Because he was so much taller than her, he had to spread his legs to angle his cock into her ass. It gave him that much more leverage to fuck her. As he eased inside her, he took her hands and trapped them against the black words. I belong to Le Maître. My God, what had she agreed to? He moved against her back, pressing his thick cock forward until she groaned in entreaty. This wasn’t the fucking she wanted, or the mastery she wanted. This wasn’t pleasure.
This was submission.
“Stop it,” he said, cracking her flank another time. “Stop shying away from my thrusts. Stop flinching.”
“I’m afraid you’ll hurt me.”
“Oh, I’m going to hurt you, but you’ll survive.”
“Please, Master,” she whispered, trying to move her hips. He held them fast. “I’m scared.”
“Hush and be still, or I’ll tie you down so you can’t move an inch, and then I’ll fuck you like this five times in a row.”
The frightening thing was that she knew he would do it, that he meant every word he said. He had no pity or concern for what she wanted, just as he’d warned her. Helpless whines and pleas fell from her lips as he drove deeper. There was a bit less pain, but still the frightening pressure as he filled her. He put a hand on her neck and tilted her head back, rasping in her ear. “You’re mine, little firebrand, for thirty whole days. You asked for possession. Do you know what I’m doing right now?”
“You’re possessing me,” she said with the little air he allowed her.
“Yes, I’m possessing you. Every part of you belongs to me, even your reluctant little asshole, and I’ll take you there whether you want it or not.” As he spoke, his fingers traced over the trails of her tears, then down to her hips and waist, where he held her for his thrusts. The lube made it easy for him to slide in and out. It was her flesh that resisted, aching from the stretch and invasion.
He might do this to her every day over the next month. Three times a day. Five. She shuddered, coming to a full realization of how dire her situation was. He’d tried to warn her that this wouldn’t be fun, but she’d been so turned on at the idea of being his slave she hadn’t remembered just how brutal he could be. He’d tried to warn her so many times. She’d seen him interacting with his male slaves, heard him being horribly brutal to them through the door of his back room.
She stared at the black words on the wall, and even as the pain made her cry and grit her teeth, she felt an empty, throbbing need in her womb. Her clit felt heavy and sensitive. As much as this hurt, something about it excited her too. Perhaps it was how powerless and vulnerable she felt, and the way he controlled her. She clung to the wall, wondering how long this would go on. There was no question of coming, of trying to take any pleasure from this encounter. He would give her pleasure if he wanted to give her pleasure, and otherwise, she was fucked. Literally. She wanted to reach down and finger her clit. She could have come just from the heightened sense of being a sexual creature—his sexual creature—but she didn’t dare take her hands from the wall where he’d placed them. She was too afraid of what he’d do.
At last his breaths lengthened. She felt his heat against her sore back as he drove into her faster, frightening her with the depth of his thrusts. When she whimpered, he sighed against her ear and circled her neck again, pressing his thumb and middle finger up against her jaw. “I’ve wanted to fuck you like this for so long,” he said. “Against the wall with my cock in your ass, with tears running down your cheeks. You cry out for this, Valentina. To be treated this way.”
“Yes.” It came out a whisper. She said it again, louder. “Yes, Master.”
He rocked against her, going still. His garbled groan of pleasure almost made the pain and hurt seem worthwhile. If she was a true slave, she wouldn’t even think about the pain. Would she? Or was that part of being a slave...reacting to the pain with all the fear and agony she felt, because that’s what Master wanted, to hurt her?
She hoped he would explain these things to her. But tonight, this night, he didn’t. As soon as he pulled out of her ass, he took her to the bathroom and cleaned her up again, and applied more antibiotic, and gave her a toothbrush and toothpaste and privacy. She leaned against the sink muttering dio mio, dio mio over and over until she managed to calm herself.
Then she went out into the bedroom and started freaking out again. The beds were cages. The fourth side of the bed, the open side, had sliding bars which he’d closed most of the way, leaving just enough space for her to crawl in. He stood waiting for her in his robe, every inch the exacting Master.
When she met his gaze, he looked back at her with a half-smile. “Where else would a slave sleep but in a cage?”
For a moment, just a moment, she almost lost it. She almost turned and ran, and tried to escape, but she knew he would have chased her and brought her back again. He was Le Maître and she’d signed her name on his wall. So she didn’t refuse or run away. She crawled, naked and hurting, into his bed-cage and lay under the stark white counterpane and covers like a good slave.
Her Master drew the bars the rest of the way over. She saw now that they worked on a slider at the top. Ingenious. There was plenty of room inside. She could stand up and not hit her head on the bars at the top. Perhaps she could even jump up and down for exercise if he stored her there for long hours. She was really losing her mind now. He wouldn’t do that, would he?
She was too afraid to ask. She only stared through the bars as he hooked a padlock around the post and secured it, effectively trapping her for the night. He went to the door and put his fingers on the light switch, then turned back to her. “Are you afraid of the dark?” he asked.
She shook her head. “N-no, monsieur.”
“Master,” he reminded her. “Always, from now on.”
“No, Master. I’m not afraid of the dark.” But this cage...
“Sleep well,” he said, flicking off the light. The room went black. The door closed behind him and he was gone.
Chapter Seven: Well and Good
Michel left the white room, his senses alert for any sound of panic. He’d had slaves freak out in there. Not many, but some, one of whom had wrenched a leg between the bars and sprained her knee.
He didn’t believe Valentina would lose her composure. For all her rash, impulsive behavior, she was easy to control with sexuality. One look at his cock and she’d gone all soft and submissive, surrendering to a rigorous round of sodomy. While he’d taken care not to injure her, he knew he’d hurt her. He’d felt the tension in her muscles, particularly the tight ring of muscle he’d forced open, and heard the pain in her panting, frantic sounds.
His cock twitched and began to thicken at the memory of it, lazy aftershocks of lust tingling in his balls. He brushed a hand over his swelling organ, willing it, like everything in his life, to submission. Valentina had been through enough for one night. The scene at the Citadel... Dieu, it could have been a disaster. It would have gutted him to lose Valentina, both as a person and a performer. As cruel as he’d been to her tonight, he hadn’t done what he really wanted to do, which was beat her into a cowering ball and rail at her for her foolishness. But he had been that cowering ball once upon a time, and he would never do it to anyone else.
He shook such thoughts from his head. He had controlled himself, honed the restraint he’d practiced as long as he could remember, and tucked Valentina away in her cage for the night, clean, whole, and thoroughly assfucked. He went into his bedroom and checked the video monitor. Yes, still calm. She probably didn’t realize the white room—his slave room—was wired and sound monitored. Every sound she made would come to him through the speaker beside his bed, every movement picked up by a night vision camera mounted in the corner. She would understand tomorrow when she lay in bed waiting for him. The equipment stood out against the white walls, as apparent as the words he’d written, securing her in service to him.
Oh, it wasn’t a legal contract. It wasn’t binding. He had to do the binding part himself,
and he thought he’d made a good start. He stared at her prone form, her small movements as she tried to find a comfortable position with the cuts on her back. Your fault, ma mignonne. With the whipping she’d taken, she wouldn’t be able to work for a few days. A bother, but he would keep her busy in other ways.
His cock swelled again, thinking of those ways. This time he let it fill to hardness, grasping it in calloused palms. A few pulls and he was already halfway to orgasm. As he pleasured himself, he thought about Valentina’s softness, the femininity of her curves. He fucked men when he wanted to master leashed power, when he felt rough and aggressive, because men were difficult to hurt. Women...women were different. They were thrilling precisely because they were so easy to hurt, especially for a large man like him. It took skill to threaten and frighten a woman but not really hurt her. Valentina had been a quivering mess as he sodomized her, and yet she fit him perfectly. He had made her fit him and now she slept, secure in her submission to his will.
Soon, he’d take her pussy and perhaps even let her come. That wouldn’t be as painful for her, the little nympho. She’d go mad with happiness. There would be times he’d bring her so much pleasure she’d nearly explode with it, only because it would amuse him to see her that way. Just wait, little slave girl. With great sacrifice comes great reward. He came in his hand with a sigh, imagining Valentina in the throes of ecstasy, her vibrant red hair thrown back on a pillow, her legs spread wide, offering herself to him, offering everything to him...
He cleaned himself up with a rueful chuckle. It wasn’t the first time he’d masturbated over her, and certainly not the last. For his part, he would make sure she felt rewarded by the end because that’s how he operated. He’d reward her with skills learned, with greater confidence and inner strength. With affection, and lifelong friendship if she wanted it. He never abandoned his slaves, only set them free to find more fulfilling masters or mistresses, because there was one thing he couldn’t give his slaves, no matter how much they pleased him—romantic love.
Romance? Ugh. Love? He distrusted the very word. He distrusted the idea, the concept. His daughter Sara had forced him, kicking and screaming, to become a father, and he had to admit the experience had greatly enriched his life, but romantic love? It was slippery and risky, the very antithesis of control. His parents had loved one another. Michel understood that, saw it in the way they related to one another, the way they returned to each other, fight after fight, arrest after arrest, like magnets drawn together. He remembered them fucking on the floor, on the couch, wherever the urge struck them, not caring that he watched. By four or five he’d learned to leave the room.
He understood now, as an adult, that normal parents didn’t act that way. Normal parents didn’t fight and fuck and try to kill each other. His parents had been a particular brand of people, and addicted to a plethora of substances. He learned that at a young age too, not to eat the powders and pills they took, after a traumatic trip to the hospital to have his stomach pumped. He learned so many things young children shouldn’t have to learn.
He was barely seven when his mother killed his father in a jealous rage over another woman, or perhaps because he’d stolen her drugs. She’d stabbed him in the heart with a dull kitchen knife. He’d screamed at her until the life blood ran from him, and she’d screamed back, and little Michel Leveille had watched all this and told himself, never. He would never love anyone as his parents loved each other. He would never scream and hit and throw things. He would never use drugs.
He would never lose control.
His mother went to prison and he became a ward of the state, assigned to various temporary homes. He sought solace in control, and practiced managing people both older and younger than himself in order to create some calm in the chaos of his life. When he was old enough, he left the last of his temporary homes and traveled, entertaining strangers and saving money until he could pay to change his name from Leveille to Lemaitre.
From the youngest age he had lived a calculated and careful life, free of strong emotion, because the alternative—blood and screaming and terror—did not suit him. Never, he had told himself as a seven-year-old boy. For many years, it was the only word that kept him sane. Now, nothing thrilled him like taking an uncontrolled situation and making it neat and controllable.
He gave another rueful laugh and studied the green-tinged monitor. Valentina Sancia, a raw, shrieking, crying, emotional mess of a headstrong woman, his newest slave. Had he felt this need to corral her, to control her, from the very moment he met her in Naples? He had denied himself her charms because he feared chaos, but Valentina needed him, pure and simple. She lacked control and he had it in spades.
And she’d be worth the struggle, he knew. She was strong and yet soft and sensual, an erotic combination he found intoxicating. She gave herself over to hedonistic urges with no qualms or inhibitions, another necessity in a good slave. She was beautiful too, with her flaming red hair and porcelain smooth skin. He would enjoy training her and transforming her, teaching her to control her impetuous passions. Perhaps best of all, this arrangement solved a problem for him. Keeping a slave at his home would offset his urges to go to the Citadel, and allow Jason and his daughter to come and go as they pleased. They were newly engaged and needed time to explore one another and be with their friends, without the worry of running into dad in the back rooms.
It was all well and good. He fell asleep with a sense of satisfaction, a sense of everything being exactly as it was meant to be.
*** *** ***
Valentina awakened in the bare, white room, sun peeking through slatted white blinds. It took a moment for her to remember she was at Mr. Lemaitre’s house. Her Master’s house. She lifted her head, her eyes focusing on the black words on the wall, then on the small, blinking camera mounted in the corner across the room.
Was he watching her? Observing her like some animal in a zoo? She resisted the urge to pull the covers over her head. Her back stung worse today than it had last night, and her ass... She felt the faintest twinge of soreness. It was more of an ache, a physical memory of pain and intrusion that made her whole body tense.
A wave of horny response swept through her. He had fucked her ass last night, pressed her against the wall and thrust into her over and over with no thought to her wants and needs. He’d used her and hurt her and then put her in a cage and walked away as if she meant nothing to him. So fucking hot. She slid her hand down between her legs, only meaning to soothe the tingling there, but her light touch added fuel to the flames. She sought out her clit, rubbing it to life with gentle stroking. With her other hand, she squeezed her nipples under the covers, first one, then the other...
The door crashed open. Well, it didn’t crash. It opened wide, and Mr. Lemaitre stood there naked as a Roman statue, providing the mental crash in her brain. Instinctively, she curled her hands away from her pussy and her nipples.
“No, continue,” he said. “Our conversation can wait.” He crossed to the bed and unlocked the cage, and threw the covers back so she felt stripped. Attacked. His light blue eyes seemed dark as he put his hands on her legs and spread them open. “Continue. Masturbate for me until you come.”
She stared at him, still half lost in horny fantasies and daydreams, until he leaned down and slapped her across the cheek. It wasn’t a hard slap. It didn’t send her flying—she’d slapped men much harder, many times. No, this was a delicious, kinky slap, meant to tell her who was in charge. She put her hand on her pussy, feeling hot and cold as he stared down at her with an intent look on his face. She was awake now, under his power, and he wanted her to masturbate. Okay.
His eyes roved over her as she fondled herself, pausing at her nipples as she pinched them, then moving lower to her pussy. His regard alone was almost enough to make her come. She rubbed herself harder, toying with her nipples in a light, soft touch that usually got her off. She closed her eyes, then opened them as she sensed him move again. He brushed her fingers away from her
nipples and grabbed them himself.
His touch was not light or soft.
She cried out as he twisted the sensitive peaks, and shied away from the torment.
“Don’t stop,” he scolded as her hand left her pussy. “Spread your legs wider. Masturbate as you were told. You were all too eager to do it a few moments ago.”
Yes, but then she’d been under her own control. Now, she was one hundred percent under his. Give yourself up to him. Give him your pleasure.
He let go of her nipples and took her face in his hands. “Come, damn you. That’s what I asked you to do.”
She wanted to, but there was some fear or embarrassment that stopped her, some performance pressure she’d never had to deal with before. The longer she took, the more displeased he looked, which made it even more difficult. Finally he went to the nightstand and got a condom, and rolled it onto his rigid cock with an impatient sigh.
“Come here.” He took her legs and dragged her toward him, not being careful of her cuts or bruises. “If you are going to be a sexual creature, then be one. No self-consciousness. No shame.” He nudged the head of his cock against her sensitive pussy, gathering her close. As she stared into his eyes, he pinned her hands above her head and pressed inside.
Valentina drew in a sharp breath, arching her pelvis to accommodate his thick length. He was so solid, so impossibly firm sliding against her spasming walls. It seemed an eternity before he pushed all the way in, but she loved that it took a long time, because this was a joining she wanted to remember. He moved so slowly it was like the world turning, like nature breathing in and out. She counted every inch of his invasion, every measured breath. Sometime in the midst of this, he leaned down and caught her lips in a kiss. Not a tender, sweet kiss, but a biting and demanding one. This was challenge, not sweetness. He was driving her to be the “sexual creature” he claimed she was.
She did her best to give him everything. People said she had no sense of self-preservation, and perhaps they were right. She welcomed every rough, pummeling thrust, sinking down into his possession. When the waves built, when her body started to tense and reach for that peak, she closed her eyes and drifted away on sensation, only to be drawn back by a sharp sound. He stared down at her, insisting on her attention.
Master's Flame (Cirque Masters) Page 8
