by Linnea May
"You're right, it wouldn't help," he says. "But you seem oddly accepting of all of this."
Because you're paying me to fucking be here.
I thought neither of us was allowed to address any of this? Why is he saying these things?
"What do you want me to do?" I repeat my earlier question. "Tell me and I'll do it."
He huffs again, and I yelp when he closes two fingers around each of my nipples and squeezes them, hard. The pain leaves a throbbing aftermath when he removes his hands.
"I'd be careful with those words, toy," he says. "I will ask a lot of you in the time to come."
He reaches for the washcloth and continues to let in travel across my skin. I hold still and let him proceed, obediently moving and positioning myself as he pleases. He's thorough, and so gentle. He even shampoos my hair and takes a little extra time to clean my face, making sure that none of the carefully applied make-up from last night is left on my skin. It irritates me that I took this much effort, only to have him remove it all, my clothes and my make-up, without ever truly appreciating it.
When he's done, he tells me to stand up and get out of the tub, where he greets me with a big, plush towel. But before he wraps it around me, he drinks in the view of my naked, wet body. He's hard, I can tell by the unmistakable bulge at his crotch. Judging from what I can see beneath the thick fabric of his jeans, he must be huge.
It may be instinct, it may be occupational habit, but when I'm close enough, facing him as he wraps the towel around my shoulders, I reach forward, gently caressing his impressive bulge. I bet he wouldn't say no to a blow-job; they never do.
But he confuses me yet again. Instead of moaning and leaning into my touch, he jerks back and slaps my hand away.
"Slut!" he hisses at me. "Have I given you permission to touch me?"
I look up at him, the same confusion painted across my face that has become a constant companion since I got here.
"No, but I thought-"
"You don't get to decide!" he interrupts. "You don't get to decide or control anything. Do you fucking understand?"
This is the first time that he's raised his voice to me. My heart is fluttering.
"Do you understand?" he repeats, his dark eyes on fire.
"Yes," I hurry to say. "Yes. I understand."
But I don't. I really don't understand.
Chapter 9
Ruby
I'm mad at him. I'm mad at him for not appreciating the effort I've shown to impress him. I'm mad at him for being this way, for leaving me in the dark about his plans and his ideas about how this is supposed to go down. How am I supposed to please him if he doesn't tell me what to do? So far, he seems nothing but displeased with me, and I have no idea why.
Well, that's not exactly true. I have a vague suspicion that he's not happy with my acting. I'm not scared enough, not desperate enough. He finds fault with my lack of struggle, my lack of screaming and crying, and even when he found me this morning, a pathetic pile of misery with dried-up tears crusting my eyes, a silent plea on my lips, even then he wasn't happy.
This night was horrible. I hate the dark, always have. But I recovered from it just as quickly as I tend to recover from all the mistreatments I've endured throughout my life. I'm a fighter. I bounce back quickly and come out on the other side a stronger person. I’ve always been that way; I’ve had to.
But I can tell that he wants me weak, scared, and broken, losing my mind in a furious fit while pointlessly lashing out at him.
That's just not who I am, and I don't have the acting skills to pretend I’m that kind of person.
After he wrapped me up in that gigantic towel, the gentle treatment abruptly came to an end. He led me out of the bathroom, and as he pushed me forward, I feared that I'd end up on that damn bench again. There was no other surface to lay on, which is probably why he placed me there while I was still unconscious.
But he's not pushing me toward the stretching bench again. Instead, we're heading toward an open area in front of a St. Andrew’s Cross that's nailed to the wall.
"Down, on your knees," he commands, and I comply immediately, like the good slave I know I can be.
I tilt my head back into my neck, my gaze searching his for approval.
"Spread your thighs, palms on your knees," he orders, and I follow suit. This is a common slave position, and I've been asked to present myself like this before. The towel that's been wrapped around my body falls down as I spread my legs, but I don't bother picking it up.
He pauses for a few moments, observing as I present myself in the way he asked. Then, he drops down on his knees in front of me, coming almost to eye-level with me.
I withstand his strong gaze, almost proud of my endurance. His look is intense, especially coming from a man as handsome as he is. No client has ever turned my insides the way he does, and no one has ever confused me this much, on so many levels.
And as it turns out, he’s only going to make it worse.
"Who the hell are you?" he asks, catching me off guard with that unexpected question.
Do I have to come up with some elaborate background story about the character I'm playing? If so, why was I never instructed about this?
"What do you mean?" I ask.
He groans, knitting his eyebrows once again.
"Well, my name is-"
"I don't need your fucking name," he interrupts. "Your name is ‘toy’ while you’re with me. That's all I need. Do you understand?"
I nod, boiling with anger inside.
"Yes, I understand," I respond. "And what am I to call you? Since you don't like Sir..."
"Master," he says. "You'll call me ‘master’."
I nod again. "Yes, master."
His next question baffles me even more.
"Are you a whore?"
I gasp. Why the hell would he ask that? He knows that I am, even though I despise the word.
There were no instructions about any of this. I have no idea what to do, except to stick to the truth.
"Yes, I am," I nod, emphasizing every syllable and adding weight to my words, as if they were new information for him.
"That explains your fucking get-up," he says. "You looked like the perfect fuck doll."
"Thank you."
He chuckles. "Why do you think that's a compliment?"
"I take it as one."
"Were you waiting for a client?"
I look at him, letting a few seconds pass before I dare reply.
"Yes, I was."
"For several days?"
"Yes."
"I never saw you with anyone," he continues. "Did he not show up?"
I take a deep breath and lift a hand to touch him, but I withdraw it just as quickly. No touching. I remember. I retreat and place my hand back on my thigh, where it belongs.
I lower my eyes before I give him a reply.
"He might have," I say in a low voice.
"Might have?" he probes. "You mean after I took you?"
I look up to meet his eyes again. Why is he doing this? What kind of story am I supposed to tell? I don't want to ruin this for him, because I may forfeit my payment, but I'm also lost as to how I’m supposed to answer these questions.
Lying, acting. That's what I'm being paid for. So that's what I'll do.
"Yes," I say. "My client probably showed up last night, right after my coat was stolen, right after you took me."
He nods.
"How long have you been doing this?"
I bite my lower lip. "A few years."
"Elaborate."
"Four? Maybe?"
"How old are you?"
He knows how old I am; it says so in my file.
"Twenty-five."
He licks his lower lip and scans my naked body. I flinch when he reaches for one of my boobs and twists my nipple.
"When did you get these done?"
"About three years ago."
"For your clients?"
I nod. "And myself."
He sighs, placing a finger below my chin and tilting my face up to his. Our eyes lock onto each other, and again, there are moments of silence, moments that turn into seconds, seconds that feel like minutes.
"Am I doing something wrong?" I dare to ask, while he's still holding my face in place.
He shakes his head.
"Are you not afraid of me?" he wants to know. "I sedated you. I took you to a remote house God knows where, I tied you up and left you alone in the dark - and you just silently sit there and endure it all? Not to mention, you reach for my cock any chance you can get."
He pauses, continuing to observe me as if I was some kind of weird research project.
"That just doesn't seem right."
I swallow hard.
"What are you going to do to me?"
A dark smile appears on his face. Finally, it seems I've asked the right question.
But then he says something that I can’t let go, not like that.
"I'm going to break you," he says. "I'm going to tear you to pieces, break any defiance, tear down any walls, and rob you of any free will. I'll do unspeakable things to you, until you're completely and utterly mine."
My pulse is racing and I feel as if a clamp is closing around my throat, choking me with a overwhelming sense of fear. He's actually scaring me with his words, and if it wasn't for the contract laid out between us, I'd be terrified to no end.
But then it hits me.
That's exactly what he wants. That's what he's paying me for. I should forget about the contract for a while. I should act as if all of this was real, as if my life truly was in danger, as if I had no idea what to expect, as if I had to fear the worst from him.
And it works. As soon as I let myself believe all those things, my breathing changes. I'm panting, and it only gets worse when he moves his hand toward my throat and actually starts choking me.
"That's right," he hisses, his black eyes flickering as triumph sets him on fire. "When I'm done with you, my toy, you won't be able to do anything on your own, you'll depend on me for every step you take, but most of all..."
He pauses, relishing the moan that escapes my lips when he reaches between my legs to find my wet, hot, and throbbing core. I know I'm wet as fuck, and it happened within seconds after his threats started to get to me. That's just who I am. I'm fucked-up. Being terrified turns me on, pain turns me on, being at a man's mercy turns me on.
"Most of all," he continues, drawing circles around my wet clit. "Each and every single one of your orgasms will be mine."
I gasp when he parts my lips and forcefully shoves a finger inside of me, first one, then two. I instinctively start grinding on his skillful fingers, but he keeps me in place.
"You don't get to decide," he repeats. "You are not in control."
I whimper, closing my eyes as a blend of agony and pleasure travels through my body, taking over every single part of me, my core, my limbs, my mind. His hand is still wrapped around my neck, choking me ever so slightly, but not enough to cut off my air. He fucks me with two fingers, and I nearly lose it when he uses his thumb to massage my clit.
"You like this, don't you?" he hisses, moving closer, his face now so close to mine that I can feel his hot breath on my skin.
I want to reach up, I want to touch him. I yearn for his impeccable body and his undoubtedly massive cock. But I keep my hands in place, just like a good girl should. This is what he wants, and for once, I actually know what to do and what not to do.
"You have no fucking idea." His deep voice cuts into my dazed thoughts with a daunting echo. "I don't know what's wrong with you, but whatever fucked-up things you've done so far, you can rest assured, it won't live up to this."
I groan in response, too aroused to make sense of his words. He's playing me like an instrument. My climax is imminent and the only thing I can worry about right now is whether I'm allowed to come or not.
"You think this is a game, don't you?" he piles on. "You think I'm joking. You think I'm going to let you go once I've fucked you senseless."
I pant, trying to hold back the first waves of my orgasm, as I feel them approaching in violent crescendos. But he's making it impossible. He adds another finger, stretching me so much it's almost painful, while he continues to play my swollen nub.
I'm not easily scared. Not really.
But I’ve never heard anything more terrifying than his sinister and triumphant laughter when I explode in a mind-numbing rapture on his hand.
Chapter 10
Loran
I'm so badly prepared, I don't even have proper food for her. After her climax, my toy almost collapsed into my arms, managing just in time to pull it together and straighten herself up before I had to tell her to. Again, she looked at me with those expectant eyes, awaiting commands like a trained puppy.
When I asked her if she was hungry, she shyly nodded, and it wasn't until I left the basement to rummage through my kitchen that I realized I have very little to offer her. However, she happily accepted the bag of potato chips and the very basic sandwich I provided for her.
I leave her alone once again because I have things to attend to, and ordering food is but one of those tasks.
I head up to the second floor to the bedroom that serves as my office when I'm here. When you're in my position, work never really stops, vacation or not, slave in the basement or not. I'll have to make sure that none of my responsibilities are neglected while she's here.
I'll also have to think of a plan for afterward, when I'm done with her. I can't possibly kill her, but if I just let her go like that, I'll be in bigger trouble than I ever was. One thing is for certain: she can never know who I am. She has seen my face, but she has no way of knowing my name, and I intend to keep it that way.
I jump at the sound of my cell phone ringing. I didn't expect any calls today, and when I pick it up to see who's invading my dark space, I knit my eyebrows.
"Joel," I say, greeting my older brother with the same tone of annoyance he deserves. "Didn't expect to hear from you today."
"Trust me, I wish I didn't have to make this call," he says, clearing his throat. "I'm in trouble, man."
I sigh. "What else is new?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know, I already owe you big time. You don't have to rub it in every time we talk-"
"Yes, I do," I cut him off. "Because your memory fails you often enough. You don't just owe me, brother. You wouldn't even be able to make this call if it wasn't for me."
He groans. I know the facts pain him, but I'm the only one who can force him to face the truth, the harsh reality that I took the blame for something he did and still came out on the other end as the winner. His wealth and standing is only based on our family's fortune, and by now it's just a fraction of my own. He knows it, I know it, my not-so-beloved parents know it. But no one ever speaks of it.
"Dude, I'm aware of that," he says. I hate it when he calls me that. Even if we were closer than we are, I'd still despise this word. It's the vocabulary of a low-life. "Listen, they are after me again, and I fucking need your help."
"They?"
"Investigations," he says. "I thought they had dropped the case, but it looks like they're still not done with that bullshit."
I let out a deep sigh. How is this even possible? And why would they still go after him?
"Why are they on to you again?" I ask. "What the hell did you do, Joel?"
I can hear him inhale in exasperation.
"What makes you think I did anything, I-"
"You must have," I insist. "And I won't – no, I can't - help you if you're lying to me. You can lie as much as you want to our parents or your poor wife, but you can't fucking lie to me, if you want me to help you out. Again."
He sighs.
"I wasn't even doing anything wrong," he begins. "It was just a little fiddling, just a little something to save us some money."
I groan in anger. That fucking idiot. Sales tax evasion was what got him in trouble to begin with. Wh
en he talks about 'saving money,' it's safe to assume that he's been messing with his taxes again, either his own or those of our family's company. Oh, I fucking hope it's not the latter.
"Really, Joel? How can you be that fucking stupid?"
"It was different this time!" he insists. "It wasn't even illegal - or so I thought."
"Don't tell me over the phone," I say. "We'll have to meet."
"Yes," he says, sounding relieved. "Yes, sure. That'd be great."
That'd be great? I sure as hell hope he has more than that to offer. I've taken the blame for him more than once, and I'm beginning to think that my failure of a brother is merely using me to compensate for his own deficiencies.
"Can you come over today?"
"No, I can't. It'll have to wait until after the weekend."
"What?! But it's very-"
"Monday - or not at all, Joel."
He groans angrily. "Fine. Monday. Lunch at Clark's?"
"Your treat," I say, ending the call. I don't need my useless brother buying me lunch. This is merely a matter of principal.
He's three years older than me, married, with a child on the way. Yet I'm the one who constantly has to clean up his messes. He's always been bad at what he does, a terrible business man. The only reason he‘s in the position he's in, as the leading CEO of our family's corporation, an endeavor started by my late grandfather, is the fact that he's oldest. My father never even questioned his decision to make Joel heir to his position, even though he has been given plenty of reasons to do so.
His biggest blunder was listening to the wrong guys, men he met while out on one of his drunken gambling tours. Sales tax evasion is a serious offense, and it's even more serious when it's done on such a large scale, as he's done for years. When he got caught, I was the one who helped him out. I took the rap for his misconduct, especially in the eyes of my parents. It was a secret agreement between the two of us. We silently signed over a few major accounts into my name, and I could quickly turn most of the money into innocent income through money laundering. I'm not saying my methods were any more legal than his, but they were definitely smarter and cleaner. The prosecution was led to me, but they were too slow to act before I'd cleaned my accounts. I almost despise how easy it was.
