“I could walk out of here any time I like,” she snaps. “Well, I could if you’d take these chains off me, which you should do, by the way. I didn’t ask for them.”
“And then you’d be free?” I ask, amused by her innocence and tying off a slip rope to jump down from the table. I land at her side, the clunk of my shoes sounding heavily on the marble, causing her to scuttle again at my proximity. The chains clatter as she moves and glares, defiance echoing through her every feature, again. “Free to go where, Alana? Do what?”
“Anything,” she replies, her face as confused as she probably feels. “Go home. Take a bath.”
“And that’s freedom?” She looks bemused again.
“Well, it’s better than being fucking chained and…” I slap at her cheek, hard enough that the impact reminds her about her offensive little mouth and sends her reeling away from me again. It causes yet more sensations to shiver through my own insides, a smile developing at the feel of her in my hand again.
“You hit me?” she snaps, her own hand moving to cover the area.
“You deserved it.” Her eyes widen to the point of disbelief. “And you’ll get it again if you don’t behave appropriately.”
“You can’t go around hitting women.” I smirk again, shaking my head at how little she understands and relishing the prospect of teaching her, should she sit her little ass down. “That’s… That’s assault.”
“In here, you’re nothing but something who needs to learn. Barely an animal.” Far from it in actuality, certainly from wherever these feelings are emanating from inside of me, but that’s what she needs to hear for her story to evolve.
“But…”
I wait for whatever revelation inspires her to argue further, my hand ready to catch another tirade of profanity should she choose that option. She doesn’t speak, just flails her mouth around more unspoken urgings and then sees sense enough to keep them to herself rather than voicing them.
“Alana, listen carefully. I don’t care what colour, creed, religion or sex you are. You swear once more and it’ll be more than a slap. Do you understand?” She frowns, gently dabbing her fingers at her cheek and finally looking to the floor. “You have a world of words in that mind. Use them more exclusively than simple mechanical ramblings.” I don’t care if she understands or not. The fact is, if I’m honest with myself, I savour the prospect of disciplining further than I already have. I feel it in my slightly clenched fists, in my hardened cock, in the way her parted mouth begs for something to be driven inside it until she’s gagging on it and vomiting again. The thought amuses me further as I glance her over and then turn from her again, offering my hand to the chair for the final time. “If you don’t sit, I will make you sit without your consent.”
She sits without further fight or conversation, her wrists unable to reach the table because of the chains, so I push the table in closer and move behind her to fix her in place. And then she stares in bewilderment at the rope dangling above her head as she ducks to avoid it, her eyes hardening again as if to begin more argument. The slight sneer of her lips makes me lower it to chin height and pull it taut in front of her with a snap of warning. She doesn’t move or shake her head. She just remains still, occasionally tilting her head, but letting me begin the process of binding her in.
“Tight,” she mutters on one instance. It makes me smile behind her, half stopping the process and choosing to trail the rope beneath her shoulder blades and back up to coil around her neck. It is tight; I know it is. I’ve been taught to do it this way. The looser the rope, the looser the contact. The looser the contact, the weaker the Dominant. It makes no odds that I enjoy the fear it produces in her, that’s not the entire reason for such tension.
“It’s an extension,” I eventually say in reply, helping her understand the point of it. “It suggests I’m around you. Holding you.” The last of the words irritate me, reminding me of feelings I choose to brush aside as my fingers caress her left arm.
She doesn’t speak again until I round her and stand in front of the finished effect. She appears calm, relaxed even, which surprises me given the bonds I’ve wrapped her in. Her head’s level, her back straight and held in place by the pulley above her head. Her neck is looped into the web, and only affected if she moves from her current elevated position, which is strained, but achievable.
“Balance,” I say, my cock still constricted in my pants and wanting nothing more than to shove itself inside her mouth, or cunt, the latter of which is becoming exceptionally probable if she tries one more argumentative debate. “Put your hands as if you’re typing.” She does, again without brooking quarrel. It makes my eyes narrow, searching for devious intent because of this new sense of compliance. “Are you playing games, Alana?” She shakes her head briefly, still not venturing words or conversation, or even looking at me. “The only loser will be you if you are.” She frowns, a small indent of confusion marring her beauty as she looks at the typewriter and then the paper and ink around her. “No? Are you sure?” I smile at her as she looks back at me, her lips trembling as she struggles to hold herself in the position I’ve forced her into. Comfort is an enemy here, and she’ll eventually realise why. No one can write what she wants to unless they feel it, and no one will understand the merits of such discomfort until she learns how to convey it succinctly.
“Ink it, and then write about my hand in your cunt.”
I’m not sure what the expression is that comes back at me from that statement, but one of amusement seems to deliver some content of reflection.
“I’m not sure my cunt can remember,” she replies, the corner of her mouth lifting by only a few millimetres as she reaches for the pot of ink. She fusses with it for a moment then scowls at the machine, ratcheting a lever to gain access to the mechanism and wincing as something cuts her.
I watch for a while, musing her legs widening in response to her own words and barely restraining myself from offering a reminder of my hand inside her as she sucks the finger. She teases efficiently, her lips enveloping her bloodied digit with little care for the outcome of such follies. Perhaps she’s given up caring for her safety, or perhaps she’s simply goading, unable to contain her need for something she neither understands nor is ready to admit. Either way, I’m so close to ripping at my pants, regardless of how ready she is or not. The weight of my fucking cock strains against the material hiding it, scarcely hindering itself from bursting through and taking what it wants.
“You tease like a little girl.”
“I am a little girl.” My brow shoots up at her instant comeback, my cock commencing the same upward scramble for escape as she fiddles with her machine again and eventually finds the entrance she’s after. “Are you my Daddy?” The question almost makes me come in my pants. In fact, I’m so shocked by it that I falter half a step backwards, pocketing my hands to hold them in place rather than allow them any forward momentum. And her fucking legs widen again as I do, locking themselves around the base of the chair to enable her to reach further. “I’m thinking fucking would be useful, Daddy.” My own mouth fumbles for a retort, ready to forget words even exist. “I felt your cock against me earlier. Ready for me, is it?” She looks over at me, her sexy half smile turning into something I’ve not seen previously as she unscrews her inkpot. “I can feel your hand in there still. Was that the plan? Make the little girl ache? Surely there’s more than that to all of this.” I stand, bemused as she widens her smile into something gods could crave. “How does a little girl need to ask for her fucking?” She dips her finger in, carefully scooping up a dab of black liquid and then dripping it onto the paper. “How does one become so stained one forgets normality and delights in the extraordinary?” I feel my mouth twitch into a smile, breaking through my confusion, irrespective of how I’m trying to hide it. Little girl she isn’t, not by a long shot. And much more of this and I’ll happily forget any amount of tuition I’m attempting and go straight to the type of discipline brats like her enjoy.
>
“Interesting analogy of your situation.”
“I came here, didn’t I? Smothered myself for this. I’m far from a child, Blaine. Teach me,” she says, her voice hovering at a level I’ve only heard once before as she moans the words, echoing them as if they come from her depths. It makes me remember the feel of her cunt around my hand again, the taste of her lips. “This is irrelevant. Show me what it feels like to be fucked by you. I rather enjoyed the slap.” My feet step backwards, my eyes still watching her as she fingers the paper and draws circles on it with the black ink. It riles me further, making me think of instinctual thought rather than the kind she needs for her story, because madam is pushing buttons she has no idea about. “What’s the matter?” she asks, her finger rising to her chest and drawing the ink through the middle of her cleavage. “Not ready to show baby how to act like a grown up?” She fucking pouts, bringing with the look connotations of degradation she hasn’t even contemplated let alone heard of. If she winds much further, she might well get a deliverance of pain that scares her senseless. I can feel it in the back of my spine, straightening me as my hands come back out of my pockets ready to grab at her. “Baby girl needs staining, Daddy.”
“Boss?”
“What?” I shout the question at Tyler, swinging my eyes to the guy standing in the doorway and snarling at the fact that he’s still fucking here. “Get out.” My fists clench, my jaw following the action as I look back at Alana and try holding myself away from her.
“You need to leave, boss.” Fucking leave? There is nothing presently as important as showing this little girl what real women are made of. And I’m pretty sure she already knows, anyway. Fucking coaxing and goading. Pushing buttons. Push, push, push. Winding up the damn air between us. Time madam was shown a real lesson or two to ensure she understands the fucking dynamics.
“Fuck you.” I’m not sure who I’m saying it to, it’s possibly myself.
“Ah, naughty. Watch that mouth, Daddy.” Fuck her, too.
If I could swing my hand to reach her, I would. The thought penetrates areas of my mind I’ve forcibly closed, so much so that I grind a step away again, my brogues clanking the fucking floor and raising the sound around us all.
“Will you haunt my dreams, Daddy? Make me come in my sleep?” I snarl at her, outraged at her ability to aggravate me, then glare as she dips her other finger back into the ink again and fiddles the ends of her hair. Black streaks appear, mingling with the purple ones and causing a riot of dirty images to collide in my mind. “Should I do it myself?” she asks, lowering her blackened hands and heading them for her thighs. “Can one stain oneself with need?” No, she can’t, not if she wants to continue breathing. It causes yet more resentment to build inside of me, widening my sneer to the insanity I’d once felt with Eloise. And then she hitches her dress, flecking the ink across her thighs and digging her nails into it to scape upwards to her cunt. “Baby needs you, Daddy.”
“Stop.” It isn’t an order as it leaves my lips, or perhaps it is but I hardly mean it. The need to fuck her is becoming unbearable, something I’m willing forward with every swipe of her fingers as they drive into her skin, announcing the need I know she has. What’s happened to change her I don’t know, but I’m so fired up about the outcome I can do nothing more than exhaust myself with another footfall backwards, hoping to stem my flow.
“Why? Is Daddy scared of what he’ll do to me?” Yes.
“Miss, you need to shut up or—”
“I’m not sure you get to speak in here,” she cuts in, not once removing her locked gaze from mine and lifting her dress higher. She squirms in the seat, the coil of rope around her neck inducing more writhing, heightening the already tense mood. “Does he, Daddy? Tell him to leave us so you can stain me properly.”
“You need to stop this attitude.” I mean it this time. She does. She’s not ready, isn’t capable or strong enough. And my needs have been confined for so long I don’t know how they’ll explode on her skin. Perhaps it isn’t her. Perhaps it’s me who isn’t strong enough, still. So long I’ve kept this all at bay. Nothing has tested my resolve like this. No one. Not since… The thought of her eyes staring back, vacant and lifeless, makes me back away again, my body suddenly hitting the wall and not allowing the escape I need.
“Daddy’s scared,” she fucking mewls, licking her lips and landing her fingers exactly where they shouldn’t be. “Baby girl’s too much for him.” Her fingers move, her head tilting back into the rope and allowing the sensation to take her off to the precise place I’d hoped she’d find. It’s all I can do to think, let alone act. It’s all becoming too much to contain. She’s in complete control of the room, her body claiming everything she needs from a simple wrap of rope. Fuck. The thought alone makes me weak, my arms trying to reach her without any thought for wellbeing or care. I shift forward, my feet leading me to the very thing I crave. I do want to fuck her. I’m desperate to. And I want to stain her pretty skin with everything I have to give. She’s right. I want to bruise her, mar her perfection and then enhance its integrity until she shines brighter than before. I want her panicked screams and her pain. I want the dulling of her eyes, the open mouthed gasp in the final few seconds. I want her life should I ask for it, because in this moment, I’d happily give mine for just one fucking taste of her. I’d fall from cliffs. Walk in front of cars. Decimate all sense of living if I could just bite into her flesh and feel it breaking beneath his teeth. There’s no fucking point in life without that sensation anyway. I’m lost without it. I have been since Eloise. I just exist, barely enjoying taste or flavour without actual physicality to endure my wrath. Just one taste. What would be the harm? She’s asking for it. Begging. Provoking and riling me. She needs it, doesn’t she? I know she does. I saw it in the water, watched her beg for it then. And how she fucking moaned beneath me, her body gliding against mine, fitting perfectly into my hands and proving her worthiness. She wants it, and now it’s going to happen. I’ll deal with the lasting damage tomorrow. After I’ve finished ruining her, just so I can put her back together, slowly, piece by piece in my own fucking time. That’s what she’s come for really. That’s what she needs for the perfect little story. Deliverance and liberation. Escape from the illusions she creates. Reality is what she needs. Real fucking tears, something to hold inside her and remember for its true worth in a world full of fake drama.
A hand suddenly touches my shoulder, digging in and bringing me from my fantasy of pleasure-seeking decadence. I damn near rip Tyler’s arm off for daring the physicality as I glare back at him.
Fuck. I close my eyes to either torment, switching off her groans as she begins masturbating though her underwear. And instead of doing what I need to, what my muscles scream at me to do, I do what I should do. Just as a good fucking sadist should. I turn and walk from the room, nodding at Tyler for intervening and ready to beat the shit out of him for it in the same breath.
The conundrum is so baffling that I bite the inside of my cheek as I walk along the corridor, attempting to stifle the need to lash out in aggravation. It doesn’t work. It only harbours yet more necessities, renting out the aggression in a different form. My hand swipes at the hall table, sending vases and objects crashing to the floor as I continue biting into myself, tasting the blood. And then I turn again, my body driving itself back to the thing I want most without my mind agreeing to the event. “Fuck.” I just manage to keep the power from my voice, muttering instead it as I kick broken shards of ceramic along the floor in front of me. “Why now?” I’m not sure who I’m asking, possibly the little bitch in the room behind me who I’m still glaring at.
The irrationality of the whole fucking thing makes me sigh out and spin again, my feet walking from her possibilities rather than allow my body the response it wants. And eventually, I burst out into the midday sun, instantly drawing in long slow breaths, hoping to rid myself of the need to turn straight back around and go finish what she’s started. Fucking groaning. Desperate
mewls and wandering fingers. Blood and bindings. I’ve needed it more and more since she’s appeared in my life. Why? I fucking know why, much as I hate the thought. She’s new. Special. Untouched. She needs releasing and using until she’s raw and panting for the unobtainable in civilised society. And that fucking connection I’m denying, the one that forces itself through my guts and offers hope to vicious hands, it’s debilitating to reason. If only I hadn’t taken her call. I could just be relaxing now, ready to let my sadist lie in its quiet dwelling, occasionally letting it dabble with things open for use.
“I don’t want this,” I say to nothing other than the sea in front of me. I swear the ocean laughs back at me, heckling me into remembering Eloise again and the way she took everything I had to give. It’s enough to shame me, the sight of her vacant eyes flooding me with reminders and loathing as I glare out at the calm waters gently lapping the cliffs.
“She’s a wild one.”
I spin on my foot, surprised at the voice of Delaney as he comes out onto the deck. Wild? He’s fucking right she is. The words makes me lick my lips as I stare at him and wait for information as to why he’s here, glancing over the man’s casually dressed frame. Not that I care. I’m too busy trying to control the eruption that crawls my bones as I analyse the situation at hand.
“She’s…” I don’t know what she is. Fucking idiotic is a good word. Stunning. “Ignorant.”
“Doesn’t look it.”
I growl, snarling at the man and turning back to the ocean to abandon the conversation before we start debating her merits like she’s a piece of meat to be devoured. She isn’t. Not by Delaney anyway. That thought alone is unsettling, let alone the vision of what I want to do to her. It makes me jealous, an experience I’ve also not felt since Eloise.
“It’s acceptable for you to fall again, you know?” No it isn’t. Alana’s here to learn. Nothing else. Why she’s decided to wind me up rather than stay in the context of the situation is mystifying, but I’ll give her thirty minutes calming time and then start again. It’s the sensible approach. The one she needs to make this story of hers work. “She’s clearly more than a fancy for you to have come out here with her. How long has it been?” I snarl to myself this time, remembering Eloise in the exact same room, her naked body opening the French windows onto the deck for fresh air. The cross she hung from. Her skin, stripped and weeping as she waded into the sea to bathe in the salt. Her cries as the sting cut in, causing yet more pain and making me smile as she wandered deeper.
Once Upon A (Stained Duet Book 1) Page 21
