Chapter Four
There is no preamble. No warning. Just his thick fingers sliding into my cunt, then swiping the moisture back and onto my anus, pushing briefly inside. Then his huge hands part my ass cheeks and his condom-clad cock is at the entrance, the swollen head enormous against that small, pink pucker.
Oh God.
But God can’t help me now. No one can.
No one can help you.
My body goes loose and warm, and I tumble into those words.
Yes.
The Master smooths his palms over my cheeks, and his touch is unbelievably gentle, which only makes me expect something far worse. From him. From Gilby. But for several moments in which I feel as if time is suspended, nothing more happens. Just Gilby’s big cock resting against my ass, and the Master’s hands stroking my face in a way that makes me begin to cry again very softly.
Gilby pushes in, slowly at first, which surprises me, until he’s past that first tight ring of muscle. I do my breathing, but he’s so damn big I know ultimately it will be no use.
I cry a little more when the Master releases my face. If I blink I can see that he is still standing close by, which makes my heart soar. It’s Gilby fucking my ass, but it’s the Master’s presence that commands me. It’s the Master I am falling in love with.
“Oh, yeah,” Gilby mutters. “The little slut is tight as a virgin. I like it tight. It means it’ll hurt all the more. It means it’ll make you want to scream, slut. My fat cock will make you need to. Let’s take care of that.”
He clamps a hand over my mouth and shoves his huge cock into my ass, driving it in all at once. I make some rough noise deep in my throat as my insides burn, but it only makes him push deeper, harder, until it’s like a heavy drumbeat pounding my body from the inside out. He starts a jabbing, punishing stroke, and as soon he gets his rhythm, he begins caning my thighs again. There’s too much going on and I can’t process it all—pain and pain and the pleasure of being abused this way and the even greater pleasure in being watched by the Master, whom I worship already. The pleasure of having my ass fucked by the biggest cock I’ve ever felt in my life, and Jesus, I’m going to come, or maybe pass out, or maybe both.
His hand over my mouth is cutting off my air a bit, but I love it, my head light as he fucks me, as he hits my poor, tender flesh with the cane, creating welts upon welts. And God, I love being fucked this way, in my sore ass, sore inside and out. I’m overloading like mad, my head spinning, my cunt contracting, pleasure deep inside me, shimmering outward, like some arc of electricity, like light itself. I feel sensation shining through my body, as if I am translucent. As if I could light up the sky. And my orgasm is some screaming animal, loosed from its cage, as my ass tightens on his plunging flesh. I scream beneath his hand, then everything goes black.
When I come to, he’s untied me and I’m on my back on the table. My insides hurt. So does my skin. But my brain is floating, weak with pleasure and that strange, almost detached love I feel for anyone who plays me well, who can make me lose myself like this.
Blinking, I slowly realize a fire has been built in the hearth—I can hear its crackle, feel its heat. I dare to glance around, and see the Master’s wide back, and I realize there is nothing detached about the love I feel for him at this moment. Nothing.
Save me.
Punish me.
Love me.
I bite the inside of my lip hard, needing the pain to carry me away, but it doesn’t work.
Fuck.
The Master is on the phone. Gilby is nowhere in sight.
“Send the two Girls,” he says into his cell phone. “We’re done with her for the moment.”
For the moment? Does that mean there will be more later? I don’t think I can take more, but I want it anyway. I want it all, whatever he wants to give me. Gifts of pleasure. Gifts of pain. I am so selfish.
Lying on the table, I am luxuriating in the aftershocks of orgasm and pain and his presence in the room. I want to keep my eyes on his strong back, on the fabric of his linen dress shirt stretching over the hard muscle and broad shoulders, but I’m starting to dream a little. Or is it a memory?
I’ve never really had a boyfriend. Not really. My first “relationship” was with Mr. Merrick. After him, when I went to Paris, one of my roommates, a Belgian girl named Arianne, invited me to a kink club. She didn’t really understand what it was, but it didn’t matter. The moment we got there, I did. She left an hour later. I stayed and didn’t come home for two days. I played with some guy—I don’t even remember his name—but it was nothing. A flogging. Nothing, yet everything. After him was Madame Cerrine. I played with her for four months. She tied me up. Flogged me. Caned me. Fucked me with a strap-on. She used a violet wand on me, my first foray into electrical play, which I loved right away.
Her little apartment on the Left Bank is too warm in the summer, but a small breeze comes through the open window, caressing my naked skin as I kneel on the floor. She loves my being on my knees—I’ve hardly stood upright the entire time we’ve been together.
“Again, cherie,” she commands breathlessly.
Bending to do her bidding, I lick her slick cunt, one slow stroke up, then slowly down, pushing my tongue inside her, just the way she likes it. She grasps my hair, pressing my face harder into her fragrant sex, and I love it, love being forced.
I lick fervently, until she shatters, cries out, her pussy convulsing around my seeking tongue. I love the taste of come, male or female, but I swear hers always tastes like perfume smells. I look up, and as always, she looks perfectly put together, her blonde hair in its tight bun, her red Chanel lipstick not even smeared.
She smooths a palm over her perfect updo, then tells me, “Get my wooden paddle and I will give you your reward.”
I fetch it eagerly from its cupboard and bring it to her, my knees rubbing on the carpet. Sitting up, I present the paddle to her as if it’s a gift, and perhaps it is. My gift.
“Come here.”
I lie over her lap, my hands on the floor, my toes bracing my lower body. She is warm against me, her corset stiff in contrast to her soft lap.
“Count now, my darling,” she purrs, and hits me.
“Un!” I cry out in French as she has ordered me to do, the pain making me yell.
She hits me again, and this time I move into it, into the swing of the heavy wood. The impact rumbles through me, pleasure swarming me even as my ass stings. And as she paddles me, harder and harder, she pushes her clever fingers into me, making me come. I am coming and coming, screaming the count.
“Trois! Quatre! Cinq! Six! Sept! Huit! Neuf!” And finally, breathlessly, “Dix!”
She made me love her. They all do. But she wanted to own me, and I wanted to experience. She cried when I left her, but I had to go. And she is nothing now compared to the Master. No one is. My mysterious Master who ignores me for days, and sends me to be abused by someone else.
I wipe the tears as they slip onto my cheeks. All the damn crying! But I can’t help it. It’s one of my favorite and most loathed humiliations.
I hear footsteps, and I watch from the corner of my eye as he leaves the room—I can’t stand to really look. I am empty and filled at the same time. The Master touched me, watched as Gilby fucked me, beat me. I saw the excitement and what I could swear was some sort of adoration in his sapphire gaze. And this idea feeds me—that he is pleased with me. Wants me. But now he’s leaving me once more. I am not so foolish as to expect anything else from this gorgeous, alluring, utterly dominant man with a house full of beautiful slaves.
I want more, and it is a deep, rabid craving that cuts into my insides. But as I said, I’m selfish.
A few minutes later the sisters enter and one of them has gentle hands and the other’s are rough on me, even pinching me here and there and pulling on the chain around my neck. They help me down from the table, steadying me as my head rushes with my post-orgasmic haze, and with the punishment my body has received.
They take me into a bathroom, remove my chain collar and put me into a hot shower, both of them getting in with me and washing me quite thoroughly. I am beyond spent, and still their smooth little hands feel sensual on my skin—that and the warm water as it spills over my sore flesh. Then one of them rubs a bar of soap between my thighs, and it feels so good. She squats down and parts my ass cheeks, washing me there, and my clit begins to pulse once more. I am insatiable. Selfish, as I said. I should be happy with the working-over Gilby gave me, with the Master being a part of it, putting his hands on me. And I am.
But she is rubbing me with the soap again, ass and pussy, then she presses two well-soaped fingers into my ass and begins to pump and turn them, and I am somehow hanging on to the other sister’s neck, my head on her shoulder, my body shaking all over. And that sister pinches my nipples very hard, making me yelp then rock into her cruel hands. I spread my legs a little wider to steady myself as my hurting ass gets worked again. But my body is frankly loving it, needing it. I lower my head, not even caring which sister it is in front of me—the one who will talk to me or the silent one—and I nuzzle her plump breast, feel the nipple come up hard beneath my cheek. Turning my head, I take her succulent, swollen nipple into my mouth, and swirl my tongue over the distended tip. She moans quietly, which tells me this is probably the one who talks to me. And the other girl—the other Girl—is still silently working my ass like mad with her fingers. And with her other hand she invades my cunt, her fingers sinking in deep. I’m soaked again. I can never get enough. I want to come all over her hands. I want to give her my orgasm.
But no, this one I want all for myself.
I arch against her, grinding down onto her fingers, and she stops so suddenly I am rocked off my feet, and the other Girl catches me. She says, “Rinse her off.”
I bite my lip to keep from crying in outrage.
They use the shower sprayer to rinse the soap, being careful to aim the sharp spray at my tortured asshole, then I’m hustled from the big shower stall and roughly dried before they take me into another room—Gilby’s bedroom, from the look of it. There, the sisters fasten my wrists and ankles into pairs of heavy, unforgiving steel cuffs. One holds my hair, giving it a wicked tug, and the other latches a matching steel collar around my neck. It feels so rigid. I feel as if I belong. The sisters quickly clip my cuffs, shackles and collar to short chains attached to some bolts at the foot of his high, wooden bed. I’m on the hard, bare wood floor, and not even a sheet is given me. But it’s warm enough in the room, and I resign myself to my uncomfortable night. I am maybe too tired and worn to care. And still thrumming with the need to come from what the Girls did to me. From what this place is doing to me.
I lean against the footboard, since the chains don’t have enough give for me to lie down, and in moments my head drops to my chest, and I am lost in the hazy realm of dreams.
I think I expected Gilby to wake me and use me again, to beat me, but suddenly it’s morning and he’s nudging me awake with one slippered foot.
“What? You think you get to sleep all damn day, slut?”
Of course no answer is expected and I keep my mouth shut, blinking hard, trying to focus, to wrap my head around the current situation: slumped on the hard wood floor, naked, bruised inside and out. I flex my toes, stretch one leg experimentally. Everything seems to be working, if sore, but the soreness I take great pleasure in. And in thoughts of the Master, of his scent in my nostrils as Gilby fucked my ass.
Need him.
“Smiling?” Gilby says, and I blanch that he saw it. “Don’t worry, there’ll be little enough to smile about later on. Today’s a school day.”
He lets out a harsh chuckle while I wonder what this could possibly mean. The only thing I’m certain about is that any lessons I learn here will be harsh ones. I am terrified. Enchanted. I can hardly wait.
Soft footsteps on the floor and one of the Girls is back. Gilby gives a nod of his chin and she kneels to take me out of the cuffs and shackles, and snaps a leash onto my steel collar. She gets to her feet and when I don’t rise quickly enough, she kicks my leg, and I get up and follow her as she tugs on the leash. We go upstairs and into my room, where she hands me toothbrush and toothpaste, signaling for me to brush my teeth. I obey, using a bottle of water and spitting into the now-clean bucket, which she also motions for me to use to relieve myself. Since all I get are hand gestures, I know this is the silent Girl, so I don’t ask any of the thousand questions that wait at the tip of my tongue, baiting me.
When she turns to start the bath, I notice a second bucket on the floor next to the bathtub, and suddenly I know exactly what is about to happen, even before she bends over to screw the long nozzle onto the faucet. And I blush for some inexplicable reason, as if I have anything left to be embarrassed about. As if this has not been done to me before.
She waves a hand and I step over the side of the bathtub and squat in it, the porcelain cool under my bare feet. Bending to retrieve the empty bucket, she places it in the bottom of the tub, then she parts my ass cheeks and inserts the slim nozzle into my sore anus.
The water is pleasantly warm as it begins to fill me up, then uncomfortable as the pressure builds. I do not want this to happen. I do not want this to happen. But it’s too damn late, and too damn bad. I am here of my own accord, because a larger part of me wants exactly this. Requires it. Yes, even this ultimate humiliation!
I take long, deep breaths, remind myself that everything the Girl is doing to me is at the Master’s direction. But that helps only until she pushes the bucket under me and removes the nozzle. Then there is a single breathless moment where I try to hold it in before my bowels empty into the bucket, and I start to cry. This is no gentle seeping of a tear down my cheek, but horrible, hard sobs. The Girl is unsympathetic. She uses the nozzle to rinse me off, then re-inserts it and begins to fill me up once more. And I hate it, and I hate her, and some completely unreasonable part of me is grateful to her at the same time. For doing what will please the Master. For purifying me for him. For the degradation, which I claim to hate but which I also secretly love. Maybe because it opens me up in this way. Because I am utterly helpless against it—the humiliation and the tears and shitting into a goddamn bucket. But I don’t fight it. Why would I? I am exactly where I want to be. Some part of me stands back and screams that I’ve lost my mind, yet at the same time I feel more sane and centered than I have in my entire life.
Three more times she fills me up and I empty into the bucket. Afterward, I’m exhausted. She runs the bath, then quickly and thoroughly bathes me, hands me a towel, and I dry myself. She shoves me toward my pallet, and I lie down and close my eyes as I hear her pad from the room. I want to sleep. But too soon she is back with a tray and I have to sit up.
“You must be hungry,” she says, making my heart leap.
It’s the other Girl!
I look at her carefully, making a quick but thorough visual inspection, and I see she has a small mole over her left breast, just beneath the brand. I don’t think her sister has one.
“Yes, starving,” I say, realizing only then that it’s true.
“Better hurry. It’s a school day,” she says, as if everyone knows about this but me.
“What is it, the school?” I ask, pouring a little of the rare milk I’ve been given for the first time in days into the bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with gold raisins.
“Uh-uh. You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” She frowns at me. “Ah, I see you did. Silly Girl.”
“Am I going right after breakfast?”
“Isn’t that always when we go to school?”
She smiles a little, but I know I’m not in on the joke.
I take a few sips of hot tea, and it feels lovely. Soothing. I am too nervous to ask her more about school. Maybe I don’t want to know.
“Have you ever been worked by Gilby?” I ask instead, wondering if she will answer.
“Of course. He was the one who brought us here.”
“What?” I don’t know why I feel shocked by this—maybe it’s simply my fragile state after the working I’ve had—but I do.
“He was my lover. My Dom. But he likes to share his submissives. When he found out I had a kinky sister, well, we were his fondest wet dream.” Her brows draw together for a moment as she takes a blueberry from the fruit bowl on my tray. She pops it into her mouth. “He was hard on me. He was the one who made me see I need it. He’s very good. But he’s not the Master.”
She looks up at me, and her gray eyes are gleaming with what I recognize as that hint of subspace we all carry when we are well-played. It’s then I notice the bruises on her thighs. Am I so in my own head, my own experience, that I failed to see her beautiful marks?
She catches me looking and smiles a small, Mona Lisa smile as she runs her hands over her bruises and welts, but she doesn’t mention them. There’s no need to. We both understand. It’s happiness for people like us. And I smile back, my own mysterious smile, because we are both freaks, and we know it. We glory in it. We are all of us freaks here. A lovely shiver of belonging runs through me, like a song in my veins.
Yes.
“This is ultimately a very small world we exist in,” she continues. “I’ve been given to Masters and Mistresses from all over the world, they’ve taken me places, to other houses in Europe, one in Bali, one just outside of Tokyo. It makes me know my small place in it all.”
“I think I know what you mean.”
She shakes her head. “This is your first time in this sort of environment. You don’t even know the half of it.”
Some small part of my ego wants to argue the point, but I don’t do it. How would I know? Nothing can truly prepare you for this kind of formal place. For being a slave in the deepest sense. I understand I am at the very beginning of this journey. And isn’t a big part of it about learning to let ego go and simply be? Isn’t that what I’m looking for? To be forced out of my busy, busy brain, to be made to be present?
I nod. “I think I’ve only touched the tiniest tip of experience. I know that as much as I can.”
Her smile lights up her face. She is so lovely, and my body aches for her touch again. “You’re a philosopher, like me. It gets us in trouble, you know. But we like that.” Pausing, she bites her lip for a moment before releasing the plush, pink flesh. “It won’t serve you well in the schoolroom.”
I nod. “Will the Master be there?” And suddenly my heart is hammering with hope, my sex pounding with need for him.
She picks up the tray and stands, leaving me disappointed, anxious. “Brush your teeth and empty your bladder again. Someone will be back for you.”
I watch her long, brown hair swaying around the curve of her hips as she leaves the room, holding my breath until I hear the lock turn, allowing me to exhale.
The schoolroom.
Gorgeously threatening words, simply because the idea has been presented to me that way all morning. If only I knew he would be there. I need to feel his demanding hands on my flesh, to hear his voice. To breathe him in. But that will happen only when he decides, and right now I hate that aspect of my powerlessness.
I take a breath of acceptance and do as I’m told—of course I do. But the whole time I am wondering what this school will be like, what might happen to me there. I flash back to the last days of summer before starting kindergarten. I felt so entirely alone, a sad thing for a five-year-old. But my beautiful French mother had died the year before, and my father, an American, had moved me from my early childhood home in Paris to his grand home in New York. There was no one but the new nanny to take me to my first day at school. It felt a bit like being thrown from a ledge. Perhaps that’s why I now seek the relative safety of being bound, being made to do things that are beyond my control. I need to go back to those feelings of powerlessness in the world in a way in which I feel protected. In which I make that choice.
I make that choice.
Yes. Everything is different now. I choose even the fear and the isolation. My pulse calms a bit as I breathe in that idea, as I try to banish thoughts of kindergarten and my father from my mind.
A few minutes later a man I’ve never seen before—another slave wearing nothing but a shining collar and a halo of long, curling blond hair—comes in and grins at me.
“I’m here to take you to school.”
The words themselves make me shiver with dread, and I find myself clenching and unclenching my fisted hands. Enough anticipation has been built up to make me sink into subspace—into slave space—and my mind is emptying out so fast I barely have time to be alarmed. The fear is all in my body, a purely physical response.
Go.
Don’t go.
But of course I am going.