I swore softly with every curse word I knew as he touched the center of my other hole with the tip of the plug and began to wriggle it in. Klaus laughed and said he’d have to give me amnesty for those words but that it was worth it. I barely understood. I was busy, hurting. Not in a good way.
I tensed my thighs until he whacked me and said to be silent and to push out. Yeah, knew that trick from all my stories. So, still muttering bastard you bastard in my head, I pushed outward down there and felt the thing slowly advance inside me. Keening deep in my throat, I labored through the burn until the plug slipped all the way in with a last painful jolt.
“Done. And by the way, it’s actually a bit bigger than my finger.”
Bastard!
Then he did what he had as he’d spanked me—alternated playing with my clit and my pussy in between cropping me. My butt was way up in the air, and I was staring down at the chair wondering why this position got me so turned on, and why him hitting me did it too.
The intensity of the hits built, pattering then whacking in sharp bites across all of my ass, down my thighs. The pain became one huge pulse in time with my heartbeats and a faraway blurred me whimpered and whined with every blow.
He slid his big fingers along my slit, up and down, back there where I could do nothing. I braced with my palms on the chair seat and arched my spine. One of his fingers circled in the wetness around my clit then pinched soft and steady, over and over. The pleasure throbbed higher, deeper, even spreading from where that plug was seated inside me. He reached and found my breast, smoothed the flat of his hand over the curve then tugged at my jutting nipples.
The feelings merged, rippled into waves of heat.
I bowed my head and concentrated on what he was doing to my body, between my legs. Tugging, pressing, arousing me. My toes pushed and pushed on the floor. I couldn’t stop myself. Every part of me tensed and I choked out little gasps.
“Come on, girl. You can do it. Come. I’ve got you here as long as I want to keep you here. You’re not getting away. When I’m done you are going to be fucking used up. You’re already not an anal virgin. That plug is firmly stuck in your innocent asshole.”
The shock of his words shuddered into me. Another series of finger pumps squeezed on my clit.
I strained at the wrist cuffs, the ankle cuffs.
“Come.”
I groaned and arched more with each coaxing, cunning probe of his fingers. He covered me. His body thrust on mine, and some part of him back there, his cock perhaps, pressed and pressed on the butt plug.
“One day soon,” he whispered. “It’s going to be my dick in there. In your ass. And I’ll make damn sure you won’t be in a position to stop me.”
The idea of that…
Oh fuck. I came. I cried out in rhythmic grunts as the pleasure swept me again, roaring into every muscle, filling me. He’d done this to me, possessed me. And he kept pressing on my clit though I was dying to stop climaxing.
“Oh God. Oh God. No. Stop, stop.”
At last he did and I collapsed as far as I could onto the chair.
“My turn.”
When he rammed up into me I was sure I felt the shock wave from the push of his cock most of the way up my body. I rocked forward in the thrusts, the chair creaked, and I groaned again. That plug was still in my anus and I couldn’t stop feeling how good that was. Both holes, crammed tight. There was something supremely bad and dirty about this. My mind flashed to one of my fantasies—two men one taking me, one in my mouth, the other where Klaus was now. I held that thought as he rocked back and forth inside me.
Being penetrated from behind had always been the ultimate for me. Only now there was more, I was his fucktoy. His dirty, bad, fucktoy. So I went with the ride. I didn’t hold back from showing how well he pleasured me. And I damn near came again when he did.
We lay on the floor after, spooning, our sweat mingling. I could barely open my eyes to check when Baxter came purring in the catflap and marched over.
“Here’s my second pussy,” Klaus said in my ear.
I chuckled, moving his arms as I laughed, those big hard-muscled arms that held me and that had made me do things I’d never have agreed to if asked. I shut my eyes and nuzzled the skin on his forearm, nibbled on him a little, while he brushed aside my sweaty hair and kissed me below the collar.
A thought wormed its way into my mind. Right then, I was where I wanted to be, but it had to end. It had to end someday. This couldn’t last.
Above us the camera light blinked from where he’d installed yet another camera. Not that we could use most…hardly any…of the footage. Unless we made a porno flick. I’d be doing a ton of editing.
If I was normal, my more sensible self added, I’d have fled by now. I’d have found a time when he didn’t have me tied up and I’d have gone. What if the next thing he wanted me to do was dangerous or just too much? There was no allowance for saying no in any of what Klaus did. I might lose a finger, a limb, or my mind.
I liked living on the edge of danger, though. It was why the stage attracted me. How boring was life if you only went with the safe? I pondered all this as I lay there with Klaus leaning across me and patting Baxter. Now that cat was worse than me. He’d purr for anyone who fed him.
Me, I shut my eyes and smiled…right now, it was only Klaus who made me purr.
Chapter Sixteen
Klaus
‡
I sat on one of the weather-proof steel benches near the jetty and watched the catamaran cruise into the bay. As it backed to get everything squared away and the off-ramps lined up, the muted rumble of the big engines sounded like a predator warning away other beasts. Once the ropes were dropped over the bollards, the tourists surged out. Soon I was surrounded by a crowd. Mostly these were young families out for a day on the island. Kids screamed and ran about in their bright shorts, tops or dresses. Many people had snorkels and flippers, or ice boxes chock full of holiday gear. The seagulls were having fun pouncing on the potato fries thrown aside by giggling children.
And I was the outsider. I was a sadist. In my basement, I had a mostly naked woman who I beat regularly.
I remembered this disjointed feeling from the last time, from every time, I ventured out. My two shopping bags lay next to my feet. Milk, eggs, orange juice and various other items, including another selection of clothes that could be tossed when I tired of them, or mutilated to my heart’s content. And there was some string to tie up the nipples of the woman I’d left in the room.
Was I fucking insane?
I had a good job, great income, an honest reputation—not bad for a taxation accountant. Two and a half more weeks and my locum—the accountant who was filling in for me—was off to Europe. I had to go back to work then.
I knew why I didn’t let Jodie talk, still. It wasn’t for the wonderful reason she’d discovered. It was partly because I was afraid of what she might tell me if face to face and allowed to say whatever she wished. Partly too, because I got off on the power dynamic.
This way that I just took from her whatever I wanted was wrong, morally, ethically, even logically. But I didn’t want to stop when the time was over.
Maybe she’d agree to this continuing?
I’d figured out one of the local kinksters on Fetlife was a close friend from the kayaking club I used to be in. His pic, if you knew him well, was a dead giveaway. Only on Fetlife his name was Moghul. He was a Dom, and a font of information. Not all of it was useable. If I told him what we were truly doing, I think he would have been horrified. Jodie and I had something different happening. Something better.
I stared out across the beach. Seagulls were squawking indignantly as a small boy chased them. He ran in circles giggling insanely. His mother sat cross-legged on a towel nearby, smiling at his antics. She had a pile of seashells by her foot and the usual colorful plastic toys and shovel.
We’d strolled along this beach once, Jodie and I. The island only had so many beaches. She’d
collected shells too, but when it had been time to get on the ferry, instead of dropping the shells, or taking them with us, she’d gifted the lot to a little girl in a blue dress and floppy hat. As she’d carefully tipped them into the girl’s chubby hand, then picked up a couple that had fallen onto the sand, I’d grinned. It had made me wonder about Jodie, about whether she would ever be a mother, and if I could ever be a father.
I guess I’d been hoping it would be us, together, but it was so long ago I couldn’t remember that part. Maybe I’d blocked it out.
I stood, picked up the bags, and headed for the jeep. Like every time I was out, I was growing nervous about leaving her alone. I might have loved hurting her, but I didn’t want her trapped in the house while it burned. Or…
I halted, struck by a ridiculous thought. What if an intruder broke in and assaulted her?
I’d kill him.
Crazy. To care and yet to want to hurt.
I still hadn’t figured out where I fitted in this whole scenario. Was I turning into the bad guy? Beneath all her protests, Jodie liked what I did. I was certain of that.
But I did have to ask her about this continuing, didn’t I?
Yeah, I did. Determination went kerthunk as it landed in the front of my mind. As long as her answer was yes.
Yep, I was insane. Knew it.
But I’d ask her. Because it was the right thing to do.
*
Before I went down to the basement room, I sat in the living room to hear Jodie’s latest monologue. If she ever made a film, if I let her, these were what she’d have to use as the backbone. Not the footage of us having crazy sex. Or of me beating her until she screamed.
Her last words made me rewind the film, turn up the volume, and lean in.
She was kneeling as always, perfect position, but looking at the floor, then she looked up directly at the camera. Her light blue eyes were wide, unblinking.
“I’ve lost track of time, Klaus. I need to know how much longer before our time is up. I want to talk about us, about weaning ourselves away from…” She gestured vaguely. “From all this. You know we have to? Yes?”
Hell. I sat back, paused the film, and stared at her in freeze frame.
What could I do?
I’d been all set to talk but this showed me she was already on the wrong side of the equation. And I knew from the past all about talking with Jodie. I’d talked to her about her drinking, and about toning down her stage persona so she wasn’t feeling compelled to spew forth everything that went wrong in her life. I’d talked about how she related to me and about how looking after one another went both ways. She hadn’t changed. Talking didn’t work so well.
Communication was the very bedrock of BDSM according to Moghul, but there were other ways of communicating. If I talked, she would likely reject my ideas. The funny thing about saying no was that it set up a barrier in the mind so that a yes became much harder to say.
We’d been doing this a while. Weeks.
Stockholm Syndrome. Where was that when you needed it?
And those other ways of communicating?
Showing, doing, was far superior to talking. You could always talk later, when she knew what it was like to experience it for real. After all, a wish to try out what she’d read in books had led Jodie to this.
Two and a half weeks left. I found myself with the remote in hand, turning it like a pig on a spit. I wasn’t some serial killer murderer, kidnapper sort, but there was nothing about weaning in our agreement. Technically, I had that time to do what I wanted to.
I had that time to convince her to keep going. In whatever way I could imagine. I’d barely scratched the surface of what was possible.
Those other ideas materialized. I could do them. She wanted to see what it was like to be a slave. I could show her.
Really? I stared at the remote, then stared at the TV some more. I really wanted to do this?
My certainty faltered. I wanted to. But I suspected it was wrong. But I was going to.
Maybe if I was another man, I’d have been thinking about how to talk her into a relationship after the documentary ended. I would have been talking with her, full stop. But the opposite course of action drew me like gravity on a man falling from the sky. I was going down, down, down.
I’d never thought of myself as the obsessive sort, yet I knew all the way down to my toenails that I could not back away from this without trying to the utmost. I wanted this so deeply it hurt. I wanted to own her. Not in some mock BDSM scene way. I really wanted her as mine. To do with as I pleased. Crack had nothing on this.
Moghul was hosting a party in about two weeks, on the Sunday—the last day of this so-called documentary. The temptation was too much. Train her. Take her to the play party and show her how suitable she was to be my pet. Jodie already had the collar; all she needed was the right moves, and the right attitude.
Chapter Seventeen
Jodie
‡
I heard his words as he strode into the room, but they were so outrageous, so unexpected, after what I’d just requested on camera, that I had to replay them in my head.
Right now, you’re my captive and time does not exist.
I focused on him again and stiffened—the leather straps, the spider gag, and the cane in his hand. He looked so formidable.
My thoughts were…seriously, my first thoughts were laced with fear.
What had I done? I shifted on my knees.
Clearly, to him, I’d done wrong.
He squatted beside me. His trousers were tight across his thighs, his hands rested there with the cane and that nasty spider gag. I hated it and couldn’t help eyeing it, as if it were some venomous creature.
“This is how it will be. Obeisance when I enter a room.” He pulled my head forward until I overbalanced and slapped my hands to the floor. “Down. Forehead on the floor. Hands way out in front with your arms outstretched. Don’t speak.”
I knew what an obeisance was. A slave did it for their Master.
His commanding growl had me obeying and lying in a sort of flat bow with my knees tucked under me. Worrying about the documentary could wait. I’d reacted as always. I’d warmed down below. Traitorous clit. It must be an ingrained response from wanking to all those fantasy books. Precisely this scenario would have had me flipping the ebook pages one-handed.
Not speaking had become easy. So it startled me when he set the spider gag in my mouth and buckled it on. Using the same hand-in-hair grip he dragged my head up. Instinctively, whining at the pain, I put my hands up.
“Hands at your back!” he snapped.
Chastised, I put them there, lacing my fingers together to give me pause in case I forgot.
“From now on, for whatever length of time I choose, you are my pet. No words. No getting on furniture. No getting up on your feet. Not unless I say you can.”
He didn’t ask for an answer but I grunted once, blinking watery-eyed, because of the sting from the pull on my hair.
“First lesson. You are available when I say. Don’t move anything.” One-handed he unzipped, took out his erect cock and put it to my mouth, then slowly thrust inside past the metal of the gag. He tasted of the sea and I felt grains of sand rub on my lips. As he fucked my mouth, I wondered, strangely, if he’d been swimming while I’d been stuck in this room. Then, after a few thrusts, he pushed my forehead to the floor again and went behind me. Within seconds his cock was sliding into me there.
Oh God. Used. Taken. Something about the casual assumption of my body being his, my mouth or any other part of me, resonated inside my soul.
Those first few seconds of entry, especially when I could do little to stop him, it scattered me, all I could feel was him in there, his flesh opening up mine as he pushed inward.
“You can brace your hands on the floor,” he ground out, having paused at the bottom of the stroke, imbedded in me all the way.
I groaned and wriggled a little, but did as he said, flopping my arms out
and curling my fingers against the floor as if I could grab onto it. This time he plowed me for longer than he had my mouth, but before he came, he pulled out and zipped up. I was head to the floor with my butt in the air and screaming inside for him to continue. You could have handed me to a football team and I would have welcomed them. I was that turned on. He rode rough shod over me. He callously, with no regard for my opinion, had decided what should be done with my body. I was hot as hell. Incandescent maybe.
Guess I liked being objectified.
“Up. Off the floor.” He smacked me damn hard, once, on my rear.
I let out a soft moan before shuffling to my knees and looking at him wistfully. Whatever plans he had, so far I liked them. I remembered that I trusted him. So, therefore, he knew the time left for our documentary, but wasn’t telling me. Okay, I could roll with that.
Though his next actions perplexed me. Leaving me where I was in the middle of the room, he went and turned off the camera. Then he came to me and taped my hands up so my fingers were together like mittens.
“Every day I’ll do that until special mittens arrive. You no longer have hands to use. Pets don’t need them.” He bent and kissed me hard enough to hurt my lips, then he went down on his knees and bit and sucked my ass hard enough to make me try to get away. I couldn’t, of course. Laughing, he held me down and finished what he meant to. Now I had a new circular bruise. I glared. Drool from the gag dribbled to the floor.
“Marked. Good.” He poked the bruise once and casually fingered me between my legs. “I might get you tattooed somehow in the future. Something that makes you mine.”
Shit, shit, shit. Not in my book. No way.
“Don’t glare at your Master.”
Master?
Then he tipped me and rolled me onto my belly.
“Hands at your back. Fast!” The grating harshness of his words told me how close he was to taking me again.
I would’ve begged if I could have. Lust choked me, made me so aware of my vulnerability, of the moisture slicking my folds, and of how easy it would be for him to thrust his cock or fingers into me without me being able to do anything much to stop him.
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 91
