I watched him as he came around to release my wrists, but he didn’t meet my gaze. Instead he chained my manacles back together and twisted the metal links in his fist. I was forced up off the bench and walked over to the ladder rack affixed to the wall. I felt the heavy plug in my ass with each step. He made me stand with my back against the rack while he attached my wrists high over my head. My breasts were forced forward and I had to stand on the balls of my feet.
I watched him cross to the chests of implements and return with a crop and a clear Lucite cane. Oh shit, oh shit. While my throbbing ass bumped against the rack’s bars, he flicked my breasts with the crop. I threw my head back for a moment, breaking eye contact, but there was no way to escape. The tip of the crop connected with my nipples over and over, sharp bites of pain on my most sensitive, delicate skin. At least he’s not using clamps, I thought miserably, but then I thought, those will be next, when my nipples are already hurt.
I returned my gaze to his face because I was supposed to keep my attention on him in the dungeon, whether he was giving me agony or bliss. This was agony. His eyes were hard and intent. He didn’t miss a nipple once. When they felt painful enough to fall off, he put down the crop and picked up the cane. I glanced warily at the thin, whippy tool, then returned my eyes to his face.
I got five cane strokes against the fronts of my thighs, while I screamed and jerked and danced on my faltering toes. Every time he hit me, it felt like he was slicing me open. By the end of the cane strokes I was so frantic and clenched up that the plug felt huge in my ass again.
I caught his gaze and pleaded with my eyes. Please, please, I’m sorry I failed you. I’ll do better. This hurts so much. Tears streamed down my face. He stared at me, stern as ever. “I could be harder on you, you know,” he said. “I could tear you up, but I won’t, because I love you.”
That made me cry harder. He ran fingers through my tears, smearing them in with my drool. “Cry all you want,” he said gently. “I won’t let you get away.”
* * * * *
She was fucking poetry.
Chere was poetry in my dungeon, fixed to my bondage rack. I sighed, then leaned down and kissed her cheek, tasting her tears.
“We’re not done yet,” I said, massaging her reddened nipples. “I’m going to fuck your ass now. Hard. I’m going to punish you with my cock.”
She gave me a sad, pleading look, but she knew I’d stick to my plan. I released her arms and took her over to the toy chests. I opened the drawer with all the nipple clamps and let her take a good look. Today, she was getting awful ones. I toyed with her nipples, enjoying her gasping and flinching. I took out a pair of heavy black clover clamps that would tug like hell when I bent her over and subjected her to a rough assfucking.
Bad slaves got punished. I’d warned her that the deadline was approaching, and she’d decided not to act. I was the kind of Master who punished every infraction, no matter how small, and her failure wasn’t a small thing.
“Stand up straight,” I said. “I’m not going to fight with you over these clamps. Keep your hands down and stick your tits out.”
She did, but she was still crying, still scared. Her chest quailed with her sobs, but that was the point of punishment, to use pain to teach her a lesson. I clamped the first nipple as she squealed behind the gag. The walls were soundproof, thank God. Gag or not, she was making a racket. I clamped the other nipple and let the chain fall down between her breasts. She stared at me as I did it. She was required to look at me, as a power thing, yes, but a safety thing too. I decided she was eighty percent done, but she had a little more hurt and humiliation to endure. I marched her over to the sawhorse and bent her over it, hooking the chain of her manacles to an attachment point on the floor.
She squealed again as the position caused the heavy, hanging clamps to yank down on her nipples. Poor baby. Well, she was the one who’d fallen in love with a sadist. That kind of love came with a price.
“Stop that whining,” I said, yanking her head back by the hair. This, too, jostled the clamps and increased her pain. I kicked her legs apart, spread her wide open, and shackled her ankles to the bottom of the horse. The plug came out next. Big, glass plugs couldn’t be comfortable for her, but at least they stretched her open a little before I commenced the anal portion of her ordeal. I stripped and lubed myself up, and took her hips in my hands, and pushed against her clenching hole.
Her little muscle resisted, but not much. Her ass was still scarlet from the paddling, and I made sure to squeeze her cheeks painfully as I drove into her, inch by inch.
Maybe you think I’m too cruel. Maybe you think I’m a bastard. Yeah, I’m both of those things, but she was here, and she accepted the sadistic side of me like the hardcore masochist she was.
Once I was seated all the way in her ass, I added more lube and settled in for a rough, prolonged fuck. Ten minutes. I never left those kinds of clamps on her for more than ten minutes, and a couple of minutes had already gone by, but eight minutes of rough assfucking probably felt like an hour to her, so it would be enough.
Oh, God, she felt so good on my cock. Her sphincter clenched around me, sending shock waves to my balls. She was bound and impaled, my hurting creature. Now and again she’d squirm over the padded top of the horse, which was naughty, but hell, it increased my pleasure. Let her squirm. She wasn’t getting off this ride until I let her go.
Pretty soon, I started to feel like I was going to come, and it was too soon, so I pulled out of her and went for the strap. I gave her a few swats across the ass, and was rewarded with lovely moaning. I changed the angle and landed a couple strokes on her glistening, exposed pussy. She bucked her hips and jerked her legs in their bonds.
So beautiful. I plunged back into her ass, hurting her, taking her. After a minute or two of hard fucking, I pulled out again and strapped her, just on her pussy this time. Agh, agh, agh, such beautiful protesting sounds, and of course, every time I made her jerk, it hurt her nipples worse.
Chere, the things you endure for me. I love you so much.
I pushed back into her ass, reveling in her body’s trembling acquiescence. I slowed down, enjoying the final deep strokes before my climax exploded. I covered her with my body, sliding over her warm, damp skin. Her punished cheeks felt hot against my hips as I embraced her. I emptied myself inside her, feeling a little sad about how much I hurt her, but feeling glowing contentment too.
Punishment, Price. This is a punishment, not cuddle time.
I pulled away from her and took a moment to remove the nipple clamps before I went to wash up. She waited there, bound and crying. Poor little slave. She should have tried harder to sell herself as a designer. I meant for her to find success, because I was determined that our dynamic not rob her of her greater purpose in life. She was going to make it, if I had to do rough anal to her every fucking week to motivate her.
Ah. Rough anal every week.
I shook off the fantasies and returned to my bound penitent. I decided she should spend a little time straddling the bad-girl sawhorse to really drive my point home. I put a new, even larger plug in her ass and unbound her so I could turn the top of the horse to the peaked side. The rounded edge would dig mercilessly into her girly parts and make her very sorry for her crimes.
I positioned her on the horse and bound her hands up over her head so she couldn’t slouch or squirm away from the discomfort. Her feet didn’t quite touch the ground. There was no more pleading in her gaze when she looked at me, only exhausted submission. Her face was a mess of tears, and her chest was a mess of drool. I took off the gag and cleaned her up as she struggled on top of the sawhorse.
“Don’t be a baby,” I said, ignoring her mewling cries. “You earned this. Ten minutes.”
That caused more crying. I grabbed her collar and kissed her, taking her sobs into my mouth. “Everything hurts, doesn’t it?” I asked as I pulled away. “Your ass hurts, your nipples hurt. Your thighs hurt.” I traced one of the five pink w
elts on her straining legs. “And it hurts inside you, doesn’t it? That big plug, just after I reamed you with my cock? And of course, your pussy hurts.”
I slid my fingers between her pussy and the structure digging into her labia. I found her wet, engorged clit. “It hurts, doesn’t it, baby? You can answer me.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Her voice sounded weak. She was ninety-eight percent done now. Maybe ninety-nine percent. Edging her would be too much. I stopped stroking her clit and shoved my finger in her mouth. She sucked it clean so prettily that I kissed her again. There’s something about kissing your slave when she’s crying and going out of her mind…
The last five minutes, I just stood back and watched her, this gorgeous, masochistic woman who’d transformed my life. I admired her chestnut curls, gazed into her striking brown eyes, and adored every pale freckle on her face. Why didn’t she understand how much I loved her, how much it would take to make me leave her? Her self-destruction, nothing less. I had to keep that from happening, even if it took extreme punishment sessions like this.
When the ten minutes were up, I helped her off the horse, took off her pretty manacles, and led her back into my bedroom. I turned on the shower and pulled her under the water to clean her up. She was trembly and melting, clinging to my shoulders. I love you, she whispered over and over. I’m sorry. I hushed her and licked a trail up her neck, and kissed her hotly and deeply with water running down between our lips.
When we got out of the shower, I dried her off and studied the damage I’d wrought. Nothing permanent, but she had some garish marks. I stroked her pussy and asked if it was sore from the horse, only because I wanted to listen to her soft, sad voice say “Yes, Sir.” We went back into the dungeon to straighten up the toys and put them away in their respective drawers, and the hurting part was over.
You survived. Good girl.
I threw on some jeans and a tee shirt and led Chere out to the living room. I had her sit at my feet while I ordered takeout from a local Italian place. She rested her head against my leg, exhausted. I played with her curls and read a book until the food arrived.
It was a good night for a quiet dinner in. Chere cried through most of it, unable to sit still in her chair. I drew her into my lap instead, and fed her Chicken Parmesan from my plate while she sniffled and trembled.
“That’s enough now,” I said. “Eat a little more.” And she did, because I was her Master, and I had power over her for as long as we played this game.
After dinner was cleared away, I sent her to her bedroom and went back into the dungeon, over to my evil chests of torture instruments. I opened the drawer with the harnesses and chastity belts, and took out the one without the butt plug attachment. She’d probably endured enough anal punishment for one night.
When I brought the chastity belt into her room, Chere paled, but made no protest. She whined a lot less these days. She was a lot less self-protective. She used to cower when I presented shit like this, and cross her arms in front of her. Now, even after all I’d put her through, her arms rarely left her side.
I studied her, fingering the metal plate that would lock away her clit and pussy and prevent any stolen pleasures. “You probably don’t need this tonight,” I said.
She shuddered. “No. But if you want to put it on me…”
“I trust you,” I said, frowning. “More than you trust me. But since you’ll be sleeping alone in here…”
She clasped her hands together in supplication. “Please, Master, please let me sleep in your room, even if I sleep on the floor.”
I held up a finger to silence her. “Where do you sleep when you’ve been naughty?”
Her face fell. “Alone. I sleep alone in here when I’ve been bad.”
The welling tears almost defeated my sense of purpose. Naughty slaves slept alone. It was one of our rules, and if I made her follow the rules, I had to follow the rules too. I’d sleep with her tomorrow, and things would be right again between us. The punishment would be over, penalty paid, behavior improved. That was the way things worked.
I fitted the custom-made chastity belt onto her hips and smoothed the metal plate between her legs before cinching it snugly in the back. I turned the key in the lock and reminded her that it would be on my bedside table if she needed it. Emergencies only, of course.
I ordered her into bed and hardened myself against her sad, puppy-dog eyes. Did I want to sleep beside her? Yes. Did I want to slide into bed with her and kiss her all night while I ran my fingers over the straps and links of her chastity belt? Fuck yes, but I only tucked her covers tightly around her and kissed her on the cheek.
“All right?” I asked.
“Yes, Sir,” she whispered.
“Tomorrow’s a new day.”
She nodded, wiping away tears. Again, I considered lifting her up and carrying her into my room, but all that would prove was that I was weak, and she needed me to be strong. I got up and left, and returned to my own empty bed, and masturbated twice in a row when I could so easily have been inside her.
But sometimes, for a punishment to be effective, you had to punish yourself too.
Chapter Three: Submission
The housekeeper made breakfast during the week, served promptly at seven. I showed up to the table to find Price bent over his tablet, and a folded piece of paper tucked beside a chocolate truffle at my plate.
He looked up and studied me, and murmured “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I returned in a mostly steady voice.
A half hour ago I’d had his cock in my mouth, hard morning wood driving deep in my throat to remind me of my place, or more accurately, his ownership. Afterward he’d unlocked me from the chastity belt—that felt like ownership too—and told me to clean up and put on my clothes for work. Vera, the housekeeper, knew none of this. She only came by in the mornings to cook and straighten up, and make sure the kitchen was stocked with all of Price’s favorite foods.
God, I was tired today, and sore. My feelings seemed to mill on the surface and my nerves felt stripped. Vera bustled in from the kitchen bearing omelets, fruit, kefir, and a plate of lightly buttered toast.
Price thanked her while I reached for the piece of paper and unfolded it, and held it in my lap. His dark, bold handwriting had become my compass point, my map, and sometimes my life jacket when I thought I might drown.
The sound of you, a mournful wailing,
A million Sirens, a goddess crooning
In perfect, magnificent surrender
I looked up at him as Vera left, feeling shy. “Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
I thought the poetry he wrote was a thousand times better than the poetry he used to give me, written by someone else. His words were as powerful as his architecture and design, to me anyway. They were as powerful as the way he touched me and controlled me, and fucked me every night. I stole glances at him as he started to eat, wondering for the millionth time how I’d gotten here, how I’d ended up in this strange, fraught relationship.
“How did you sleep?” he asked.
“Not very well. I missed you.”
I noted the slight purse of his lips. “I missed you too. Now it’s time to set a new goal.” He put down his fork, wiped his mouth with the napkin in his lap, and looked at me. “You have two weeks from the time we return from Paris to find your first client. I want you to try harder this time, so we don’t have to fucking do this again.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“One client will lead to another client, which will lead to another client, and so on. It’s hard work, but I know you can do it. You’re strong.”
I loved when he called me strong. Somehow, he’d gotten it in his head that I was this scrappy little fighter, although I didn’t see that in myself. I was trying to see it, for him.
Vera came in with hot coffee and we fell silent. When she left, I pushed my phone across the table to him. “Andrew and I texted last night.”
We’d had a lot of those conversations in the first few days, when he’d piled rule after rule on top of me and told me I had no say in how he ran our relationship. He was in charge, I was not, and he let me know it from the start. He’d warned me, hadn’t he? He’d left me, twice, because he felt he’d be a bad influence on me, too controlling and overbearing. I’d begged him to return and control me.
So that’s what this was, me sitting here with a sore, hurting ass while Price scanned last night’s text conversation with my gay best friend. Of course, I’d had to warn Andrew that his texts might be read, full privacy disclosure. I tried to make it sound fun and kinky, that Price insisted on having my passwords and occasionally checking my texts as a power exchange thing. “So be careful what you say,” I’d warned him.
Andrew definitely found it creepy, but he was in a power exchange relationship too, subbing to his boyfriend Craig, so what could he really say? For all his lectures about red flags, I think he was secretly excited to have Price read the details of his sex life with Craig. He wasn’t so happy about the no-calls-from-men rule.
So I can’t ever call you? he texted when I told him why I never answered the phone.
I see you once a week. We can talk then.
At least your Lord and Master allows that.
Yes, sometimes he lets me out of the dungeon to do things, I texted back, like our thing was cute and okay.
But maybe it wasn’t okay.
Price flicked through the conversation. It had been short. I hadn’t been much in the mood for chatter and Andrew had just wanted to say good night. He slid the phone back to me. It was his phone, on his plan where he could check who I called and how long we talked. He’d taken away my own phone when I moved in.
Trust Me Page 3
