July 2015

It’s been over a month since I was given to him. Almost six weeks of my life has been spent in the dark. With the only light being him.

“This is what you were born to do,” he murmurs with conviction, with emotion, with everything he thinks I need. Those are the same things I now covet. When I’m alone in my room. When he’s out somewhere, doing God knows what, it’s him I think about. It’s our time here in this darkened room that reminds me my life isn’t what I’d planned it to be. In this chilly space, where it’s me and him, I’m reminded that I was stolen. We’re not a couple. Only Master and slave.

There are things he does to me that make me feel. I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole and now I wish his actions meant more. He hides it so well. The emotion and affection. It’s there beneath a cool exterior.

The mask he wears reminds me of a predator.

A wolf.

The color of a raven’s feathers—black as night, with a splash of crimson which could be the blood he draws from the lashes on my body. There’s a deep-rooted anger in his dark eyes, but it’s not aimed at me. Even though he enjoys taking it out on me, he never hurts me like I’ve heard the other trainers do to the girls.

Every time I meet his dark gaze, something human flickers behind it.

An outsider may think I’m crazy, and yes, I might be, but there’s something caring about him. There have been many times in my training when he could have hurt me more than he has. But he’s been…gentle. I suppose to most what I’ve been through is far from gentle. Does it make me a masochist to enjoy my caning? Does it make me crazy to enjoy when he makes me come after he’s bound me and tortured my nipples and clit with clamps? Perhaps, but for my Wolfe, I’ll do anything.

“Do you understand me?” he growls in my ear, but I don’t respond. Like an animal, a real living and breathing feral dog. He’s in my cage, and given half the chance, I know he’ll devour me.

Before I was brought here, I never understood how women could want men to claim them. I didn’t think there was anything sexy about it, but being claimed and owned by him makes me realize I want it. Suddenly, my leash is tugged, and I’m pulled to my feet.

“Look at me.” The order renders me speechless. I know I must obey, so I do.

Our eyes lock in a searing gaze. There’s nothing I can do but stare into dark orbs that remind me of cocoa. Such a conflicting range of feelings and emotions sweeps across the air between us like a tangible force—living and breathing between us.

“Do you know what you are?” he hisses, even though I feel no anger in the words. Just confusion, pain, and a deep-rooted agony that’s stifling.

“Yes, Sir, I’m a slave.” The words are ingrained inside me, deep in the core of my very being.

He leans in and my heart skitters. “Good girl,” he murmurs, allowing his hot breath to fan over my ear. There’s an innate need in his voice. Yes, men talk to me with desire and lust in their tone, but this…there’s something different about him. The maelstrom of emotion that drips from his words hangs heavily in the air.

The first time he stalked into my room and laid his eyes on me, there was an innate connection between us. I noticed it, he did too, and our sessions took on a new set of rules.

As we spent our days together, I learned more about this predator. I’ve looked into his dark, anguish filled eyes and recognized the pain and guilt, but what stands out more than anything is the passion.

There was one poignant moment in our journey. When I knew he wanted more than we’d ever be allowed to have—the moment I bled, and he broke. Now I find myself at his mercy once more, waiting for the pain.

He rounds me, and the heat of his chest on my back has me melting into his body.

I can’t see his face, but I can feel him. As if he’s rooted within me. Even though what we have may be detrimental, lethal, there’s no denying it. He is my tormentor, my savior, my lover. And I’m his forbidden fruit. I belong to Wolfe when no one is around. I am owned.

He tugs the leash and walks into the room where we have our training. A room that has seen so many tears, heard so many words thrown in anger and hatred. He pulls me onto a bench I’ve never seen before, dragging me from the memories.

He binds me to the black leather bench in silence. My feet are cuffed to either side and my hands are bound in front of me. Face down on the scented leather, I wait.

The silence always comes before the pain.

The calm before the storm.

That’s what he’s taught me.

“Close your eyes, little one.” This is our routine. He tells me not to look when he’s about to do something difficult. Harsh even. When I know blood will be spilled, he tells me to shut my “pretty green eyes.” And I do. My God, I do. The agony I know will follow is going to leave me lacerated.

A gentle feathering against my skin startles me, then the thin, sheer material I was wearing is gone. Another feather light touch and then it starts. A whip cuts into me harshly. I’ve been spanked, paddled, and flogged, but this sends me into another dimension. The sound that catapults from me is inhuman.

Another bite into my skin and another.

Whack! Whack!

Liquid oozes down my back. I can feel it trickling down like syrup drizzled over sweet treats. Nothing could ever prepare a person for something like this.

The agony. The pain. The torment.

But I don’t beg for reprieve, I take it like he taught me. All I feel are the silent, salty emotions racing down my cheeks. Every time he does this—that we do this—it’s different. The mood shifts, the emotions choke me. I want this, but only because it’s him. I need this, because he’s the one delivering the blows. And as my tears fall, they drip like a poison. But they won’t kill me, as much as I wish they would, I’m still here. I’m still falling for a man who hurts me. And with every lash, with every sting, he soothes me where I need it most. He appeases my soul.

“Good girl. I’m proud of you,” he murmurs, soft lips on mine. Those words. They seep into the wounds now scorching my back. He unlatches me, and I’m freed from my confines. Every move I make feels as if my skin is on fire. This isn’t pain, this is so much more, so much worse. And as I meet my tormentor’s stare, I realize this has hurt him as much as it did me. He doesn’t realize how much his eyes tell me. How much they convey all the emotion he stores behind the mask. It’s clear as day. Love.

I want to tell him to steal me away. I want to say so much in that moment, but I don’t. We just stare each other down for a long while.

“You did well today, little one.” His soothing tone eases the ache on my back. “Stay down, I need to see to these so they don’t scar.” He pushes me down roughly, and I obey. The cold balm he rubs into my wounds stings, but it also adds a sense of serenity. “Time to get some sleep, pet. You’ll be busy tomorrow,” he says and I can hear the pain in his words. Even though they calm me in their own way, there’s one confession I want from him which never comes.

I want to ask more questions, but I know I’ll never get my answers because that’s not what he can offer me.