But I should have, she thought.
"You're going to need to have more discipline this time," he told her. "You won't have any gag to stifle your screams. You'll have to do it on your own."
"Derek," she said weakly, the voice not even sounding remotely like her own. "For the love of god, I cannot endure anymore. I'll do anything you want, I'll say anything, just no more of that cane."
"You'll admit this is good for you, then? That you need to be whipped and humiliated to learn obedience?"
"Yes," Chrissy replied without hesitation. "It is … very good. I need it. You are teaching me … I understand this."
He smiled slyly. Obviously it was a line of bullshit she was feeding him, but he was fully prepared to use it against her. "In that case, we shall proceed."
"No," she cried. "No, Derek, you tricked me, please."
"I am going to whip your breasts," he announced. "And your belly. You may thank me for teaching you obedience."
"I thank you," she sobbed, broken and desolate. "For teaching me obedience."
"Oh, we can do better than that." He poked her nipple. "In fact, I would like to hear you beg for it."
"Please," she winced, face contorted with the fresh pain. "Whip my breasts, Derek. "Teach me obedience."
"And my belly," he prompted.
"And … and my, belly, too."
Derek lowered Chrissy to her knees. "Hold up your tits," he ordered.
She did as he ordered, obscenely offering them for abuse. Twice he lashed out. Unsatisfied with the angle, he had her lower her head to the ground, bowing her back and stretching her ribs. Now he had free access. Over and over he delivered stinging blows, each leaving behind it an angry red slash of raised, welted skin. Her belly burned under the rain of blows and her poor tits felt as if molten lava was being poured over them.
At last he stopped, allowing her to roll to her side in a shivering, whimpering ball. "Kiss my foot," he commanded, pushing his dirt covered shoe up underneath her nose.
Chrissy pressed her lips, desperate to please.
"On all fours," he said. "Clean my shoe with your tongue."
She obeyed, in spite of the pain, in spite of the exhaustion in her limbs. Carefully, devotedly, she licked at the leather, tasting the dirt and removing it layer by layer.
She did not flinch from the task, even when he ran the tip of the cane idly down her spine. "This," he informed her. "Is another thing I would never do to Arianna. She would never withstand it."
It was another of his hints, none too subtle, that she was that other kind of woman, the kind suited for the short leash, for the life of total control and degradation.
"You on the other hand," he poked at her asshole. "Would orgasm within five seconds of penetration right now, wouldn't you?"
She took the question as rhetorical. The man's shoe was where her tongue belonged, not answering questions.
"You would also give the blowjob of your life or surrender your tight, hot little asshole without hesitation. Isn't that so? Put your hand in your cunt, right now. Let's see just what a slut you really are."
Chrissy plunged her fingers into herself. Oh, god, she really was right there on the edge. Her body was already starting to undulate, quite out of her control.
"Kiss the dirt," said Derek, withdrawing her shoe. "While you play with yourself."
She put her face to the ground, pushing her lips to the cool, black earth. Her pussy clenched at her own fingers. The man was utterly and completely dominating her. Owning her, just like he'd said was possible when you overwhelmed a woman. When you caused her pain. Or in this case, when you humiliated her.
"What do you suppose Arianna would think of you now?" he mused.
Chrissy spasmed. She could no longer use her muscles. Falling flat on her belly in the dirt she let the paroxysms overcome her. She was a horny, orgasming little slut at a man's feet. Naked and beaten, totally had, sweaty and dirty, like a sleek little animal, fingers in her cunt, whipped tits pushing into the forest floor, pelvis grinding against her own hand, her mind consumed with nameless needs, no hope of true relief – no hope of a man, no hope of the love or even the lust of Derek Trace.
"You oughtn't have disobeyed me," he said to the spent female when the last wave of bittersweet, sodden pleasure had passed through her. "Then again, like I already said, you should never have approached me in the first place."
A part of her agreed, with a vengeance. But another part, scared, blown wide open, but totally, completely alive, could not imagine her life without this man. It was as if she'd had no existence before him – no real life, only a pale shadow of it. Was this what they called love? She'd never had it in her life, not even with her family, so she had nothing real to go on.
From what she'd seen, it was supposed to be a lot sweeter, with candles and flowers and shit, then again, Chrissy never was one to play by other people's rules.
Crawling forward, her hair arrayed about his shoe, she laid her head on the leather. It was an act of surrender, the best she could think of.
"Let's go," said Derek Trace, his voice back to its usual flatness. "It's time to go back to the car."
He hauled her up by her leash, though this time he did not allow her back to her feet. "Crawl," he commanded, striking her thigh with the cane to keep her down.
Chrissy braced herself on hands and knees, settling in beside the man holding her chain. Her heart thundered. He was going to complete her humiliation, making her behave as a dog. Her arousal was unbearable. Even more than this was her desire to serve him, to gobble his cock, to lick at his body, to suck at his balls, to humbly kiss his ass, showing him his absolute authority over her at this moment.
It occurred to her she had no idea what would happen next. For the moment her world was all about crawling in the dirt, being scratched by small branches, the lantern light dancing over her flesh, illuminating a strange night world, a tiny umbrella of golden yellow beyond which was the dark night forest, with its potential predators, the mysterious bears and maybe wolves, too. She was so dependant on this strong man. He was the one to protect her and keep her. But he was also the one to punish her. The one who knew what it meant to be ruthless with her. Everyone else had put up with her nonsense, except for this one man, and it seemed as if he was bound and determined to gain vengeance for all the others single handedly.
"You'll clean up right here," he said.
Chrissy heard the gurgling of water. They were beside a stream. "I can't go in there," she protested.
"Sure you can." Derek lifted her, clamping his hands around her ribs. With one easy toss, he lofted her into the middle of the dark, moonlit water.
"I'm drowning," she cried, though when she put her feet down she found she was only waist deep.
"Stop carrying on," he said. "And get yourself cleaned up."
Chrissy shivered. The water stung every part of her body. She feared going into shock. She had no idea what could be swimming around down there. "Derek, I'm scared."
She really was paralyzed now. There was no going anywhere without some serious help.
Derek cursed, seeing her dilemma. A moment later he was wading into the water after her. Lifting her into his arms he carried her back to dry land.
"Thank you," she whispered, nestling herself in his arms.
He said nothing, as he continued to carry her, all the way back to the car.
I think I love him, she thought. I think I love the man who's just caned me black and blue.
He took a blanket from the trunk, wrapping her in it before sitting her down in the seat of the car. Maybe he loves me back, she told herself, grasping at straws.
She hoped he did. Then again, she was not entirely sure she could survive it if she did.
"I'm taking you home," he announced as they got back on the road. "Get yourself dressed."
The words stuck in her throat, the declaration she intended to make dying on the vine. When something finally did come out, as she was opening the
door to get out in front of her apartment, it was entirely too little, too late.
"You did something to me out there, Derek. I … I can't explain it. I'm hurting like hell, but I'm … floating, too."
"It's endorphins, Miss Newland. You are a masochist, that's all, and you've just had your circuits blown. It will pass."
"I think it's more," she tried to touch his arm. "I think I have … feelings."
"That will also pass." He shrugged her off. "Goodnight, Miss Newland."
"Will I see you again?" She fought the lump in her throat, hating how pitiful she must sound.
His lips turned downward into a slight frown. "You're becoming a bore, Miss Newland. I would suggest you cut your losses."
"Yes … yes, of course." Chrissy made her exit, rising onto a pair of weak, shaky legs. She didn't have it in her to swear at him anymore. Her pride, it seemed, was gone. "If you change your mind…" she said through the open window.
His tires spun out as he took off, not another word spoken.
Chrissy did not stop crying until dawn.
CHAPTER SIX
The next day was Saturday, which was good, since there was no way Chrissy could have gone to work. She managed to fall asleep, finally, around seven and did not awaken until half past four in the afternoon. It was the sound of knocking on her door, loud and insistent, that finally roused her.
She threw a robe over her naked body – which was wracked now with morning after pain from her extensive caning – and headed to the door. This had better be damned important she thought making her way from the bedroom.
The man in the hall was a stranger. Against her better judgment, she opened the door for him, though she was careful to leave the chain on.
"Yes?" she asked through the narrow opening.
"Miss Newland?" It was a man in a silk suit, with a blue tie. His jaw was square and he had a flattened nose, the kind prizefighters got after boxing one too many rounds.
Chrissy got a chill down her spine as he called her by her surname. The man was addressing her just as Derek did. "Yes, what of it?"
"I have a message for you." The man passed her the envelope, endwise.
She snatched it quickly, closing the door. "Thank you."
It was the size of a wedding invitation. The paper was thick and ivory colored. In place of a licked seal there was an actual piece of red wax, fused in place to hold it closed. The seal bore the initials "DT".
So it was Derek. She had half a mind to simply throw it away, but her curiosity got the better of her. Besides, she could easily toss it away once she'd looked at it and given it the derisive laughter it deserved, whatever it was he might have in mind.
Surely it was some kind of invitation. Talk about nerve. Opening the seal, she tried to keep the butterflies in her stomach at bay. I'm not interested she repeated over and over. No matter what, I could care less.
The handwriting was exquisite, done in real black ink, the kind that comes from a fountain pen. "Dear Miss Newland," it began. "Your presence is requested…"
She scanned the card for details. The nerve of the man. He was inviting her to some kind of private club. As if she would ever agree to meet him somewhere she didn't know. Someplace not open to the public. Alone.
Beauty Bound, the place was called.
What kind of name was that for a club? It sounded like trouble. She could smell it a mile away. Reading the fine print of the note – something he had taught her to do by now – she noticed that nowhere did it say he himself would be there to meet her.
It was a ploy. A trap. Some fresh effort to humiliate her.
"The bearer of this letter will wait for you," Derek concluded. "Wear something red."
He'd drawn his initials large and scrawling, as if he were some kind of prince or nobleman. Well he was nothing to her. She would as soon go to some place called Bound Beauty as she would jump into a pit of live snakes.
And she would tell that to the man standing out there in the hallway, too.
Although … she did have this cute red dress, with a nice short lettuce hem and a scooped neck. It had pretty little spaghetti straps, too. The couple of times she'd worn it, with those adorable Italian heels, she'd damned near knocked the socks off her dates, not to mention causing major commotions with every other male in the vicinity.
Derek Trace would never be able to resist her dressed like this. If she wanted to – theoretically speaking – she could win her revenge. Imagine the look on his face, seeing her standing proudly, every eye on her as she sashayed into the room, last night's tortures completely erased from her mind and overcome.
What man wouldn't beg Chrissy a chance for her favors after seeing her in her prime like that? Yes, this was a great temptation for her to actually do this. But there were risks. For one thing, Trace might not even show. Couldn't she handle herself, anyway, though? Her gut told her the man would never put her in mortal danger. Whatever happened at this club, she could escape intact, she was sure of it.
On the other hand, what if he did come to meet her and ended up snaring her in one of his bizarre games? He was an expert on manipulation, never failing to find a way around her carefully laid defenses.
That was a risk she couldn't afford to run.
It ate at her, just a little, to think the man might get the better of her if she didn't show. Wasn't his ego already swelled enough? Didn't he already have enough things going his way in life? Wasn't it her duty to show him there were things of beauty he couldn't possess, conquer or take for granted – namely her?
In the end, it was her vanity that won out. "I'll be an hour or so getting ready," she announced to the man in the hall. "I'm sorry, I'd invite you in, but I don't feel comfortable with you coming into my apartment. I hope you understand."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, nodding his head professionally.
With that he moved beside the door, hands clasped in front of him, standing at attention like that robot in The Day The Earth Stood Still. Chrissy had the distinct impression he would remain like that a hundred years unless he were given orders otherwise.
Sighing deeply, she undid the chain. "Oh, never mind, come on in. You can sit on the living room couch. Just try to stay out of my way, okay?"
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, as though it made no particular difference where he waited.
She'd almost say he was gay, but he didn't look the type. Besides, she could clearly make out the erection in his pants. He liked the looks of her, barefoot, tucked into her little robe.
What would he think of the marks on her ass if he saw them? She wondered. Would they disgust him … or arouse him? Chrissy shuffled to the bedroom, deciding that the man never would have a chance to evaluate her in that way.
As far as she was concerned, he was a nonperson. Like Derek was a non-person. Closing her bedroom door, she smiled broadly, thinking what it might be like to have someone new after her tonight. Wouldn't that just fix Derek's wagon. To have the girl he'd spurned and abused taking up with some new and wonderful man. That would teach him to stomp on her heart and play roller coaster with her emotions. Let him feel the pain for once.
Assuming the man really did have any emotions and wasn't simply a hollowed out shell, powered by sheer cruelty.
Chrissy pulled the dress from the closet and laid it on her bed. He wanted red, did he? Well, he'd get it all right.
Right between the eyes.
Less than an hour later, Chrissy was dressed to the nines. Her hair piled high on her head, her body perfumed. The welts on her ass had dulled to a steady ache. For some reason, it was hard to keep her pussy dry. She'd had to stop and masturbate several times, up to and including when she was pulling up the red lace panties.
The material felt so sweet on her crotch and so wicked on her buttocks, how could she resist?
Damned that Derek and his ways. Oh, how she was going to give him a taste of his own medicine tonight. And if he didn't show, she would call him out, telling people what kind of man he was
, till he was forced to defend himself.
"The car is out front," the man with the flat nose told her as she emerged from the bedroom. He stood at attention as soon as he saw her, leaping from the seat as if it were on fire.
She wanted to ask what he thought of the outfit, but he probably wasn't allowed to comment on the women he drove. Who exactly did he think she was anyway? A date? A whore?
"This isn't what it looks like," she felt obligated to say in the elevator on the way down.
The solid, muscular man continued to stare at the numbers on the wall. "It doesn't look anything to me, ma'am. I just pick people up and drop them off."
"Fair enough," Chrissy acknowledged.
Trace hadn't just provided a car, it was a full-blown limousine. The ex-boxer opened the rear door allowing her access to the sumptuous leather interior. The interior of the black car was pristine white, from the leather seats to the built-in bar. Tugging discretely at the bottom of her dress, she sat across from her escort.
The driver eased them into traffic and took them straight downtown. She hadn't the gumption to start a conversation so they rode in silence. Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to the front entrance of a club called the Blue Diamond.
She'd heard of it, though she'd never been there. "I don't understand," she said, looking in vain for any Bound Beauty signs.
"The place we want is in the back, downstairs," the man explained.
A doorman opened the limo door, letting her out. The ex-boxer took Chrissy inside, past the velvet ropes where later tonight, the wanna-be dancers and partiers would line up by the hundreds for a chance to get in. It was about seven now and the crowd was still light. They walked to the back, down a corridor leading to the bathrooms. A large bouncer, bald headed and big as a house was guarding a door at the end. He nodded at the ex-boxer and stepped aside, allowing them access.
Behind the door was a set of stairs, made of painted gray metal. The walls were cinderblock, bright red. Exactly what sort of private club was this, anyway?
"In here," he gestured to a windowless red door on the bottom floor.
Controlling Chrissy Page 9
