by Cerys du Lys
“He just gave you to me, you dumb bitch. Just told me I can do whatever the fuck I like with you. He doesn’t care, bitch. He doesn’t care a bit.”
He was making that up. It wasn’t true.
She couldn’t let it be true.
He released her with a violent flick of the wrist so that her head jerked sideways and pain stabbed through her neck and down her spine. That casual gesture said so much about the man’s power: all that muscle...
He stood, so that she had to crane up to look at him. “I’m going to own you, bitch.” Eyes fixed on hers, he pulled his t-shirt up over that tattooed body and tossed it away to one side.
“Fuck off,” she hissed. “You lay one finger on me and–”
“Yeah?” He was grinning. So confident. “And you’ll do what?”
He reached for the button on his shorts, hooked a thumb behind it and flipped it undone.
She narrowed her eyes, but bit back on the words she wanted to spit at him.
He slid his zipper down, pulled his shorts open, exposing the base of his shaft and the bare skin around it, shaved smooth and tattooed with angry, dark swirls.
Now... the purple extended down his shaft. Not more tattoos, but bruising. He let his shorts slide down to bunch around his thighs and his slim dick sprang out towards her, semi-hard and kinked 45 degrees to the side at the point where that dark bruising was the most intense.
She glanced up into his eyes again. So much anger!
“You’re mine,” he said, through gritted teeth. He reached forward and took a fistful of her hair, bringing her face up close to his damaged manhood.
“Fuck off,” she said again.
“He’s watching,” said Danny. “CCTV. He likes to know what’s going on. He watches everything.”
She glanced past him, around the basement, looking for cameras. Watching?
Danny... You owe Danny big time.
The purple head of his dick brushed across her lips, and she clamped her mouth shut.
You owe him.
With his free hand, Danny took hold of his damaged shaft. It looked so painful. Why was he doing this?
He guided it towards her and she felt him, smooth and wet against her lips again.
Jeremy was watching. That’s what he’d said. What would he want her to do? How could she prove herself to him?
He’d want her to let her lips part the next time Danny’s dick brushed against her. Take him in gently. Work him with her tongue and the roof of her mouth. Take him deep and squeeze her throat around him. Ease him gently until he came in her mouth.
Would this be the first time for Danny since... since she’d broken him?
Was this what Jeremy wanted to see?
In her head it made so much sense: something simple and clear among all those other swirling, confused thoughts.
They drug you, you know.
She was drugged to the eyeballs. Moments of relative clarity and then... confused, her head full of random, swirling thoughts and memories. Fragments bleeding into one another. Somehow... she had to focus.
She tipped her head back a little, Danny’s fist still tangled in her hair.
She parted her lips, made eye contact. Saw that moment of recognition in his eyes: he was going to fucking own her.
“You do that again,” she said, “and I’ll bite down so fucking hard you won’t have anything left but a stump. And you know what? I’m so stoned I wouldn’t care what the Hell else you did to me afterwards. You hear me? Bitch?”
He slapped her across the cheek, hard. Made harder by the fact that he was still holding a fistful of her hair so that there was no recoil from the impact.
He swung his hand back across her other cheek, hand open, knuckle-side first. It was almost a casual double blow, as if to say there was so much more where that came from.
All the time, his eyes never left hers.
He tugged her hair hard, tipping her head up so that her throat was stretched, tight and exposed. He slapped her throat now, and she gagged as pain exploded in her neck. Then he slapped her face again, just once this time.
He was trying to make her hurt, she realized. If he’d wanted to damage her he would be punching her again. Kicking her as she kneeled before him.
Another slap, and her whole head was a numb, ringing mass of pain.
Another.
She must have closed her eyes, lost herself in the blackness of that ringing pain. When she opened them it took a moment to focus, and then she met Danny’s look again.
His grip still tight in her hair, he brought his dick close to her face and started to slide his other hand along the shaft. As he pumped, the foreskin slid back and forward across the purple head, and as she looked a clear, wet bead appeared out of the slit end.
When she looked back up at his face, she was sure there were tears in his eyes, tears starting to spill over onto his cheeks.
Why was he crying?
His jaws were clenched tight, his breath short, rasping.
He was hurting.
He was hurting even more than she was.
But there was something relentless in that look. A grim determination.
He had to do this.
Had to get it done.
Had to... his jaw sagged open, his eyes widened. She looked down and there was a sudden creamy blossoming in that tiny slit in the head of his dick, a blossoming that expanded and then shot through the short space between them to leave a wet trail across her nose, her cheek, her jaw.
He cried out, an animal squeal, and then another pulse of semen spat out at her, wet and sticky against her neck and then running immediately down between her breasts.
One more pulse pooled, but didn’t spit out, just gathered in his hand around the head of his dick and then ran down across his knuckles.
The tension went from his grip in her hair, and then he straightened, pulling his hand clear. His other hand still clutched at his manhood, cradling it protectively.
He paused, looking down at her, and then spat once again, leaving a trail of his spittle running down her neck and breasts.
8
He left her there all night.
Was this how it was going to be now? No bedroom with its balcony and view out across the garden to the town and the sea. Just this basement, and Danny coming back to do whatever he wanted with her?
She woke some time in the middle of the night. Sore from the beating and from lying here on the cold, hard floor, her wrists still cuffed and chained to the wall.
She put a hand to her face. It felt puffy, tender to the touch. A dry crust had formed where Danny’s juices had landed.
She remembered Danny telling her there were cameras, that Jeremy was watching everything. What must he have thought? Had he enjoyed it? And was it the violence or the act of seeing her with Danny he had enjoyed the most?
She scrubbed at the dried patches on her face with the heel of her hand.
What had she become, that her thoughts focused first on what Jeremy must think?
That magnetism. The hold he had over her. Her immediate gut reaction was always to be his.
Someone had brought her water.
She took the plastic bottle, raised it to her lips, and drank.
The water gave her release. Or whatever was in it did so.
She slept, dreaming of Danny and fists, of his skinny, broken dick pulsing with semen and Jeremy always there, watching, smiling, nodding.
§
She had no idea how long they left her in the basement.
She drank the water, ate the bland microwaved food Keira brought her, allowed herself to be unlocked and led to a bathroom, slept on the hard floor.
The drugs made it easier. Everything just ran together into one bad dream.
Then Keira came for her again and it was different. She unlocked El and helped her to her feet, then led across to a doorway that opened into a bathroom.
El could barely walk straight. She allowed Keira to guide her onto
the toilet, and lower her until she was sitting. While Keira stood there, El peed, sitting with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands.
She heard water running, and looked up to see that Keira had started the shower. “He’s back,” she said, through that mutilated mouth, the lips painted a glossy red to emphasize the ‘O’.
She didn’t need to ask who Keira was referring to.
Him.
The man.
Jeremy.
Again, that first reaction: a racing of the heart, a need. Always: that initial response before anything more rational took over.
She stepped under the jets of cool water, letting them run down her body for long minutes before she started to rub at her wrists and then at her shoulders. She found some gel, filled a cupped hand and then rubbed it over herself, working it up into a froth before allowing it to wash away again. Shampoo. Teasing the knots out of her hair.
Keira was standing in the doorway, arms folded beneath her breasts, watching her.
“Did you choose this life?” El asked her, over the hiss of the water. “Or did they fool you into it? Did they lure you in and trick you until you realized you were so far in there was no way out?” A moment of clarity made her ask that question, but then it vanished again, as her thoughts tangled and she started to lose her words.
She tipped her head up, caught water in her mouth, and swallowed.
When she looked again Keira was just watching her. Was she considering an answer? Or was she simply ignoring the question? It was so hard to read any expression on that perpetually surprised face.
Then, finally: “He’s back,” she said, as if El had asked her nothing at all.
When El made to leave the shower, Keira stepped forward, shaking her head. Reaching over to a cabinet by the door, she produced a little leather pouch.
Before El knew what was happening, Keira dropped to her knees and put a hand on El’s hip to steady her. With her other hand she opened the pouch. Inside there was a safety razor and a plastic bottle of something clear. Keira took the bottle, squirted some gel onto a cupped hand, and then pressed it to El’s pudendum – a sudden, unexpected pressure.
El gasped and took a step back, but Keira’s hand went to her hip again, stopping her. Deftly, Keira applied the gel, rubbing it into the stubble and then sliding her hand under, between El’s legs.
El stepped back, this time moving clear of Keira. She glanced around, suddenly remembering what Danny had said.
He’s watching, you know. CCTV.
Was this another of Jeremy’s games? Was he watching this right now?
She held out her hand. Keira hesitated, then passed her the razor, still on her knees before her.
El ran the blade down across her mound, then in from the sides, running a thumb along afterwards to check for any missed stubble. Raising one leg, she rested a foot on the toilet, and then she reached down, spread the folds of her sex smooth, and shaved between her legs.
Done, she dropped the razor by the pouch then stepped back under the shower to rinse herself again.
Finally, reaching for a towel to dry herself, El said, “So? Where is he? I presume he wants to see me.”
§
There were no clothes for her, so she followed Keira up into the main part of the villa naked. If anyone was to somehow catch sight of the two of them it must be such a strange sight: Keira with her sex-doll mouth and her basque and fishnets leading El naked through the stark white hallway to the wide room that opened out onto the terrace.
Jeremy was in the same recliner as before, his back to the villa so that he could look out towards the sea.
It was a power thing, she knew. He didn’t have to look to see who approached: he was secure in his own kingdom. He was the man.
The same simple wooden chair was positioned ready for her, just beyond the pool of shade being cast by a tall parasol over Jeremy. Without question she moved round to it and sat, her back arched as his eyes roamed over her body.
“You owed him, Eleanor,” he said, with no preamble. He peered at her over those small sunglasses, made brief eye contact and then tipped his head and all she saw were the two dark lenses. “Do you feel you’ve made up for your transgressions?”
She hesitated. What did he want her to say?
“I saw it all,” he said into the pause.
So Danny had been telling the truth: Jeremy had been watching them that evening... however long ago it had been.
“Did you enjoy it?”
He smiled at that. “You know how much I was always the visual one,” he said. “I like art. I appreciate beauty. I like to watch. I know now that I like to watch you. I only ever fantasized about it before, though. Does that shock you, even now?”
How had she missed so much about him? How had he hidden this all behind that smooth, restrained persona?
“I wanted to watch him fuck your face,” he went on, his tone still light. “I told him that. I could see he was scared. You see he isn’t fully healed yet, and you had, after all, broken him once before.” He tipped his head to one side, smiling. “But as I say: I like obedience.”
He indicated the low table to his side, where two ice-filled glasses sat next to a pitcher of clear, sparkling liquid. “Would you like to drink?”
The sun was hot on her shoulders and back. If she stayed out here much longer without protection she would burn.
Jeremy smiled at her from the shade of his parasol, but made no move to pour drinks. Was he waiting for her to do so? Was this some kind of test? She was over-thinking again, and she tried to clamp down on the stream of thoughts rushing through her head.
“You enjoyed it, too, didn’t you, Eleanor?”
She felt a sudden rush of... of guilt, anger, embarrassment. Had he seen something in her reaction that night? Something she’d been denying ever since?
“Tell me, which part did you enjoy the most? The humiliation? The sense of fighting back from your chains against a brutish man like Danny? The visual of him standing over you with his fist in your hair and his penis only an inch or two from your face? Or was it more the physical? The pain when he hit you. The way he pulled your hair as he held you. The feeling as his semen splashed against your skin? What was it, Eleanor? What was it that gave you that private little sluttish look in your eye you sometimes give when you’re about to come?”
Just his words... She was in denial again. Trying to be in denial.
How did he know her so well? The woman she had become, not the one he had married... How was it that he recognized that double-edged response? The pain and humiliation sitting alongside the sense of being owned and controlled... the sense that she was getting what she deserved and it was right...
Is this what it was like to discover that you’re a submissive? A sense that something so wrong, something you had always denied, was how you really were?
“Come here.”
She went to him without even a thought. She moved forward immediately from her chair and kneeled at his side as he indicated. She was only vaguely aware of Keira looking on from her position in the doorway. Was El stealing her place? Was she the one to put her face in Jeremy’s lap now and have her hair stroked?
He put his hand to her cheek, his fingers in her hair. Then he turned that hand and ran his knuckles down the line of her jaw, her neck, and down across one breast.
“Are you ready to change, Eleanor?”
She had changed already. She had been changing continually through the past two years. Finding her true self amid the chaos of her life. He knew that: he could see that she was vulnerable, that she would be so easy to manipulate and possess. She understood that. She gave herself up to that.
“I like that you shave yourself smooth,” he said, and his hand worked lower, down across her belly until he could reach between her legs and cup her sex.
She bit down on her lower lip, stifling a gasp.
“It shows that you are not only open to change, but that you are actively explorin
g change. It tells me you like to feel vulnerable.” With that he closed his hand around her softness, trapping her labia, squeezing so hard she cried out.
“Are you ready to be broken, Eleanor? Are you willing to let me be your master?”
He eased his grip, then withdrew his hand altogether. Immediately she felt that absence of contact as somehow more physical than the pain when he had gripped her so hard. Still kneeling, she rocked back on her heels, feeling nauseous, dizzy.
Her head... how did he keep messing with her head?
She heard the snap of his fingers and looked up. His hand was raised and now Keira came across the terrace, almost scampering in her eagerness.
“Keira recognizes her master,” Jeremy said. He pointed, and she kneeled at his side, across from El. He took her face in his hand and tilted it towards El. “She’s willing to go to any lengths for me,” he went on.
He squeezed so hard that the ‘O’ of her mouth took on the shape of an inverted teardrop.
“Are you willing to do that for me, Eleanor? No, don’t worry: I’m not proposing a little more amateur surgery. I’m not sure I like it. It amused me that her mouth had become designed for one thing only – and believe me, my little pet gives exquisite head – but it is, well, it is something of a permanent feature, wouldn’t you say?”
With that, he released Keira’s face with a disdainful flick of the wrist.
“I need to know how far you would go for me, Eleanor. It’s important to me.”
She’d been willing to mutilate Danny. She’d been willing to kill. Was that enough? She watched him, those mirror-shaded eyes, and waited for him to go on.
“I need to know that you are mine,” he said. “I need to own you, my love.”
She swallowed, her throat dry. Her heart was racing. Was this where her journey was leading? Had she finally come home?
“I’m yours,” she said to him softly. “I always have been yours.”
He gestured, and Keira stood, then started to unfasten her basque. As the last of the hooks at the back came free, she clutched the stiffly ribbed material to her chest, then at another gesture from Jeremy, she lowered it. Her waist was slim, her belly flat. Her breasts were full, a slightly paler honeyed brown than the rest of her skin. The nipples were wide black pools. She was quite statuesque, something she emphasized with her posture, something proud and defiant about the way she stood, as if poise and beauty were how she expressed herself best.
