by EdenBradley
Everything.
Him. Me. This House. My surrender to someone not only as a slave, but as something—someone—more, and the two ideas seem to be completely antithetical, to crash together, making a little explosion inside my brain. And as if that isn’t enough, he suddenly raises his head, stormy blue gaze locked on mine, shadows passing like clouds across the sun. There is something tortured in there. But he gives a little shake of his head, and it clears—some of it, anyway. Then his brows draw together as he takes my jaw in one powerful hand. He bends to nip at my lip, his tongue darting out until I open for him.
Then, pulling back, he gives a sharp nod of his chin. “Open, Aimée.”
My lips part, my pussy slick and wet for him, open already.
He bends and catches my lower lip between his teeth, bites down until I begin to squirm and pant from the pain. Until I taste blood. He releases the tortured flesh and licks it. And as my mouth opens on a moan, he licks again, then again, then he kisses me, and for a few moments we’re making out once more. He slows things down, his tongue darting between my lips, then again, wetter this time, and I realize he is pushing his saliva into my mouth. And this is one of the hottest things that’s ever happened to me.
He pulls back just enough to look at me.
“Yes, Master. Please. More,” I dare to beg, if only because the rules have changed and I don’t know what they are anymore, and maybe he doesn’t either.
He leans closer, holds my jaw in his hand, squeezes, his fingers prying my lips open, holding my face with a firm grip. And I can feel as he lets his saliva drip into my mouth. I drink it in, swallow, as I would his come. Desire is like a flash of heat lightning in my body, and I am twisting beneath him, but I think we both understand I have no desire to get away.
He ends with another sharp nip, releases my jaw and sits up, straddling me. “Unbutton my shirt,” he orders.
My hands are shaking as I work the buttons, hardly able to believe I get to do this. Not that I never undressed Master Graham or Madame Cerrine. But everything is so much stricter in the Training House. He is so much stricter than anyone I have ever come across. Until right now, when the strictness is mixed with his own raw desire and emotions I have yet to understand.
As his shirt falls open, it reveals fair skin, a little dark hair on his chest and a narrow line of it below his navel. He slips the shirt off, and I can’t take my eyes from the muscles working in his shoulders and arms, from the tattoo which I can see now goes all the way up to his shoulder—more Japanese work, but I’m far too distracted to make it out, or even to care. All I know is that he’s unbuckling the slim belt at his waist, and I don’t even care if he’s going to beat me with it. Or, I do care—I want it, yearn for it as much as I ever have—but what I want even more is for him to be naked with me, inside me. I have no idea what will happen. I am still powerless. Helpless.
Helpless. You can’t do anything about it.
For the first time in many years, this thought is of no comfort to me at all.
No, suddenly everything is terrifying. The unknown, because even though each day, each moment since coming here has been unexpected, and keeping me in a state of continuous surprise is part of the plan of such places, even that has been something I can count on. But now, it is the inability to fall into that state of utter powerlessness that scares me, because it’s been my comfort zone for a long, long time. And I realize in a blinding flash that I truly have nothing and nowhere to escape to.
The Master stops, belt in hand, and wipes a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “What is it?”
“I just…had an epiphany, I guess, Master.”
“Master Damon. Tell me,” he demands, and I wouldn’t even think of disobeying.
“I just…I didn’t realize until this moment that kink has been my escape.”
“Explain.”
“I knew it was my retreat. That I loved sinking into submission, that it makes the world fall away. I thought, because I’m a masochist, that what I needed was to feel more acutely. But I was wrong. What I needed was to be rendered numb in the face of overwhelming sensation. To go numb in being faceless. And it’s…a shock.”
He continues to stroke my cheek, his tone low while the weight of his body as he straddles me reassures me as much as his voice. “We all need something, Aimée. That’s why we do this. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as there is no intent to damage anyone. Fetish is a coping mechanism as much as it is sexual. It’s the fulfillment of needs. Are anyone else’s needs any worse? Any better? These are things I had to come to terms with when the sadist in my soul was crying to get out. Roaring. Screeching. For me the world becomes both more and less real when I am here in the House, when I am disciplining my slaves. Are you afraid this makes you wrong, somehow? Sick?”
“Oh, I accepted that about myself a long time ago.”
He smiles a little. “So did I. Why the tears, then? If you can accept that you’re a masochist, your desire to serve, to be enslaved, then how has anything really changed?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, exactly. I only know it has.”
“Because I’m here with you like this?”
“Maybe.”
“Then I will ask you again. Do you want this, Aimée?”
“Yes. I do. I want anything and everything you are willing to give me, to make me do, to be for you, Master.”
“Master Damon,” he says again, so quietly I can barely hear him.
“Master Damon,” I repeat, not certain if this makes things better or worse.
“Tell me again,” he commands.
“I want it. I want you. I want you to do everything to me, Master Damon, Sir. Please.”
He reaches down and swipes my soaking pussy lips with his hand, smiles. His teeth are perfect rows of white. “Your lovely cunt speaks the same truth. And I want to eat it, to shove my tongue inside you and drink you up. To suck so hard on your tender little clit that you scream in pain and delight. But I can’t.”
“I…what? I mean, pardon me, Sir.” My heart is beating so fast I think it might explode.
“Because, my perfect Aimée, if I don’t fuck you right this moment, I feel like I might die.”
“Oh…”
Somehow he kicks his way out of his big boots and his fine Italian slacks and he is beautifully naked, kneeling over me. His thighs are so strong, with the same fine, dark hair. His cock is magnificent. Tall and proud, as commanding as he is. The head is swollen. Succulent. Pierced.
God.
My pussy clenches.
Need him. Need to feel him inside me.
I open my thighs wider, and he pulls my ankles up, resting them on his broad shoulders. Then he presses with his body until he’s resting his weight on top of me, my knees folded against my breasts. He presses harder, until the pressure hurts my crushed breasts. But I want it. Need it.
“Anything,” I whisper. “Everything.”
He uses his fingers to spread my labia, then his steel-tipped cock rests at the entrance to my wet cunt, and I have to make myself hold perfectly still.
He waits, the head of his cock thundering in a pulse beat like a killing hunger against my slick flesh. He waits, and my cunt drips with liquid desire that pours from me as if I’ve already come. He waits, and my mouth strains with the need to suck his beautiful cock, drink in his sweat, kiss his mouth.
How very vanilla of me.
But this thought has barely entered my brain when he rams his lovely, long cock into me, deep and hard and hurting in a way that makes me swoon. He gasps as he pulls back, as he rises up to stare into my face, and there is something like wonder, like awe, on his. And his expression sort of crumbles above me as he begins to move, in and out, yet there is nothing mundane about this lovely, sinuous motion that is his body moving in mine. It is elemental. Transcendent. Connection.
“Connection,” I whisper. Or perhaps the word doesn’t even come out.
This is the one thing I have been
missing my entire life. And the truth hits me like a brick to the chest. I feel for several long moments as if I might actually have a heart attack. As if my heart really could burst from my chest, splattering the walls with emotion. So, so strange, I don’t even know what to do with it.
Love. The real thing. I never knew.
I’m crying again—yet again!—but he does nothing more than dip his head and lick up one of my tears. And I focus then on the exquisite pleasure surging through me as desire builds, spirals, and I imagine it like a long, satin ribbon, twisting and looping through my pussy, wrapping around his balls, threading through the heavy steel barbell in the head of his cock, twisting tightly across my clit until I know I must come. Must. Come. Must…
“Ah, God!”
My body bucks, out of control, and the only thing holding me down is his fine, fine flesh, one strong hand on my wrists, the other digging into my hip. He is fucking me so hard I know I will be bruised, inside and out.
Yes.
He plunges into me, one rough, piercing jab after another, and the beauty of his face is a fierce thing to behold as he begins a low, threatening growl that turns into a howl that turns into voiceless panting, teeth bared as he looks into my eyes. And I’m coming again with him. I can’t help myself. His beautiful face is making me come, his harsh cries, his pleasure transferring into my system as if it were my own times a thousand.
I know I’m not making sense.
He falls onto me, and I inhale, taking in the scent of his come and my own. Our sweat mingled. The faint trace of shampoo in his dark hair. I have never felt happier in my life.
I have never felt happy in my life.
My stomach twists, but he is here—right here—holding me down. Keeping me safe.
Yes. It’s all right.
I want to twine my hands behind his neck once more, to feel the reassuring warmth of him letting me. But I can’t do it. Instead I raise my chin and hope for him to kiss me. And when he does it feels like a benediction. Permission to feel. Because he has made me feel this.
I don’t know what will happen to me now. But for this one moment, I can simply be.
Chapter Seven
Morning sun finds its way through the heavy brocade drapes in Master Damon’s room. I wake in the softness of his big bed and have to blink in confusion.
In his bed.
Then I remember last night. How he fucked me on the floor, then pulled me up onto the bed and spanked me until I screamed, then fucked me again before we had dinner brought to us on a silver tray by the calm Robert.
It occurs to me if I don’t turn my head to see if he is here, this can still be real. I ball my hands into fists, wanting to fight the urge to find out.
Do it. Don’t do it.
“What are you concentrating on so hard, lovely Aimée?”
Biting my lip, I open my eyes, let my lashes flutter while I take in the fact that I am truly here, that this is happening.
“Aimée. Tell me.”
Blinking up at him, I whisper, “I wasn’t sure…if this all existed. I thought it was simply one of my pretty dreams.”
He laughs. “Are your sore ass and your sore little cunt pretty too? Yes, your cunt is perhaps the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. And you know I love the marks on your ass—my own handprints. Unfair question.”
I smile then. “Master Damon, you are the master of unfair questions, Sir. Or so I’ve been led to believe, given my brief time in your schoolroom.”
His smile widens. His teeth are so sharp and white. Makes me itch to be bitten. Again.
“Well said. Now, shall we have breakfast? I find I’m hungry.”
“As you wish, Sir.”
“Ah, in that case…”
He pulls me with him as he sits up, dragging me across his lap, and I feel his erection pressing into my belly. If I squirm a bit I can press my mound against his muscled thigh.
He smacks my exposed ass, one wickedly hard slap.
I bite my lip, focus on keeping quiet.
“Are you trying to be a good girl for me? Yes? Well, today you will be good for me by moaning and screaming without holding back. I want to hear it. All your sighs of pleasure. All your cries of distress. You give those sounds to me. Understood?”
I smile only because I am certain he can’t see me. “Yes, Sir.”
He shifts my body until most of my torso rests on the bed, on the sheets that are the finest Egyptian cotton soaked with our sweat and come. I breathe in, then exhale, my lungs emptying in a loud bark that burns my throat as he bites my ass with his evil teeth.
“Ah, fucking God!”
“Not I,” he says. “The Devil might be closer.”
“Yes, Master Damon,” I answer through teeth gritted in pain.
“Say it to me,” he commands.
“You are closer to the Devil,” I tell him obediently, smiling.
“And how do you finish that sentence?”
I can hear the humor in his tone.
“You are closer to the Devil, Master Damon, Sir.” I’m careful to cover all bases, even though I know he will bite me again, or worse.
Oh yes, he might do something worse.
I am luxuriating in that idea.
“Better,” he says.
But he bites into my poor flesh anyway, then over and over again, layering teeth marks upon teeth marks until I can smell the blood seeping from my skin. I want him to make me bleed. Anything and everything, as I’ve thought to myself, as I’ve told him. I want him to kiss the blood from my wounded flesh, and he does, kissing and licking, luring me into the lovely heights of subspace, where the world is all sweet sensation and the brain chemicals I’m addicted to. But in a flash everything changes as he spreads my thighs and starts the hard stroking motion inside my cunt that made me squirt over and over that first day.
I try to prepare myself for that sense of abject helplessness I felt the first time—only eight days ago, but it feels like a month—but now it’s tempered by the connection I know I felt with him last night, that seems so apparent even this morning.
My body goes loose inside as I give myself over to it.
“Good girl, Aimée,” he murmurs, and I can hear the sharp lust in his voice, feel it in his swelling cock. “Not that resisting would be of any help to you.”
I let out the smallest laugh, and he pauses to press a thumb into the most tender pressure point in my groin.
“Oh!”
“Let me hear it. Did you forget so easily?”
He presses harder, that evil thumb, until I’m panting and squirming, unable to stop myself from trying to escape from the pain. But he stops me with the hand he has inside me, using all his fingers to fill me up. I hold still, hold my breath.
“No, Aimée. Are you going to be bad, suddenly? No, I don’t think so.”
He starts the hard stroking against my g-spot once more, and I know better than to fight it. He strokes and strokes, harder, faster, then his hand pumps up and down, fast and cruel, hurting me, although I love it. And I’m squirting all over the place, soaking his hand and the bed and my naked thighs as I scream. He begins again, and it takes only seconds before it happens once more, and this time my calves get wet, my ankles.
“Again,” he says, as if I could possibly argue.
My head is spinning, light, as he forces me to squirt again, then twice more before I collapse onto the bed. He turns me over with rough hands, straddles my face and tells me, “Suck me.”
I open my obedient, greedy mouth, my body buzzing with sensation, my mind misty but full of need. Full of wonder that I am allowed to take him into my mouth. He shoves his cock down my throat, choking me, and my eyes tear up. I try to breathe through my nose, but he’s fucking my face so hard there’s no time to breathe. The steel piercing hits the back of my throat and I fight not to gag too hard, glad my stomach is empty. He snakes a hand around the back of my head, grasping my hair in a punishing fist, holding my head up off the bed while he keeps ramm
ing his lovely cock down my throat. My face is full of tears and snot and I can’t pull any air into my lungs, but I want this. I want to please him. I want to swallow his flesh whole. To take all of him into my mouth, down my throat, into my body any way I can.
He arches above me—I can feel it rather than see through my tear-glazed eyes—and he cries out, plunging into me, and I taste his hot come as it shoots down the back of my throat.
Yes. And now some small part of him is mine. In me. Belonging to me, and no one else.
He draws his softening cock out, smacks my lips with it, then my cheek. Then he’s using his hand to slap my face, making my cheeks sting, making me feel like his.
“Where are you, Aimée?” he demands.
“Right here, Master Damon. Sir.”
He grabs my face in a crushing grip, forcing me to focus on his face, on his blazing blue eyes. I see so much in there, something I don’t know how to describe. Something is happening here that feels…different. With him. For me. And so, it comes as no surprise somehow that he keeps me in his rooms and all to himself for the next two weeks.
It’s a Sunday, which I only know because I’ve come to realize the weekly bells I hear in the distance are church bells. Fifteen days I’ve been in the Master’s chambers, taken out only to be exercised in his private gym next to his suite. Sometimes it’s Robert who takes me, and sometimes it’s one of the brunette slave girls, who now cast me resentful looks, and even the one who talks remains silent. But I am too giddy to care.
Although…when I am left alone, I still find myself wondering about the beautiful, bad Christopher. What must he be doing now? Is he as resentful as the Girls that I am monopolizing the Master’s time? Does he think of me? And is any of this some sort of mind fuck for him, the way it is for me that I am thinking of anyone but my Master?
