TH-Girl-ARE-epub

by EdenBradley

  “What’s your name?” I ask the one closest.

  “Girl,” they both answer, the robots again.

  I shake my head. “Girl?”

  “Just drink your water. This one too.” She pushes another bottle toward me. “You’ll know what to do with the bucket. Otherwise, rest. You’re going to need it. Someone will bring some food to you eventually.”

  My head is spinning as they leave, shutting the lights off before they go. I am in complete darkness other than the very dim light coming through the heavy damask curtains over the single window. But there is also an enormous amount of relief at her words. Instructions. This I can do—give myself over to this place where I don’t have to make decisions. Where someone else will tell me even when to drink, when to eat. When to come.

  This is exactly what I asked for, to such a degree I may never have asked if I’d known this were even possible. To be rendered so completely invisible, even as I am seen, touched, hurt. To experience those extremes of sensation, both pleasure and pain, in a way that makes it safe for me to feel, because I’m no good at doing that on my own. I never have been. No, it’s the restrictions and rules and expectations in being a slave that allow me to. It’s the only safety I have ever truly had. I’m shaking again, but it’s need coursing through my body—need and the relief making me go weak all over.

  I cannot believe I get to do this. I cannot believe I have to do this. There is nothing I can do to get out of this.

  I breathe a sigh and repeat those lovely, luscious words, whispering them quietly in the dark.

  “There is nothing I can do to get out of this.”

  I slept. I only know this because suddenly I am awakened by rough hands on me, pulling me upright, then shoving me down onto the mattress and flipping me onto my stomach. A big hand on the small of my back holds me down hard.

  I hear a voice—a male voice. Him! He says, “Hold her still.”

  Smaller female hands on my body: on the back of my head shoving my face into my white pallet, on my ankles, pulling my legs wide. I want to scream but I swallow it down. I’m sure he’ll give me more reason to scream if I only wait. And I do. Helplessly. I can hear them breathing in the still air. Waiting.

  The waiting goes on for such a long time I begin to wonder if this is all he will do to me. And the longer it continues the more I have to struggle to hold still, until I’m shaking with the effort.

  Finally one finger strokes down my spine, slowly, gently.

  “Do you want this, Girl?” he asks me.

  My last Master would often ask me the same thing, and the answer was always yes, because it was never enough with him. He could never play me hard enough, even when his beatings drew blood, leaving me bruised for weeks. He could never be quite strict enough—not in the harsh way I yearned for. And the answer is still yes, even in this frightening place. But I don’t know if am to answer at all, so I stay quiet. Shaking. I can barely feel the other girl’s hands on me any longer.

  “It doesn’t matter, you know,” he says quietly.

  His fingers impale me so quickly my teeth rattle, and the pain spears through my body like a knife, I am so sore from before. But it doesn’t matter, none of it does. Only the pain and the desire and his hand fucking me hard and fast. Harder as he adds fingers, filling me up. I am so wet, needing to come, but there is no relief—only this rapid fucking, his evil fingers so deep in my pussy I think he may have gone in up to his wrist.

  When he spreads the cheeks of my ass and presses a finger into my anus I exhale, a long breath that is perhaps more a sighing gasp. He doesn’t wait for me to try to relax, which is impossible in any case, before he pushes the finger in, ramming it deep.

  I cry out, but it doesn’t matter. God, how often will I be reminded of that? It doesn’t matter that he is hurting me, except that I crave it. Love it. Love him already in the way I do anyone who takes my power from me as his wicked hands fuck me harder, as he adds another finger to my ass, opens both fingers wide in order to fill my ass as much as my cunt.

  I am burning. Need and fear and surrender washing over me in intoxicating waves. When his hand deep in my pussy stills and he thrusts viciously into my ass, I come, a sobbing cry on my lips, my body twisting in ecstasy, the girls holding me tight. And I need it. I need them to hold me down. To keep me safe in their grip so I won’t lose myself. Or so that I will. I don’t know anymore.

  His hands slip from me before I’m done coming, leaving me not quite sated. Bereft. The girls let me go and they all leave the room. I hear the door close, the snick of the lock. Not that they need to lock me in. I am a good girl, mostly. But knowing I’m locked up in here really does something to my head.

  Rolling onto my back on my pallet on the floor, I pull in one sharp breath after another. I whisper into the dark, “This is really happening.”

  I stare up toward the ceiling, and maybe my eyes have adjusted, because I think I can make out the light fixture up there. But there is nothing else to discover in this room, other than what I will discover about myself.

  I lie there for some time, thinking sleep will take me at any moment, but it eludes me. Instead my mind is filled with reflection. Memory.

  “The Training House is where you need to be, Aimée. It will be good for you. I can never hope to achieve what I want for you if I keep you with me.”

  “Please, Graham, Sir. Don’t let me go.”

  I bury my face in his lap, kneeling on the floor in front of him in his cold London flat, tears running down my face.

  He lifts my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “You have been with me for a year, pet. You know I never expected to keep you. I never expected to want to. But I must let you go because I want you for myself. Too much. I will not be so selfish with you when I can’t give you what you need. This is simply beyond my scope. My resources. You need to be under harsher hands. You need a Master who excels in mind fuck perhaps more than you require anything else. This is the only way you will be able to truly let go.”

  I continue to cry but my tears do no good. His hand on my chin grips a bit harder.

  “You yourself have asked me to send you someplace where you would be worked very hard. Relentlessly.”

  “That was months ago,” I argue.

  “You never stopped needing it,” he says quietly. He lets my face go and gets to his feet. “It’s all arranged. There is paperwork in my study. Go upstairs. Read it. Sign it if you will. But even if you decide not to go, you can’t stay here with me any longer. I’ve taught you everything I can and your time with me must be done. You know this is the right thing for you, Aimée.”

  My heart shatters as he walks toward the door. But even as it does, I know he speaks the truth. I do want more—my body, my very being, yearns for the stark, brutal training in a way that has made me feel fragile lately, as if my skin has stretched too much to accommodate the need. I have to go.

  A small pain forms in my stomach when I think of Master Graham, like a tiny knot made of barbed wire. I did love him, in my own way. I always love—at least a little bit—those who dominate me and do it well, but I’ve never spent that kind of concentrated time with any of the others. And now there is him. The new Master. I know already I’ll fall hard for him, as hard as he will work me.

  Oh yes.

  This is part of what I crave—to love my Masters so heedlessly, so completely, that it frees me to give myself permission to do these perverted, forbidden things. Dangerous things, as my poor, hurting cunt and ass can attest to. And I know it’s only beginning, that today has been nothing but a small taste of what is to come. And I rather love that I have absolutely no idea of what might happen to me. I’ve signed myself over, body and soul, like a pact with the Devil himself.

  The thought makes me smile as I turn onto my side, curling into a ball.

  I am in the Devil’s house. I am exactly where I want to be.

  I curl my fingers into the sheets beneath me, the only thing I have to hold onto. And happ
ier than I’ve been in a long time—maybe ever—I close my eyes and drift into sleep once more.

  Chapter Two

  When the door bangs open and I’m startled awake, there is light coming through the curtains. I must have slept through the night. One of the brunette slaves comes in with a tray. She sets it on the floor beside me, but as I reach for the steaming cup of tea she smacks my hand away.

  “Bucket first, then food.”

  “Oh, I…” I don’t know what to say about the damn bucket, even though my bladder is full.

  “You didn’t use it last night?” Her voice is harsh. “Get up. Pee. Now.”

  “But how?”

  She purses her lips, then goes to the bucket and demonstrates, squatting over the bucket, facing the wall, her hands braced there. Then she stands and turns to me. “You’ll get used to it. You’ll get used to everything. Well…maybe not everything.”

  I straddle the bucket the way she’s shown me, but my body seizes up. “I don’t think I can.”

  “You’d better figure it out. He’ll make you do it in front of him, you know.”

  “Oh God.”

  She laughs. “If peeing in front of the Master is the thing you’re worried about, your priorities are in the wrong place. You have a lot more to worry about, trust me. Just go. And hurry it up. I only have so much time before they’ll expect me to take your breakfast tray downstairs.”

  I sigh, but close my eyes and concentrate, my fingers scrabbling at the wall for balance. Finally my body lets go.

  There’s a small, wicked smile on her face as she watches me struggle to hold myself up, to pee into the bucket and not onto the shining hardwood floor. I can’t imagine what they’d do to me if I peed on the floor. But it’s such a relief, and I can’t stop. It feels as if it goes on forever, my bladder emptying, the splash as it hits the bucket. When I’m done I go to stand up, then look wildly around.

  “Toilet paper is next to your foot, Girl.”

  “Oh.”

  I wipe myself carefully. I’m still sore and raw, but even touching myself to wipe makes me shiver with desire. It’s something about being here, in the Training House. And maybe even more about knowing what the Master looks like. Smells like. The way he abuses me with his big, beautifully made hands.

  “Come and eat before it gets cold,” the Girl says. “It doesn’t do to insult Cook’s efforts.”

  She holds out a bottle as I move back toward my rumpled white pallet. When I raise my brows in question, she says, “Hand sanitizer. Keep it next to the bucket.”

  I nod. “Thank you. Is it…am I supposed to talk to you? I don’t want to be rude. I don’t want to break the rules.”

  “You can talk to me or my sister when we’re alone. Well, to me, mostly. I’m sure you know to speak to the Master only when spoken to. The same for any of his guests, or staff like Cook and Robert, the valet. If you didn’t understand that, you would never have been referred here.”

  “Yes, of course. Your sister?”

  Picking up the steaming cup, I hold it between my hands for a moment, then make myself wait to feel its heat on my tongue while I add milk. I sip carefully and it scalds a little, but it’s wonderful.

  “Yes, my sister. She’s older by a year. She brought me into the life. We came here together four years ago.” She sits on the floor next to me, curling effortlessly into lotus, and I notice for the first time that her eyes are a lovely, pale gray. “Tell me something about yourself.”

  I have a piece of real buttered sourdough toast halfway to my mouth, but I pause, my mouth watering for it. I love this little ritual of making myself wait. It’s something I’ve been doing my whole life, even before I knew what it meant—but I have always loved the discipline of it, the enforced denial of both needs and pleasure. I’ve known this sensation since I was as young as five or six years old. I remember sitting in the swing at the park, my nanny—whichever one it was that year—staring at me questioningly while I held perfectly still, not even allowing my feet to sway while my body filled to overflowing with anticipation of that lovely falling and flying, then falling back to earth again. How it felt the same even when I would hold my full bladder. I used to make myself silently count to one hundred before I would take a bite of food. It was all part of it, like making my bath water too hot—oh yes, even at six, after the nanny had left the room and I could turn on the tap without anyone noticing. Everything in secret until I found the kink life. It made this sort of situation, having signed myself over in a full slave contract, so beautiful to me I can barely stand it. I cried in joy when I signed the papers.

  But what was she saying to me? Oh yes.

  “Tell you something? Like what?” I ask.

  “Like anything. Anything but what your name was before you arrived. That’s not important anymore.”

  I finally take a bite of the toast, the butter melting on my tongue. Pure heaven as I swallow it, then wash it down with a sip of hot tea.

  “Well…I was born in Paris, but raised mostly here. Well, not here in San Francisco, but in Manhattan.”

  “Ah, I thought I detected an odd accent.”

  “My mother was French, my father is…an American.” And a complete and utter bastard, but I don’t want to think about him now. I never want to think of him.

  “How did you get into kink?” the Girl asks as I pause to sip my tea once more, then to spoon some lovely, garnet-colored raspberries into my mouth.

  “It sort of started when a friend of my father’s seduced me. I was nineteen, and such a rebellious teenager. I slept around. Drank too much. Dabbled in drugs. Max—Mr. Merrick—offered to set me up in an apartment if I’d stop the partying. And if I slept with him, although I wanted to, so that wasn’t a problem. He was handsome. Exuded authority. Irresistible bait for a girl like me. The sex was rough from the start, and I loved it. He had to be nearly fifty, which seemed so much older at the time, but he was the first man who gave me a taste of what I wanted. I didn’t even have to ask. It was like a revelation, to be fucked so hard it left me bruised. And eventually he began to spank me, to tie me up. I had to beg him to bind me and leave me there in his house while he went to work. To allow me to sleep on the floor at the foot of his bed. He liked his sex rough, but he didn’t quite understand the extent of my yearnings. Well, neither did I.”

  “It often happens that way, for a lot of us,” she says.

  I nod. “So I’ve heard over the years.”

  “How old are you? How long have you been doing kink?”

  “I’m twenty-seven, so eight years. But it really started when I was a kid, which I’ve only realized in the last year or two—I mean that the stuff I was doing and thinking about was related to my kink desires. I remember being eight or nine, and there was another girl who lived in my neighborhood in New York. She was a year older than me, and lived in a beautiful house with one of those precious courtyard gardens. Our nannies would sit in the kitchen and drink coffee, and we’d have the run of the house and the garden, free to do whatever we wanted. We’d play this game where she would be the wicked queen from Snow White. She would make me take my clothes off and she’d scratch me with her nails, pretending there was poison on the tips. I would lie on the floor, writhing, pretending I was dying. She always wanted to play the same game. I didn’t mind. There was something about it I loved. Not being poisoned, but…having someone take my power away like that, even if it was all pretend. A part of me wished she really would poison me.”

  “Heady stuff, for a kid. A kid with a propensity for kink.”

  “Yes.”

  An image of the neighbor girl’s young face flashes in my mind, the wicked grin lighting up her big brown eyes, the flush on her round cheeks as I pretended to die.

  “Tell me more about Mr. Merrick,” the Girl prompts me.

  “Oh, well…I think he really did love me, you know? In his way. He wanted to guide me and it was something I wanted desperately. Something I required in a way that goes far beyond
merely needing. Something I never got from my own father.” I pause, biting down on my lip. There was a lot I never got from my father, even before my lovely, sad Maman died—perhaps more than I’ll ever know. And do I really want to know? But the slave girl is watching me, waiting for me to go on. “I have classic daddy issues. I’m such a cliché. But it worked for me. Beautifully. As it turned out, he never got me that apartment—I stayed with him at his flat in London for close to a year. And then he…he died. Heart attack. And of course he’d made no provisions for me, and his grown children took the flat and I was on my own again.”

  She looks interested in what I’m saying, leaning toward me a bit. “And then what did you do?”

  “Went to Paris. I couldn’t lick my wounds in London, you know? The experience of loss was…pretty rough for me. So I packed some of my clothes and just took off. I met some girls my age and we shared an apartment, four of us stuffed into two tiny bedrooms, but it was fine.” I sip my milky tea. “And then I stumbled into the BDSM club circuit and everything changed almost overnight.”

  She nods, picks up my toast and takes a bite, then sets it back down on the delicate china plate. It’s white with the blue crest of the House in the center, edged in gold leaf. So pretty. Like the brand over her breast.

  “Am I allowed to ask about you?”

  “You can,” she says. “But I probably won’t answer.”

  “What about… What do I call you? I know, I know. Girl. I don’t even know how to tell you apart from your sister, how to think of you.”

  Her thick lashes come down for a moment, batting at her high cheekbones. “Do you want to think of me?” she asks.

  My body goes hot all over as I take in her pretty gray eyes, her long fluttering lashes, her even prettier breasts, the nipples dark and suddenly hard. I am always taken by full breasts, wishing they were mine. Wanting to suckle them. To feel the heaviness in my hands. “Yes,” I whisper, afraid this might not be the right answer.