by Sansa Rayne
Maybe if I show up looking like this, no one will recognize me, I think, grinning. That’s the spirit.
My smile turns into a yawn, so I shut the lights and head back to bed. After a few minutes, I slip, at last, into the night.
—
I wake to the smell of breakfast, though the clock says it’s already past noon. Coffee and bacon waft into my bedroom and entice me to sit up, all traces of grogginess fleeing in moments. Despite my unease, I’ve slept for at least nine hours.
Pierce, of course, is in the kitchen, turning over eggs in my skillet, the bacon already resting on a paper towel and a plate at the table.
“Good afternoon, pet,” he says, grinning as he turns to me. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“I am,” I say, noticing the toast, orange juice and sliced cantaloupe next to the bacon and coffee. “Let me get washed up.”
I check my phone while brushing my teeth, and it kills me to admit I do a news search on Chase, just in case. Thankfully, I find nothing. After a quick shower, I blow dry my hair; by the time I finish, breakfast is finished and Pierce is sitting in wait.
“You sleep well?” he asks, buttering a piece of toast.
“Yeah.” The bacon looks deliciously crispy, so I go straight for it. “You?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. I woke up a few times. Had some bad dreams. But it’s fine. I’ll sleep well tonight.”
“Oh?”
Smiling, he sips his coffee. “Eat up, Sibel. You’ll need your strength.”
Clenching my thighs, I get the sense we’re not talking about a day of shopping. “What are we doing?”
“We’ve got the show in less than a week. Between then and now, you’ll be modeling most days. This is our last free day to spend together, possibly for a long time.”
I take a bite of the scrambled eggs; light and fluffy, with cheddar melted in, they’re truly perfect. “You know, it’s not like they’re going to lock me up and throw away the key. We’re not committing a felony.”
“True,” he says, having a bit of bacon. “But you’ve already pulled a stunt like this before and gotten off easily. You’ve probably used up all the leniency you’re going to get.”
“Yeah, I know. Still, the maximum penalties aren’t so bad. Even if they throw the book at me, I won’t be gone that long.”
Pierce sets down his fork and gazes longingly into my eyes. “Even one day is too much.”
I can’t help it — I snort and laugh. “God, you’re corny. But I love it,” I say, leaning across the table to kiss him. He smirks and meets my lips. His hand curls around the back of my head, and for a second I think he’s not going to let me go, but then we separate.
“Eat your food. I’m serious, you’re going to need it.”
—
Pierce rushes to load the dishwasher once we’ve finished eating, and then we’re out the door. On the way to his truck, he texts Chase, who replies quickly that he’s fine. Relieved to hear it, Pierce smiles the rest of the way, which includes stopping for a variety of supplies before heading to his warehouse.
When we arrive, I notice Pierce adds a second chain and padlock around the handles of the front door, ensuring no one else can get in. Once he’s finished, he sets down a black duffel bag and takes out a plug and a bottle of lube.
“Take these, pet,” he says. “You know what to do.”
Oh, god.
The plug is shiny and clean, so I put it in my mouth, freeing up my hands to pull down my black leggings and panties. Pierce folds his arms and grins as he watches; already the crotch of his tan trousers is rising.
I get the plug out of my mouth, then drip lube onto it, and spread the liquid all around; when the toy is nicely coated, I reach back behind me and line it up to my tight rear. Moaning as the pressure builds, I shoot Pierce a beseeching look, but he shakes his head as if to say, Do as you’re told, pet.
My struggling only lasts a little longer; soon I build up the pressure enough that the toy sinks in, sliding in deep. It feels impossibly thick, and hard as a rock. I wiggle my hips, feeling it shift inside me. The intrusion makes my pussy clench with its own need, so I turn to Pierce, biting my lip and batting my eyes.
“Pull up your pants,” he says, taking the bottle of lube. He wipes my hand off with a towel, and I comply, though I’d much rather be undressing. “How’s that feel?” he asks.
“Good, sir.”
He grins, reaching into his bag again and retrieving a set of handcuffs, which he tosses to me. “Behind the back.”
Snapping the cuffs around my wrists, I listen to each click; the sound elicits fresh warmth from my core, which aches with need. For a moment I fight against the restraint, but my wrists are thoroughly bound, and I can’t break out. I can reach down my backside and feel the base of my buttplug through the fabric of my pants, but I leave it alone — if I want to touch it, I’ll ask permission.
Pierce gets out a collar from his bag — made from thick, black leather with a row of iron studs, it looks delightfully wicked. He locks it around my neck, securing it with a series of tiny padlocks, then hooks on a long, chain leash to the D-ring at the collar’s front.
“Move, pet,” he commands, giving the leash a tug.
I break into motion, trotting to keep up; the movement makes me yelp as the plug jostles inside me. “Oh God, oh God,” I mutter, feeling the toy with every step.
Pierce chuckles, leading me down the hall toward the camera station. By the time we get there, my panties are soaked, and I’m practically shaking with need.
This time I see he’s set up a St. Andrew’s cross, the X-shaped arms painted red with thick, black outlines along the edges. I’ve never seen it before. “Is that new, sir?”
“Ordered it specially for you, pet. It’s custom made, suited to your height. I hope you like it.”
“I love it,” I say, staring. I can’t wait to see how I look bound to it, my arms and legs spread apart…
Oh, fuck.
Pierce turns on the cameras and monitors, taking his time. I watch each screen flicker to life, practically bouncing on my heels.
“Now, strip. Everything below the waste.”
You bastard.
I glower at Pierce, who looks back at me with a mischievous smirk. If he wanted, he could strip me in seconds. Instead, he’s going to watch while I struggle to complete the task. If it wasn’t so freaking hot, I’d be pissed.
Shaking off my sneakers is easy enough. My socks I remove by scrunching up my toes and using my other foot to hold down the fabric while I pull my leg out. The cement warehouse floor is freezing, but after a second, Pierce gets out a fuzzy, pink bath mat for me to stand on.
Pulling my pants down with my hands bound requires working it lower in stages; it takes time, and a lot of bending at angles that help me feel the plug, but I get it off. On the screen, I see myself in just a white halter top and plain, skimpy panties, my arms hidden behind my back. I look like I’ve been kidnapped, at the mercy of a monster, with no hope of escape…
I’m about to finish slipping off my panties, but Pierce steps in and stops me. He runs his hand over the damp fabric, feeling the heat coming off my sensitive cleft. “Have I brought you to a proper boil, Sibel? Or have you done that on your own?”
“Both, sir,” I answer, twisting my hips back and forth.
“Naughty,” he says, yanking my panties up between my legs, wedging them in harshly. I yelp, instinctively lifting up onto my toes, but it doesn’t help much.
“Sorry, sir,” I squeak.
Pierce kisses me, and I moan, fighting to keep myself raised on my toes; yet, the feel of his lips and the friction on my clit saps the strength from my knees. I hold on, not wanting to fall, and soon Pierce lets me go, yanking off my panties in one move.
Exposed to the cool air of the warehouse, I shiver. However, what Pierce says next really brings me chills.
“Open.”
Hesitant but obedient, I lower my jaw a little, afr
aid that I know exactly what he has in mind. He then confirms it, pulling my panties between my lips like a handkerchief. He ties it off behind my neck, ensuring the wet, musty garment won’t come loose.
I should be repulsed, but the way it looks on the screen elicits such a thrill, I don’t care. Every second since we arrived has stoked my arousal a little higher, to the point where I imagine just a little touch could bring me straight to orgasm.
“Please,” I mumble through the gag, thrusting my thighs forward.
Pierce laughs loudly, his voice echoing through the building. “There we go. That’s the right temperature.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a magic wand, a sight that brings me tears of relief.
He saunters toward me holding the toy aloft, making sure I can see. “You’re going to be good, and wait for permission to come?”
“Yes, sir,” I say with a slight slur. It’s a promise I’m not sure I can keep, but I’ll definitely try.
“Good.”
He presses the device’s orb against my pussy and rubs it back and forth, very gently. It isn’t even turned on, but immediately I’m launched into a spasm of bliss. He keeps going, and soon the waves of ecstasy are coming without end.
“Oh, God!” I shout, my waist moving in rhythm with Pierce’s rubbing.
“Are you ready to come, pet?”
“Yes, please!”
Pierce winks, which isn’t a good sign. “Not yet,” he says.
To make my suffering even worse, he finally thumbs on the power to the vibrator. Surging to life, the sudden sensation overwhelms me, and there’s nothing I can do: I come hard, howling as pleasure erupts throughout my body. Pierce must be taking mercy on me, because he doesn’t withdraw the device, and lets me ride the orgasm until I’m an exhausted mess.
He wraps an arm around my legs, keeping me upright and balanced, while also forcing the device harder into my swollen flesh. Writhing in his grip, I taste my juices in my mouth and smell them heavily in the air. My head feels airy, and my chest heaves as I inhale deeply. My ass throbs too, clenching down on the plug.
When the orgasm’s energy fully releases, and I stop wrenching in Pierce’s grip, he shuts off the vibrator and stands up. He holds me by the shoulders, then embraces me, hugging me close. I’m still shedding relieved tears, resting my cheek on his chest. He reaches behind me and unlocks my handcuffs, then gives my plug a few loving taps.
I moan from the touch, then mumble in mild panic as Pierce suddenly starts walking me backward. We stop in front of the St. Andrew’s cross, and he immediately sets to work binding me to it. He secures my wrists and ankles with red and black leather straps that match the colors of the cross, and in moments I’m fully restrained and helpless.
“Sibel, are you with me?” Pierce asks, his tone full of humor and menace. “Hello?”
“Yes, master,” I mumble.
He steps up to me and pulls my panties out from between my lips. “You didn’t ask my permission to come, pet.”
“No, sir,” I say. The memory had been hidden from me, but now it’s clear. “I’m sorry.”
“You were unable to control yourself. Is that correct?” he asks, retrieving a flogger from his bag.
“Yes, sir.”
Pierce steps in, nodding. He kisses me and plays a little with my plug. “In that case, your punishment will be to come again and again, so much that you won’t be able to stand it.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, trying to sound contrite and keep the smile off my face at the same time.
“And after that,” Pierce whispers, “your true punishment will begin.”
Her eyes go wide at “true punishment.” She’s wondering, What does that mean?
She probably thinks she’s going to enjoy it. She’s liked everything else I’ve thrown at her in this dungeon — why should whatever comes next be any different?
It is though. She’ll see. It’s cruel, and scary.
Of course, whether or not she likes it doesn’t matter. Either way, she needs it.
Not yet, though. There’s more fun to be had first, starting with a good flogging. I go hard on her pretty, round breasts, though I don’t forget about her thighs, stomach and pussy. Throughout, Sibel feeds on the pain, using it to fuel her arousal. By the time her skin glows pink all over, her pussy is slick and ready for more.
I strip off my pants and roll on a condom, eager to drive my cock into her drenched hole. When I plunge inside, I feel the plug still lodged in her ass. Sibel moans blissfully, her jaw hanging wide open. She’s so primed that I don’t waste any time: I start hammering right away, wracking her with unstoppable euphoria. While I thrust, I slap at her breasts and pinch her nipples, spicing up her orgasm with the pain she craves.
Sibel’s howls leave my ears ringing, but I don’t stop. I grin, lamenting that I elected not to gag her again. By the time I hit my peak, she’s climaxed at least two or three times. I haven’t kept count. My own massive rush of bliss carries me away, lost in the feeling of Sibel’s walls clamped tightly on my throbbing cock.
When I finish, I quickly unlock her from the cross and carry her to bed. We’re both wrapped in the afterglow, and even when I regain my composure, I give Sibel a little longer. For what comes next, she should have her rest.
—
Sibel wakes and tries to rub her ass, which is no doubt sore from having the plug in for so long. I’ve taken it out while she slept — I did a few more things too. Her hand stops suddenly, unable to travel very far by cuffs and chains.
Her eyes shoot open, startled into alertness. “Pierce!” she gasps, taking stock of her situation.
This isn’t the first time she’s woken up bound, but this is a far cry from the usual ropes, cuffs or tape around her wrists.
“Oh my god, are you serious?” she calls out, seeing the extensive irons binding her body. I’ve shackled her arms and legs the way an inmate is secured for transport, hobbling her ankles, chaining her wrists to her hips and locking her hands together in front.
“I wanted to help prepare you for what lies ahead,” I say, stepping into her field of view. “Prison is no joke, Sibel.”
“This is so fucked up, Pierce!” she growls.
Her anger goes straight to my cock, but I suppress the feeling. “No, what’s fucked up is that you’re turned on by this. Aren’t you?”
She sighs, though it still has an edge. “Yes, sir.”
“We’ll see if that’s still the case after intake,” I say, lifting her up to her feet.
“Intake?”
I march her through the warehouse to a small, dark room I’ve set up for the occasion. Inside there’s an old, wooden table, illuminated by a desk lamp; on either side of the table, a chair. I help Sibel into her seat; she flinches, her ass still sore, but settles in.
On the table, she sees a pair of yellow rubber gloves, a notebook, an ink pad and a pile of moist hand wipes.
“Jesus, Pierce. Really?”
“This is what happens when you get arrested, Sibel. Better get used to the idea.”
She glares but doesn’t argue. I slip on the gloves, then proceed to dip each of her fingers into the ink. I press each one onto the paper, making sure to roll her finger back and forth across the page. When we’re done, I use the wipes to clean off the ink. Sibel stays quiet during the process, and I think the reality starts to dawn on her.
That changes quickly, however. As soon as we finish, her face loosens in relief. The act of walking in all the cuffs and chains refreshes her arousal; though she does her best to hide it, there’s no mistaking her heavy blush.
“Bend over,” I order when we reach an old washroom. “Bend your knees and cough.”
She complies, unable to keep a grin off her face as I spread her cheeks. Being inspected in such a manner should be humiliating, but she doesn’t seem to care.
“You think when it’s a stranger staring at your asshole, it will be enjoyable?”
“I’ll think of you, sir,” she replies.
Goddamnit. I like the sound of that, but I’m not going to tell her now.
“Go stand over there,” I bark, pointing toward the corner, where there’s a small drain. “Face the wall.”
She does as told, but I catch her peeking over her shoulder. “Eyes forward.”
From a nearby sink I pull out a short, black hose I’ve fastened to the faucet; I turn both knobs on full blast, and after a second a jet of water sprays out the end.
Sibel shrieks.
“Too hot or too cold?” I ask, training the stream away from her.
“Too cold!” she shouts, her body already shaking with shivers.
I aim the water back at her, raking it up and down her back. “There’s no such thing as too cold. It’s prison.”
She screams, twisting against her cuffs, unable to help trying to get out of the way of the water.
“Stand still, prisoner! I won’t tell you again!”
“Goddamnit!” she screams, though she does as told, including when I order her to turn around so I can get her front. Her eyes closed, chin raised to the sky, she trembles with each gust of water. When I finally shut it off, she’s practically convulsing.
I grab a pair of towels and cover her body with them, rubbing her down and drying her quickly.
“They d-d-don’t d-do that in p-p-prison,” she grumbles.
“I think they do, Sibel,” I reply, working on her hair a little. I don’t want to dry it completely, considering what comes next.
After a few minutes, when she’s dried and warmed by my body heat, we move on. I guide her into the next room, where I’ve set up one of my cameras on a tripod, and connected it to a laptop. Behind us on the wall is a board with a height chart printed on, the lines evenly spaced at an inch apart. Next to the laptop is a placard with Isaacs, Sibel written on it. I hand it to her and drag her in front of the chart.
“Look into the camera. That shouldn’t be hard for you.”
She sticks out her tongue, holding the placard in front of her breasts; at that moment, I snap a photo. It appears on the laptop, which I pick up and show to Sibel. Defiant, funny and blisteringly sexy, she looks hot as hell, even with her damp hair matted to her scalp. “That’s a really good one.”
