by Sansa Rayne
“Has anyone ever used this on you?” I ask, showing Madeleine the paddle.
“No, sir.”
“Have you seen anyone use it before?”
“No, sir.”
“Have they used the other paddles?”
The selection on the wall has several; made of rubber and leather, studded and flat, square and round, they hang neatly from pegs.
“Yes, sir. Very often. But not that one,” Madeleine confirms.
I deliver my first stroke with all my strength. She screams, convulsing in place.
“What do you say?” I ask, rubbing the spot, a pink, glowing rectangle.
“Thank you… sir,” she moans. She pants heavily, clearly suffering.
When she finishes settling down, I smack the other side of her ass, just as hard. Though she yelps, this time she must have been ready: her reaction isn’t half as distressed as the last one. Excellent — there’s a fine line between enjoying a pet and abusing a slave, where the masochistic whimpers turn to anguished wails.
The second one’s only fun if it comes after the first — after she’s been suitably trained to take her torment without complaint. Like a frog in a boiling pot, she won’t feel the heat until she can’t take it anymore.
Then…
I keep slapping her ass with the crummy paddle, working my way around methodically. Up and down, left and right, a hard, steady rhythm. I give her less and less time between each swing, reveling in her lengthening shrieks.
Bruises discolor her skin and tears drip to the floor. My cock stiffens, ready once more to enjoy her ass. I take three last swings with the paddle, and on the third, the shoddy toy snaps in half. Madeleine howls, shaking uncontrollably.
In all my years of punishing whores, I’ve never had that happen.
“Piece of shit,” I mumble, squirting a fresh coat of lube on my cock and pressing it into her stretched ring.
Plunging deep, I growl blissfully. Madeleine gasps, no doubt stunned by the rapid intrusion, coupled with the ache from her spanking. However, my cock slides in easily, and I accelerate my pumping right away.
Before long, Madeleine cries out in pure ecstasy. She clenches down on my shaft, milking me for my cum. Her skin burns, slick with sweat. Her limbs spasm, beyond sore from holding such a challenging position. I keep pounding, massaging her clit until she squirts her pleasure all over the floor. I sniff her scent off my hand, then reach around to cover her face with it. She breathes heavily against my palm, her muffled squawks charging my cock with power. Feeding the last of my hunger, I jam deep and release my cream. It comes out like a shot, and drips as I pull out.
Laughing, I contemplate leaving Madeleine like this for a couple more hours. A washcloth comes away sticky from wiping myself down.
No, I’ll be good.
The lock mechanisms of the stockade spring loose with satisfying thunks. Madeleine falls into my arms, her body spent and helpless. Dead weight. She groans as I set her down on a chair — putting pressure on her ass could not have felt good.
“I haven’t… been fucked like that… in years,” she says, wincing and smiling. “Are you always going to be this rough?”
Now that’s impressive. After all that, most girls would be barely conscious. Most would be hoping there is no next time. Madeleine’s not even resigned to the idea — she’s counting on it.
I’m going to have to step up my game.
“You thought that was rough?” I quip.
“You seemed like such a nice guy,” she giggles. “Such a gentleman in public, but behind the scenes… Just like Mr. Dent.”
A vein in my forehead pulses. She meant that as a compliment. It doesn’t matter. She’ll pay for it later.
Just like him. Ingram’s had twenty years to make things right. Has he even tried? No, of course not. Maybe if he had, I could put the past aside, even if his contrition came way too late. But then, that’s not who Ingram is. He’s merciless. I’ve documented at least six cases where he personally has pulled the trigger during one of his jobs — he’s no armchair operative. Getting his hands dirty has never been a problem.
Why should he change?
I’m the one who had to change.
A stranger’s face looks back at me from the mirrored ceiling. I’ve had it for years now, and it’s still not mine. But, I had no choice. I can’t be who I was then. I have to be Anton Ford.
“That’s enough,” I say, grabbing a ball gag from the wall.
Madeleine whimpers as I stuff it in her mouth, then tie her arms behind her back and her ankles to the legs of the chair. Helpless, splayed out and silenced, she’s still wet. My seed drips out her ass.
“Did Mr. Dent ever warn you to keep quiet?”
She nods, drool slipping from her lip. Despite her jaw spread wide, she’s still smiling.
“Good. Same goes with me,” I say. Taking her swollen clit between my forefinger and thumb, I squeeze. “I’m not here for the conversation. I’m here to slap and fuck your pretty little ass. The only things that should come out of your mouth are sweet moans and sharp, loud screams. Is that understood?”
Her eyes water, forcing her to blink away tears, but she nods.
I could snap her neck like a pencil and the worst that would happen is a handful of men would be annoyed. This is more than just power — this is being a god. It’s obscene, and frankly evil.
I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life.
It’s no wonder Ingram has thrived here. Of course he’s risen to the top of an already elite organization. He knows he belongs here — a king of kings, a player moving his pawns across the chessboard. The world is his game — he’s been winning it for more than a decade. All I could do was watch, until today.
Now I’m the one moving pieces. Making moves. Playing both sides. It’s my turn.
By now Victor has likely gone to find Kate Atwood. Whatever happens, it’s going to be a bomb dropped on Ingram and the Masters. Victor’s going to unleash every drop of cruelty in his demonic soul. When Ingram finds his new pet torn to pieces… Victor will be lucky to survive. Factions will develop between Ingram and Victor’s supporters. The discord will threaten the entire organization. Thankfully, I’ll be here to play the unbiased third party, ready to step in and facilitate a truce. For once, Ingram won’t be able to play the hero for Jamison and company.
Ingram is going to learn that in a game like this, one wrong move separates winning and losing. A long-forgotten mistake can reach through time like a vampiric hand rising from a fresh grave. He’s not ready for what’s coming.
Everything he’s built will burn. Only when he’s seen the ashes will I kill him.
My ears ring from the shots. There’s some kind of creature in my chest pounding to get out. The last thirty seconds replay in my head on a loop.
I had Victor beaten, until I didn’t. He was almost down, knocked out. He threw one lucky punch, but it was enough.
“He was going to kill you,” says Kate. “I had no choice.”
Hearing it all again, first comes the gunshot — then the soft thud. It was there the first time, like an insignificant footnote: Victor’s rock, hitting the ground. He could have caved in my skull. And he wouldn’t have stopped there.
“He was going to kill both of us,” I say, squeezing her hand. “Thank you.”
I failed.
I lost the fight with Victor. There’s no excuse. I should be dead. Kate saved my life.
She could have shot me, too. She could have taken the gun and tried to steal a boat, but she didn’t.
I owe her. This is going to be a shit show, and I’m going to see her through it.
Where the fuck did that gun come from? There shouldn’t be any on the island. Did Victor smuggle it in somehow, or did someone else? It’s not like he can tell us now.
I take a deep breath. There’s no panic. Panic is pointless. Just think this through.
“We should leave,” she says, letting go of my hand and clutching her
arms around her chest. “Pretend we were never here, that we saw nothing. If no one finds… finds him-”
“They will,” I interrupt. “The patrols will see the body. Maybe not on their first pass, but they’ll be back. In twenty to forty minutes, they’ll know.”
Her face pales. She trembles, causing her voice to warble.
“How long will that take? Could we hide the body?”
She’s looking for ways out of this. Her response is natural, but not helpful. She’s been in some dangerous situations, but this is new. She doesn’t realize yet the only way out is through.
“No. It would take hours to get down there from here. The rocks aren’t safe to climb. And what if Victor told people he was coming to see us? He could have, for all we know.”
Kate lurches in place. She swallows heavily.
“We have to come clean to Jamison immediately,” I say. “Tell him exactly what happened.”
“No!” she shouts, shaking her head, eyes wide. “They’ll kill me!”
I take her in my arms and hold her close.
“You have to trust me, Kate. I won’t let that happen.”
Already I can hear a boat motor echoing over the water. I listen for it to pass by, but expect it to suddenly shut off as the driver slows down to investigate.
“Won’t they want me dead for this?” she asks.
I don’t want to lie to her.
“Some will. But I’ll stand up for you, and that’ll mean a lot. You saved my life. That’s what matters most. Victor lost his shit. We took a vote to keep you alive; he was about to defy the collective will of the Masters. He probably would have been executed. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
She nods, brushing her hair back against the breeze.
I reach for her hand, to take the gun. She shies back, shielding the weapon.
“I’m keeping it,” she says. “I may need it.”
“It’s empty, Kate. Let me have it, I’ll have Eyal put it through forensics. Maybe we can find out where it came from. No one’s supposed to have a gun here.”
Scowling, she passes it to me.
“My DNA and our prints will be all over it,” she says.
“But not on the clip. That should only be Victor’s — or maybe someone else. We’ll see.”
The passing patrol boat comes into view. Kate and I watch it speed by, holding our breaths, waiting for it to drop throttle and turn around. It never does, though; soon we lose sight of the boat, and after a couple minutes we can’t hear it either.
“Come on,” I say. “They could see it on the next pass. We have to go.”
There’s no time to lose. Before everyone finds out what we did, there’s something I have to do.
—
Anton Ford’s cabin comes into sight as we follow the gravel path between twin copses of palm trees. Though smaller than a Master’s residence, the modest vacation home wouldn’t look out of place in the south of France along a sunny, rocky beach.
“You ready?” I ask Kate. “You know what you’re going to say?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
On the way here, I checked the security camera feeds from my phone; Ford was in the harem before, but he left nearly an hour ago. He should be here now.
I knock on the door. Ford answers it quickly.
“Mr. Dent!” he says. He wears only a towel, and his hair glistens. The scent of shaving cream wafts out from the door. “And Ms. Atwood. What brings you to my neck of the island?”
“You wanted to see Kate,” I say, faking a smile. “Did you talk to Victor for me?”
Ford’s expression shifts. It’s subtle. A little confusion creeps in, then disappears.
“I did,” he replies. “Why? Did he apologize?”
“What did you say to Victor, if you don’t mind me asking?” Kate asks.
I grind my jaw shut, not wanting to admonish her in front of Ford. I wish she’d leave this to me.
He turns to her, leaning back against the door to his cabin.
“I told him to be patient,” he says. “I told him you weren’t going anywhere, that you’re stuck here on this island too, and when you’re no longer useful…”
“He would be waiting a long time,” Kate growls.
“Then you’d have nothing to worry about,” he counters.
“And what did Victor say?” I ask, trying to get this encounter back under control. In fairness to Kate, I didn’t expect Ford to be so blunt, but we don’t have a lot of time — I can’t let her get us off-track.
“He said he’d be patient,” Ford replies. He looks me in the eyes as he speaks, though he must be lying. How can he not be? There’s no way Victor would have said that and meant it, considering what he did next. Maybe Victor lied to Ford? Hard to believe Ford is that naive, though.
Then again, maybe he doesn’t really care. He wants to be a Master; he’ll need everyone to support his bid. That included Victor too. If that means covering for Victor a little to curry favor, why not tell a small, insignificant lie?
“So did you see Victor?” he asks. “What happened?”
“You’ll find out,” I snap, taking Kate’s hand.
She resists as I drag us away, but after a few sharp tugs she follows along.
“He’s full of shit,” Kate says once we’re out of earshot.
“Possibly.”
With Victor dead, we’ll never know.
—
“And that’s when you shot him?” asks Jamison.
He pours scotch into glasses for himself and I. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air despite the open window letting in the cool, early evening breeze.
“Yes, Mr. Hardt,” says Kate. “He was going to kill Ingram. I had no choice.”
He turns to me.
“If she hadn’t shot Victor, I’d be dead,” I say.
Jamison nods.
By now the patrol boats will have found Victor’s body. They’ll soon confirm what we’re telling Jamison: four or five gunshot wounds, followed by a long fall off the cliff. He could have Kate’s hands tested for gunshot residue, but what would be the point? We’re admitting to everything.
The gun will be examined. If it has any latent fingerprints or an intact serial number, maybe we’ll figure out how he got it here.
“I’m glad you’re both okay,” Jamison says at last.
“You believe us?” I ask.
“Of course, Ingram. I trust you. And it’s plain to see Victor was losing control of his anger. He’s been unstable ever since…”
“Since I ruined him,” Kate interjects.
“Yes. But that’s immaterial to the situation at hand,” says Jamison. “You protected Ingram. That’s reason enough for anyone to do what you did. I’m very sorry you had to go through that.”
“I’m not,” says Kate. “Victor wanted to kill me. I’m glad he’s fucking dead.”
I nearly bark at her to shut up, but Jamison grunts a laugh.
“Watch it,” he says. “If our colleagues hear that, they’d be justified in doubting you were strictly protecting Ingram. But I understand the sentiment. Killing a bitter enemy isn’t the worst feeling in the world, is it? Ingram, I think you’re rubbing off on her.”
I force a grin.
“That’s a bit premature,” I mumble.
“Perhaps. Ingram, if we could speak privately?”
I take Kate’s cold, shaking hand and rub my thumb across her skin.
“It’ll be okay,” I tell her. “I promise.”
Jamison picks up a bell from his desk and shakes it in the air. After a moment, Colette arrives. He orders her to take Kate to the harem, along with a couple guards. Kate accepts having her hands cuffed, and the two leave.
Once they’re gone, I take my untouched scotch and down the whole thing.
“Tell me about her,” Jamison says, pouring us both another drink.
“What do you want to know?”
He sighs.
“You’re obvio
usly fucking. Is she your girlfriend?”
“When was the last time you heard me use that word?”
“Never,” Jamison chuckles. “So what then? What is she? Your lover? Your slave? Your hostage? Your accomplice?”
“Yes. All of that.”
I accept the next drink, and this time I sip it, sorting out the best way to describe what Kate and I have. Except, there’s no good way to label it, other than the never satisfying conclusion that it’s complicated.
This makes Jamison grimace.
“And if the majority of us voted to have her executed?”
“I can’t allow that,” I say. “If for no other reason because she saved my life. She didn’t have to.”
Kate might think we’re all psychopathic, but we do believe in reciprocity. She protected me. I’ll protect her, no matter what.
“That’s understandable. But what if that’s what we decide? What will you do?”
I take another drink instead of answering. If I had a good answer to that question, I’d say so.
“So what do you want?” says Jamison. “What are we supposed to do about her?”
I get out my phone and pull up a feed of the harem entrance; I want to make sure she arrives safely. She’s going to need constant protection — possibly more than I can give her.
“I want her to be a Master. She can be one of us.”
Jamison laughs.
“That’s utterly impossible. Even if she has a brilliant mind for our businesses, so do a lot of people. What assets does she have to benefit us?”
“Influence. She’s a trusted reporter. She’ll get a Pulitzer for taking down Victor, and that’s on top of the sizable audience she inherited from her father. We can use that.”
Jamison leans back in his seat, calculating.
We’ve never tried recruiting a famous journalist before. Someone like Kate would never join us willingly. The ones who would be willing don’t have the kind of credibility we need. It’s not a viable tactic. But if Kate had no choice… This is an opportunity to try.
“No. She’ll never go for it,” he says. “She’ll tell the truth about us the second she gets a chance.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But keeping her caged is a waste. If I can earn her loyalty, she’d be an incredible asset.”
