you think of that?”
I take a moment, confused.
“You may speak,” he tells me.
Still, it takes me several long seconds to find my voice. “I would accept it all with utter gratitude and desire, Master,” I whisper.
“Because I am your Master,” he says, rather than asks.
“No,” I tell him. Then more harshly, my heart oddly full, “No, Master!”
Straightening up, he runs a hand through his hair, then takes a step back and sits on the edge of the little sofa, watching me still. After a full minute goes by in which my heart is a small hammer trying to beat its way out of my chest, I hear footsteps behind me. “Robert, leash her and have her taken to the basement. Let my driver work her over after you’ve fed and rested her for a bit. He’s earned a little bonus.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And have Cook send my dinner to my suite.”
“Of course. Anything else, Sir?”
“Leave her in her chains down there tonight.”
“Very good, Sir.”
He’s done with me? Tears burn behind my eyes. Robert pulls me to my feet, loops one of those choke-chain collars onto my neck, snaps a leash onto it, then he leads me back to my room. Unsnapping the carabiner which attaches my cuffs behind my back, he draws my arms to my sides, taking a few moments to massage my shoulders, to check my hands for circulation. Then the leash is removed but the choke-chain stays, like a metallic reminder of my utter submission around my neck, and it feels sacred, somehow.
My mind is whirling, creating a tempest within the floating ether of subspace. He is so, so handsome, the Master, but it goes beyond that. His very darkness draws me, calls out to my own. And what was it he said to me? What could it possibly mean? And then to send me away like that… I have to force myself not to cry. I have never cried so much in my life, and I feel certain this is only the very beginning of a storm of tears the Training House will bring.
Yes, please.
“Stay here,” the valet tells me.
And I do, standing in the middle of the room, trying to breathe through the confusion. After some indeterminable time Robert returns with a tray, which he sets on the floor beside my pallet.
“You have one hour,” he tells me, then he leaves, locking the door behind him.
There are so many thoughts and questions whirring through my brain I can barely stand having to eat—I’d rather lie down on my white pallet and think and dream. But I know better. If I am to withstand the beatings and God knows what else, then I have to eat and rest and stretch. And I do stretch for maybe five minutes before I eat my meal: a small portion of roasted chicken and vegetables, all of it beautifully prepared. There is tea on the tray, and I pour some, longing for milk and sugar, but there is none. I know this about the Training House—about all such formal places—that we are afforded few luxuries, and I had mine with my first meal. No, here the luxuries are in being beautifully bound, harshly punished, having no sense of self or time or meaning beyond what the Masters want us to be. Slave. Girl. Without identity. With no need for it. Yes, to sink into that. To drown in it.
Bring it on.
I lie down on my hard white pallet and close my eyes, although I don’t sleep. My mind is churning with images and memories I don’t want to see, but which I am helpless against, as I am at times.
My mother’s face, so, so pretty, with the red lipstick she always wore, and the scarf around her slender neck. She whispers to me in French. “Je t’aime, ma petite.” This is almost the only thing I can remember about her, I was so young when she died. This and the lilac perfume she wore. I was so little, and yet I had the presence of mind to drag a chair into her closet, to pull one of her sweaters down and keep it in my room, where I slept with it until the scent disappeared.
The day of her funeral I overheard things I probably shouldn’t have—my angry father talking to his lawyer. I was a teenager before I understood his implications that my mother had died while driving home from an assignation with a lover. But my father being who he is, I refuse to judge her for it. We all have to look for love somewhere, don’t we? The Training House is where I am looking.
I can find it here. I can find everything I’ve ever needed here. With him.
The gears in my head instantly switch, and I imagine my exquisite Master’s hands on my body, the things he did to me that first time—the forced squirting. I’ve never felt anything like it, and even remembering it now, I have to squeeze my thighs together, the muscles aching with need.
Maybe the driver will fuck me tonight.
Yes, please.
I don’t even care who he is or how he might do it, how difficult he will make it for me. No, I want him to make it difficult.
I sigh, and the sigh turns into a moan of deep yearning, my body on fire. I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend he is here with me—the driver. But no, it’s the Master, with his finely made hands. His clever, hurting hands. And they are inside me, pumping hard, the pressure building, and oh God, I can’t hold it back!
I bolt upright as the door opens and Robert steps in. He comes toward me quietly, and I am so ashamed of having worked myself up, nearly to orgasm, that I kneel up for him, head bowed, hands behind my back. The loose choke-chain collar is like a weighted sacrament around my neck. It redeems me—a little, at least.
“Very nice,” he says as he pulls my arms farther back, clipping the carabiner onto the cuffs once more, and I realize how sore my shoulders are from being in that position, but I’m hardly going to complain. Then he snaps the leash on, pulls me to my feet and takes me down a narrow flight of stairs.
My head is reeling as I refocus on what is happening. The Master is giving me to someone else. He worked me, and then he was done with me. I feel a little desperate, suddenly. The Master’s beating wasn’t too bad—I’ve had much worse—and I’m a bit of a pain slut so my body can handle it. But there’s something else going on with me. Why should I care that he’s giving me to another man to work tonight? I’m getting more play, which is usually exactly what I want. Being given to another as if I’m merely a thing is one of my thrills, and I just nearly got off imagining this very scenario. But I didn’t want to leave him. To be banished for the whole night, and who knows how much longer. It’s him I really want to fuck me. But it’s impossible, and I’m so worked up the driver will do. Anyone would, at this point, which is, of course, part of their wicked plan. His wicked plan. And it’s as if he’s inside my head, as if he knows exactly how it will all work on me. And oh God, does he know! Exactly.
I’ve just met this man. He is my Master, yes, for the duration of my contract. I don’t need to like him or be attracted to him, not at this level of the kink game. At this point my desires are considered only so they can be used against me, or to please those Masters and Mistresses who play with me. But I am attracted. Ridiculously. And the shadows in his eyes only make him more intriguing. Perhaps that’s the problem.
It will be a problem, because he will probably always be denied me.
Fuck.
If this were the normal world—and it’s far, far from normal—I would flirt with him, try to gain his attention, do what I could to get him to talk to me. Do what I could to get him into my bed. I’m good at that in the vanilla world. I can have almost anyone I want, male or female, and that’s not ego talking—it’s simply the truth. But none of these things make any difference here. Which is one of the attractions.
It doesn’t matter what you do now.
I comfort myself with this thought, the same idea of having absolutely no control that goes through my mind a dozen times a day. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. It’s not supposed to. The only problem is that, for some inexplicable reason, it does. This is a brand of mind fuck I wasn’t prepared for.
The stairs are bare wood, hard beneath my feet, and I can feel the temperature dropping as we go down and step into a narrow hallway. It’s dimly lit, and at the edge of my vision I can see the framed artwork decorating the walls. We pass several closed doors on either side, and as we move past one I hear a muffled scream. But I hardly have time to think about it before we turn into one of the rooms and the door shuts behind us.
It’s a simple room in terms of the lushness of the house upstairs. Bare wood floors, although they are gorgeously polished. The furnishings down here are still Victorian in style—a dark green velvet sofa flanked by two large brown leather chairs with high backs, an ottoman in front of each. But this is the Training House, so of course there is a long table against one wall covered in brown leather or vinyl, a spanking bench to one side, upholstered to match. A spreader bar hung with leather cuffs dangles from the ceiling, and there is an open armoire holding floggers, paddles, lengths of chain, other implements. I don’t have time to make it all out before someone comes in behind us—the Master’s driver, I imagine from the heavy, masculine footsteps.
“I just got the message. How very nice.”
He has a harsh Cockney accent, which seems incredibly sinister for reasons I can’t explain to myself.
The driver moves past us, and as he settles into one of the wing chairs, I can see he’s a large man—tall and beefy. He looks as much like a bodyguard as he does anyone’s driver. He probably is. He’s wearing a dark blue suit that makes me think of a Mafia hit man. And of course, me being me, this makes me weak with both fear and desire. He’s handsome in a sort of raw way—a square jaw, a cruel line of a mouth, brown stubble on his nearly shaved head. His hands are enormous.
“She’s down here until morning with you, Gilby. Do let her sleep a bit, but chained and on the floor.”
The big man smiles. “Master Damon’s standard orders down here. I’ll see that she’s taken care of.”
Robert takes the handle of my leash and presses it between my lips, and I know to take it in my teeth. He walks from the room and shuts the door behind him, and I am left with the Master’s driver. Gilby. And although I feel certain the Master will use me more roughly than anyone else in his household, this man’s size intimidates me. The fact that I have no idea what he’ll want to do to me intimidates me. And we are in the basement of the house, with no one to see. Just this stranger and I, and another stranger screaming down the hall. What a madhouse this is. What kind of man would work at a place like this?
I am restless, wondering, beginning to overanalyze everything, knowing I will never have the answers I seek. I am not supposed to know anything, to be able to really guess. That’s all part of it. I know that. It’s one of the things I must learn to give myself over to, but that’s the hard part for me, no matter how badly I want it. I make an effort to center myself, to sink into the situation, rather than disassociate from it, which is the natural reaction for any human being. But we are not just “anyone,” those of us who sign the slave contracts. Who agree to live in the madhouse.
For a long time—seemingly forever, but it must go on for fifteen minutes—Gilby leaves me standing in front of him, simply watching me. Crossing one ankle over his knee, he taps his fingers on the arm of the leather chair, but I know better than to glance at his hand. I’ve passed these tests before. And failed just as many. I keep my gaze trained on the floor, but apparently that’s not good enough.
“What are you staring at, Girl?” he growls. “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s impolite? Especially in the Master’s house. Bad Girl.”
He gets to his feet, a wall of a man in front of me, and my stomach drops. I have three seconds to be scared out of my mind before he scoops me up and sits me on the edge of the padded table, where he removes my cuffs. My poor shoulders and arms are still aching, and my mouth is feeling the strain of holding the leash between my teeth, but that is not my main concern. No, it’s him, this enormous man with the wicked expression and unknown desires. He places his beefy hands on my shoulders, and I pull in a gasping breath. But to my utter surprise, he begins to massage my arms, my shoulders, my hands—a lovely, deep massage that makes my sore muscles sigh in pleasure, which I don’t dare do myself. It’s unsettling, this little moment of kindness. I don’t know what to do with it. I look up to him in gratitude. Catching his gaze, I see right away that this was a mistake, and the slap comes hard and fast, the leash flying from my mouth. My cheek burns, and my gaze goes to my lap.
“Damn right, Girl,” he says. “You don’t look at me, you don’t talk to me, unless I tell you to. And no matter what I do to you, there’s no screaming, hear me? Not a peep out of you, not even a moan of pleasure.” He gathers both my breasts in his hands and squeezes hard. “There will be pleasure, if only because you’re such a little pain slut, I can tell. And you’ll like it when I fuck your ass. You’ll like it and you’ll want to scream, little slut.”
Je t’aime, ma petite, my mind madly translates.
He leans in closer, until his breath is warm on my cheek. He whispers, “I have a huge cock. No lie. No bragging. It’ll make you want to scream when I work it into your dainty little ass.”
Oh yes. Just like my fantasy upstairs in my room.
I want to squirm on the table, his words making me shiver in lustful anticipation. In anticipation of being stretched until I tear, maybe. In anticipation of showing him how much I can take. I shouldn’t be so proud, but I am. I also know this place will work the pride right out of me.
His hand darts out and he grabs my right breast in a painful grip, using it to pull me down onto the table, then his rough, hurting hands are on my waist, turning me over onto my stomach, then pulling me up onto hands and knees. By the time my ass is raised in the air I am wet with wanting and ready to sob.
His hand goes back to my breast and he pinches the nipple so hard I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. He is a beast of a man—I’ve never met anyone of his size and strength—and this doesn’t bode well for my poor ass.
Yes, please.
My mind is emptying out, the analytical side gone, completely shut down. And I’m grateful for it. Grateful to him.
“You love it, don’t you, little slut?” he asks.
I want to answer that I do. But his hand slips between my thighs and finds my cunt slick with need.
“Ah, yes. You fucking love it.”
Pinching my clit, he pulls on it, elongating it, and pleasure whispers over my skin, my pussy clenching. Empty. Unconsciously, I arch my hips and he pulls his hand back.
He clucks his tongue. “You really should not have done that, slut.” He shoves my cheek down onto the table, and I breathe in the leather along with my fear. “Stay.”
My mind is tumbling into that dark place I go sometimes. A place where everything sort of fades away, even the fear and pleasure of the moment, because I’m too scared to even begin to imagine what is about to happen. But I don’t have long to wait, suspended in the emptiness that has become my mind. I can feel the heat of his big body at my side, then his hands prying my pussy lips apart, holding them wide. Something solid presses against my waiting hole, and I don’t know what it is, except that it’s big. Automatically, I widen my thighs.
“Good slut,” he murmurs as he begins to work the solid thing into me.
And God, it really is huge, whatever it is—big and smooth and I think it’s made of wood. I’m soaking wet and growing wetter by the moment, but it’s too big for me, I’m sure of it.
I start to cry a little, trying to swallow the tears down, squeezing my eyes shut tight. I hate to fail.
He shoves harder, and it feels like my insides are burning, the tissues stretching impossibly. And it’s a huge turn-on, pleasure and pain and even the tears. Maybe more so because of the tears. Yes—I know it’s true. I love the tears as much as the Master does.
“Come on. You can take it. Don’t make him pull out the lube or you’ll pay for it later, Girl.”
I open my eyes to find the Master sitting in a chair across from me, his legs crossed, his hands steepled, his dark blue eyes glittering, a cruel smile on his exquisite mouth. And it is as if my body, my mind, explode in pleasure. I’m so overcome I nearly speak to beg him to stay.
I inhale, try to let my body go loose as I exhale, then do it again. And Gilby works the damn object—whatever it is—into my dripping cunt. With his other hand he grips my hip and begins to rock me onto it, back and forth, slowly at first, then as my body becomes accustomed to the thing, harder, faster, until he really is fucking me with this enormous makeshift dildo as the Master watches, and this is probably the hottest moment of my life. Until the Master gets up and approaches me, and my pussy weeps with desire.
He grabs my jaw in his strong hand, hard enough to hurt, forces my mouth open and presses three fingers inside.
“Suck, Girl,” he demands.
I do it greedily, savoring his fingers, licking the tips, sucking hard, sliding my mouth up and down until my jaw aches with the effort. Until I’m crying again, the tears washing over my cheeks, over his hand. He is fucking my mouth as Gilby fucks my aching, hungry cunt with the rigid object, and I no longer even care what it is.
Soon I need to come so badly, so badly, but I don’t have permission. More tears.
“Good slut,” Gilby says, the roughness of desire low in his throat. “You fucking hold it back. You don’t get to come while I’m in your little cunt. Maybe when I’m in your ass. If you please me enough. You’d better hope you can take it. That you can fuck me with your tight ass the way you’re fucking this billy club with your tight cunt.”
My head comes up, the Master’s fingers slipping from my mouth, and I know right away what I’ve done. He shoves my face back down onto the table, slamming my cheek into the leather surface. He slaps my cheek hard, one burning strike before he reaches under me and takes one nipple in his fingers and twists it until I have to bite back a scream. Yet at the same time my sore, battered pussy opens more for the club, and I want it. I am grateful for it.
“Didn’t know it was a billy club?” Gilby asks with a small chuckle. “But you like it, little slut. You fucking love it. Now fuck it real good for Gilby. Show your Master how much you like it.”
His hands on me go still, and I begin to move my hips, working my pussy down onto the wooden shaft, sliding up, then down again. I try to take as much as I can into me, biting back my climax as the Master leans over me, his hold on my poor nipple tight and hurting while his other hand crushes my cheek to the table, controlling me utterly. And I breathe him in, and oh God, I almost come then, but I don’t. I am reveling in knowing I’m doing what I’m told. That I am a good Girl.
There is something of the performer in me as I imagine the expression on his face, and Gilby’s. As I think of how I must look, my body bucking and plunging onto the wooden club. The way the lips of my pussy must be plump and pink around the thick shaft, everything slick with my juices. I’m a little too in love with the idea, maybe, but I hear the Master’s quiet grunt of approval as he presses my face harder into the leather-covered table. Pleasure ripples through my system at this tacit approval, driving me on. But soon it seems like an impossible task to hold myself back from coming, and I am afraid. About to come. Afraid.
Gilby’s big hand grips my hip, stopping my motion, and he pulls the billy club from my body.
“Still,” the Master commands me.
I hear Gilby moving around as my heart thunders, my poor, abused, too-empty cunt aching. Wanting. It’s only a few moments before he returns. The Master releases my tortured nipple and takes a step back before Gilby shoves me down onto the table, then pulls me so my legs hang off the edge. Very quickly he binds me to the table with rope, the slick little knots holding my legs spread wide, bound to the table legs. He does the same to my arms, the ropes tight around my wrists. My legs are shaking, but the ropes and the table take care of my unsteadiness. The choke-chain helps in its own strange way too.
I love this about being restrained—it’s as if I am being held safely in the arms of the ropes or the chains or the cuffs. Or Saran Wrap or bondage tape, or whatever it is anyone binds me with. It calms me. I take in a breath, try to relax as I push it out, the way Master Graham taught me. It seems like a thousand years ago, even though it’s only been a little over a year since he began training me.
Is it terrible that I can barely think of him already? That his memory is fading in the wake of the unusual and extreme conditions of the Training House, and my fascination with the beautiful Master? As I wait for whatever the cruel Gilby will do to me next?
Cruel. And crude. Yet elegantly so, in this fantastical setting. Yes, elegantly crude. I can still hardly believe it’s all real.
But Gilby’s voice brings me back to the moment.
“My fat dick is going into your ass soon enough, little slut. Into that sweet pink hole. It’s waiting for me to fill it. To fuck you until you can’t help but scream, despite the fact that I’ve told you not to. Think about that, Girl.”
And I do, even though the Master grabs my face in both his hands and squats down to look into my eyes, which is mesmerizing and beautiful and nearly unbearable. It makes my throat hurt to swallow the sobs—sobs that build and swell simply because his gaze is locked on mine, because even in this state of heavy subspace and rawness, I see something just as raw in his blue eyes, and it makes my heart ache.
Gilby begins to cane me, and it fucking hurts. I can tell it’s Lucite or some other man-made material. I feel the welts coming right up on my skin, the sting unbelievably sharp. He goes at the tender flesh of my ass cheeks, down the backs of my thighs, my calves, which would make me dance in my bonds if there were any give to them. But there’s not. There is no escape from the pain.
There’s no escape.
The thought makes me smile through the pain—a pain so vicious I’m not sure I can stand it. Yet at the same time my brain is pumping out endorphins and dopamine and God knows what else—and all the more because the Master is there with me, holding me, looking into my eyes as it’s happening, which is some beautiful mind fuck in itself. I’m dizzy and my traitorous pussy is weeping with desire. And all I want is for Gilby to keep caning me, to fuck my ass, no matter how huge he might be. To tear me apart while the Master watches.
When the caning stops and I hear the faint snick of a zipper, I know it’s time.