I cry and curl my body inwards, an upright fetal position as I scan his leather shoes, pacing in front of me.
Lowering down, he professes, “Frankly, your sense of loyalty is fucked.”
“Then why don’t you just kill me now?” I blurt out carelessly. “Just get it over with.”
“Because that would be too easy,” he brags, stroking my cheek and offering up a genuine smile, “Besides, Boston loves you. If he loves you, then I love you,” he elaborates tenderly, “And we must repair the damage that exists within your girl.”
“… How can you love something you hate?”
“You stop being so shallow. Hate is an internal reflection of our fears, nothing more. You give it far more power than it deserves.”
“I hate myself though…” I challenge as Sal rises up.
“You don’t think I know that?” Dom boasts, enlightening my bleak world with all that I cannot see. “Little girl, I know many things…” he alleges with a smirk, “But I also know you love Sal more than the air in your lungs and the blood in your veins. If you didn’t, you would have killed him by now—but you can’t.”
I shake my head desperate for the clamoring to stop.
“You have had so many opportunities to take Sal out of the game, and you never did.”
“Because I am weak and I failed,” I contest with a hint of sarcasm. “They are going to come kill me.”
“You think either one of us would ever let that happen?” he questions, clutching my hands in his. “You really do not know how to trust, do you?”
“I trust I love one,” I sass flagrantly, “Master Salvatore…”
“Because you listened to your intuition and believed with everything you had that killing him was never the right thing to do,” he justifies my actions of the past. “Regardless of anything else, you are not some vindictive bitch on a mission.”
“I am not sure what I am anymore…” I hysterically break and bend over into our anchored hands. “If you think you can save me…from what your own father made me—then you go right ahead and you try, but when you fail and you put the bullet in my brain just know it’s going straight through to his heart.”
“Then you take my hands and we figure that out together,” he offers resilient and without falter. “But you do not play these sparring games with my Boston any longer.”
Flicking my eyes to his, I accept his hand and roll up. He stomps out his smoke and removes my sweatshirt. His hands drop to my boxers and he yanks them down. “When you are ready, present to your Masters…”
Humiliated by his actions, I am small—so small. The little girl being punished for throwing dirt in his slave’s face. “… Are you going to punish me?”
“Yes, we are going to discipline you for the transgressions against us.”
Embarrassed by my own naked flesh in front of these men, I turn the tides of my current. No longer able to use my body as a weapon against them, my gig is up. I am over and through. The world his father brought me to; Dom carries my girl away from it all. “And then what?”
“We start over. We begin again. And we practice until you get it perfect,” he instructs with a succinct compassion. “You must be disciplined in training or be disciplined to behave. There is no in between.”
“… And the triggers in my head?”
“We will get them out,” he assures, “Every last one of them…but you must have faith and trust.”
“I hate how he imposes with this confidence, bringing me to my knees.”
“Who?”
“… Boston.”
“Then let me give it to you,” he prompts with an invitation. “I trained him, and I can train you,” Dom says, winking and smiling. “My offer is on the table. I won the auction. All you have to do is come home with me tomorrow.”
Closing my eyes, I whisper, “Thank you, Sir.”
Removing his dress shirt, Sal glances over his shoulder. His chiseled guns shimmer in the moonlight as our eyes catch and I collect the broken pieces of the man I held at the cemetery. He is here. This is him.
And I found Sal.
IRIS
We are like a golden nest, picked apart, and tattered and torn. I rush to drown the chicks and you set fire to the straw, burning it to ash.
We are maniacal monsters, Sal and I.
In the streams of light, I lower to my knees and pray as he watches on. The voices in my head are chaotic and vile with a high-pitched wail of torment, screaming in my siren song. But in the breaks, I hear a peaceful lament, begging for me to come home.
I have shunned this quiescent mediation my whole life—scoffed at it, begged for desperate abandon, and borrowed to get out of debt. The notions of tranquility in my mind do not exist when you are wretched and unwelcome there.
The Masters wait for me. I am their muse, triumphant in my wicked glory and prepared for the punishment they shall bring.
I do not deserve such things.
Sal says I am like a raging ocean, churning with the anticipatory attack. Anything or anyone that comes near my waters risks submerging and disappearing, never to return. I break on the sand where his flame hits my tide and I fuel his rage and our circling dance whirls out of control.
We are perilous.
We are violent.
Sal and I are caged.
I have so much hurt inside of me that skirts the edge of self-harm. I sabotage myself at every corner. If I can fail, I will—because it is easier to accept.
It is easier to be a bad girl.
Rising up, I take one step closer to an unknown future and an unrecognizable world. The scandalous, sexy Masters await on either side of the wooden partition where the altar used to reside. Like their wicked deviant bride, I stroll up the aisle to a ritualistic ceremony of my taking.
The punishment—our vows.
Our confession of sins—the kiss of the holy union.
I do not deserve such things.
The macabre reality bites at the soles of my feet as I walk through the shattered bits. I must trust; they will provide. If shards puncture my skin, they will remove them. If evil threatens me, they will remove them, too.
I find the courage to look up and smile at Sal, waiting for me. He holds out his hand with a welcoming I do not expect. His playful, charming nature is always so full of surprises.
I misdirect my gaze and glance down when I notice my naked body. My porcelain skin and the pace of my breath beneath my breasts. I allowed them to use me for the party.
What do I care?
I need to wiped, rewired, and reprogrammed as even I know how messed up I am. These two Masters are more than capable of rebuilding the psyche, and I am certain they expect my own shortcomings at some point. I will embrace the pain, knowing in doing so they will bring me pleasure. My efforts will not go unnoticed.
The march tingles my insides with the anticipation they bring in their command. They will serve my body with a devotion unlike any other if I stop fighting.
Gazing at Sal, Dom opens his arm to greet me as well. Slipping my hands into theirs, I close my eyes and find my silent prayer.
I do not deserve such things.
But I am trained for this.
She is still in play.
And as long as I am here, the haunting of Mrs. Raniero is still in play.
SAL
I swear her determination is like a bitch with a bone. I have been told countless times that I am the same way and this alone makes us the perfect pair. I understand all she wants to do is run away, but I also contend that is due to how broken she actually is.
We are taught as Doms to break the girl and a general obsession exists around this whole theory. But as I have seen so many times before—this girl doesn’t need any more trauma. What she really needs—what they all need—is someone to put them back together.
The problem is it’s easier to break the girl down completely and rebuild her to your liking, a nice custom fit. The issue with this though is the loopholes tha
t inevitably surface and the bones are never as strong as they once were. She will end up going off the deep end when you least fucking expect it—whether she cheats, or shoots up, or slices up her legs, or drowns herself in a vat of alcohol.
Breaks are brittle and I like tough girls. The ones that come back from hell and fight their way through the shit. If the Dom has the patience and the resilience, better to jump headfirst through all her junk and smooth out all the issues one by one.
The kicker is it’s a hell of a lot harder on the startup. Finding all the pieces to glue the porcelain dolls back together is like a great scavenger hunt that can take years. It damn sure isn’t for the weak or those stuck on a loop of instant gratification. The great thing is I don’t actually like anything easy. Hard challenges are always the fucking sweet ones. And if you gotta fight for it even better.
Just like the girl taking my hand.
Iris is starving for attention. I knew that the first time I met her—when I cracked open her file on my desk. Too many red flags sounded warnings to be careful. I knew she was dangerous then. I took the case anyway because I couldn’t say no.
I am sure Chance Ballister believed my research would be a temporary, eager grunt training to impress his superiors. But there was always something else about this girl.
And ya, I got addicted.
For better or worse, I used the system because that is what I do. Little did I know that our relationship the first year would borderline on a head fuck of abuse. Iris set off every trigger I ever had and she doesn’t even know.
Dom growls low, “Where do you want to do this, Boston?”
“Here,” I say, letting go of her hand and shaking his. I cannot explain the amount of respect I have for this man. I have a bad attitude and mouth to match; I am not easy to deal with. But that son of a bitch took me on and when he could have easily broken me down, he didn’t. He took his time and brought my ass back from the brink of my demise.
Moving the destroyed furniture, I strip off my tank top as Dom latches cuffs to either wrist and attaches them to the wood. Held tight in the aisle, she maintains a poignant spot in the former house of worship.
“Do I get a safeword?” Iris meekly asks.
Shooting a glance in my direction, Dom defers, “Nero?”
“If you feel more comfortable with one,” I offer, not really believing she would call one for this. She is playing with our heads or should I say—trying.
A submissive like Iris who has been through what she has will likely never call a safeword. Just won’t happen. So, even mentioning it is all about getting in our head—maybe we should lighten up and not push as hard cause she is in a fragile state. It’s bullshit—all of it.
That girl ain’t ever known a fragile state.
She is tough. And that is why I am still here.
And so, we are clear, crying and boohooing is not a fragile state. Maybe if she is tucked away in a closet. Or running off. Or even snorting up. Or being forced to watch a ravishment scene.
Ya, I got some shit to clean up when I get home—Amber. Jaid. Cas. Mierne. The strange part is the least fragile one is actually standing right in front of me.
As Dom removes a cane from the case of goodies, I opt for the only thing I can trust tonight—myself. Sure, I can prance around her and crack a twelve-footer with an intimidating snap, but I am actually hurt by her actions. And I have no doubt, I will cause serious damage right now.
“You going commando?” Dom smirks at my lack of selection. This isn’t the first time I have come into a session with nothing but me.
“Fuck yeah,” I banter, knowing I have plenty to work with if I get creative.
“Hell of a Dom you have here, girl,” Dom complements. “Most would tan your hide.”
“Sal, it’s okay,” Iris assures, “I deserve it.”
“Baby, shut the fuck up,” I snap, “And Dom, I never said I wasn’t going to tan her hide, Sir.”
He laughs. “Fair enough. Are you ready, punk ass?”
Stepping a few feet in front of Iris, I say, “Yes.”
Behind my back, Dom takes aim and wallops my back a few good strokes with the cane as Iris looks on in horror. Her head shakes and her body trembles in the confines of the restraints. She fights the tethers as he unfurls his best on me. I don’t have to ask, I know there will be blood.
Taking it like a dutiful soldier, I gloat, “Not so easy to watch, is it?”
“Fuck you!” she whimpers as the tears streak over her cheeks. “Sal, no!!!”
I grimace and grunt as his lashes strike and welt without regard. They fucking hurt, but I need this if I am going to give Iris what she wants. And Dom is the only one who can align my frame of mind anymore. I have outgrown Serene’s brand of torture and can outplay Jack’s mind games.
The only question is how hard am I going to push her over the edge?
IRIS
Talk about paying for my sins.
I never expect Sal to flip the board upside down and start playing a round in front of me. As his best friend, I am terrified. As his submissive, I am remarkably turned on.
I have seen brief moments of his sessions, but a fluidity exists between Dom and Sal that I have never witnessed with any of the other Masters. They are kindred spirits, each fueling off the other.
Dom lashes and Sal grunts ever so slightly and sweats. It’s a rough scene, one I doubt would never even be allowed on the academy campus. A darkness exists in this world of protocol and it enlivens my own mind with what I could be if I were a house slave.
The pain in Sal’s expression is beautifully traumatic, full of clusters of chaos that uplift and depart into the gray shadows with every strike. I understand more now than ever before his need for masochism. The pain grounds out all the madness in his world.
Suddenly, the rhythm of his welts cease as Dom walks over to me and demands, “Open.”
I do as he requests, parting my lips and taking the cane between my teeth. I know his back is a bloody fucking mess as I taste the metallic hint of the sweet red nectar.
Sal snarls as one corner of his mouth rises in a sexy, mischievous way that sends a jolt to my pussy. Biting the cane, I blink as I watch Dom tuck his finger under Sal’s belt and pull him closer.
“You are and always will be the one to beat,” Dom commends, laying his hand on Sal’s cock. My eyes widen as Sal refuses to look away from me. He cares nothing about the fact that Dom whispers to him or if he does, it doesn’t show.
With a kiss to either of Sal’s cheeks, Dom departs from his side and confronts me. “Do not hurt him. If you do, I will gut you piece by piece.”
He starts to walk away without regard. I am just another piece of ass to this man, but I demand more. Standing in debris envious of the bastards with shoes, I spit the cane onto his fine leathers.
“Yes, Sir,” I say quickly, provoking his monster. “…And if he hurts me?”
Dom’s eyes blind with a furious rage as my unspoken actions meet with the condemning Master. “You have it coming to you.”
Risking more damage to my flesh, I continue, “Why do you withhold, Master Dom?”
His silent gaze paralyzes, but I push forward, finding the strength to meet with this Master. I have met with twenty-three and ten, yet no other man has ever held the power over me like Dominic Gennaro. And I loathe this handsome Italian bastard for this reason alone. I seethe with competition, wanting to prove I can be as much as his pet. His fingers graze over my swollen nipple and he twists the cross piercing. It is hot and dynamic.
With a pleading, desperate cry, I solicit his use of my skills. I need to be worthy of Dom. “Do not forsake me for his ability, for I can handle what you bring, Master Dom.”
“You are wicked little one and you never heed my warnings,” he sneers, reaching for the cane. “You want to be under my hand.”
“I want to be valued by both my Masters as a precious prize,” I declare, clearly stating my intentions. “I wish to be coveted,
worshipped, and adored. If that is a sin, then I am making it and I will accept your retribution.”
With a diligent gait, Dom returns to his favorite student. His hand embraces Sal’s forearm as they speak quietly amongst themselves. Approaching slow, Dom charges, “Lower yourself girl and respect the craft. Your inconsistency is the problem I have with your subservience, the lack of loyalty, and the absolute violations you allow others to commit to your flesh. If you are to be his slave, then you must deliver.”
“Sirs,” I urge with a formal invitation, “Allow my body to be yours for the taking.” Watching the two steaming hot Masters, I am taken back to a place of complete sensual abandon where I succumbed to their will and let myself accept the gift of their control. “I need to be deserving in your house. I want to satisfy above all others.”
A smirk lifts on Dom’s distinguished face as the only hints of the depth of his naughty exist in the small glimmering hoop in his nose and the dangerous ink covering his hands. I have yet to see this man fully naked and I have serious doubts if I ever will. I know of his double leg prosthetics, but I have never seen them either.
Curling his finger, Dom requests I rise. “You have quite the competitive streak, girl. Sal has done well in finding someone with fight, but perhaps overly so,” he mentions, arching his eyebrows high upon his face and attaching a thick black choker collar around my neck. Dom and Sal are both roughly the same height which leaves my short stature sandwiched in amongst two formidable, imposing men. I long for them to love me together and grace me with their presence. “You must learn when to buckle and kneel if you are to reside in my house.”
“I can be trained, Sir Dom.”
The back of his fingers graze over my skin as I notice how becoming his full, pouty lips are. I want to earn that mouth. His kiss is highly valued and regarded by me.
“I am not wasting time training a whore,” he declares as the tears trickle over my cheeks in shame. “Nor will I continue to let Boston play with one. He is better than that. He is better than you.”
His truthful words sting worse than a thousand lashes. And I am suddenly filled with a genuine remorse for my actions. “I never meant to hurt Sal.”
Salt Kissed Love (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 1) Page 51
