by Aspose
I see the sway of her silk-covered breasts, smell her perfume, and then Christopher has his thick, golden cock in his hand above me. And it’s like some level of punishment I don’t quite understand that he’s beating himself off, rather than having Aimée or me service him.
His gaze is locked on mine, and though his face goes loose with pleasure, he is obviously maintaining just as much control as he does in everything else. God, he’s beautiful. Powerful. His cock gleams with a pearly drop of pre-come, and my cock throbs, jerks in response.
“No!”
He stops handling himself long enough to slap me across the face again.
I am ashamed. In love. Fighting it. Out of my goddamn head.
His fisted hand goes back to work, moving fast and hard on his heavy shaft until the flesh is a blur of hard meat, and I want nothing more than to take him into my mouth and suck.
“Eyes on my face, Damon,” he orders.
A groan escapes me, but I do as I’m told, focusing on his face, the lush mouth and the wildcat eyes tightening and shifting as his climax approaches. Then he squeezes my ball sac hard enough to make me yelp as he shoots his hot come all over my face. I want it, love it, hate him a little. And fuck, I need to come…need to. But he releases me, stands up, one booted foot on either side of my body.
“Clean yourself up,” he tells me with his usual crooked grin.
When I go to get up, his boot comes down hard in the center of my chest.
“Get as much as you can with your tongue. Go on. I’ll stay here and make sure you do a good job.”
Fuck. Is he serious? But he is, of course.
Fuck!
I don’t dare say it. Instead, I do my best to breathe through my inner struggle, and it’s like hacking away at an attacking army with nothing but a butter knife. This is supposed to be nothing more than my way to redeem myself with him, with Aimée. But already it’s turning into something more. Something real. I can’t fucking stand it.
Finally, I have to give in—to him, to my own raging, shameful need—and get to work. My tongue sweeps his come from my lips and I swallow the earthiness of it, give myself over to savoring it, knowing it’s his.
When I’ve reached all I can, he removes his foot from my chest. “Very good, Damon. Go get in the shower and clean up while Aimée packs for us. We’re leaving. All of us.”
I do as I’m told, my old obedience training coming back to me in an endorphin-packed flood that fills my brain—which I’m sure was his intention—until the screaming doubts almost fade away.
Almost.
I turn the shower on without daring to look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, then step under the hot water. I still have a raging hard-on, but I’m sure that will be the case from now until…when? I don’t know. At this moment, it’s difficult to care. Except for the small voice still bellowing from somewhere deep within me, telling me I can’t possibly be doing this. With what is currently left in me of the Master, I tell it to shut up.
When I get out, Aimée is there in the steamed-filled room, holding a thick white towel for me. Stepping into it, I remain quiet while she rubs me down, but my body, my hard cock, is hyper-aware of her terry-cloth touch, of her femaleness. My heart is aware of how I love her, my brain remembering how I once Mastered her.
When I’m dry, she steps back, and I see she’s set out Christopher’s grooming kit on the marble vanity. She turns to pick up a bottle of lotion, but before she can squeeze it out onto her hand, I raise mine to stop her.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t? But I’ve been told to—”
“I know. But if you touch me now…” I shake my head, turning away from her searching green gaze. “I’m too out of practice at being on this end of things. Having you this close to me only makes me want to throw you down on the floor and hurt you, fuck you. It’s killing me that I can’t.”
“Damon,” she says on a quiet sob. Taking my hand, she holds it tight, and my heart surges. I squeeze back. It’s impossible to stay angry with her.
“Damon,” she repeats, “let me help you. This is the way it must be, and from what just happened in there, I am now as certain as Christopher that this is the right thing. For all of us. That was…beautiful, and harsh, and I loved seeing the light in your face as you let go.”
And now I am burning with the all too familiar combination of humiliation and pride that comes from having had one’s utter submission witnessed and remarked on, but I can’t think of a graceful reply—not in the state I’m in.
“I know that light, Damon. It’s time for you to know it again. For you to serve. For us all to develop trust, a new bond. It has to be unbreakable.” Her eyes glisten with tears. “Unbreakable,” she whispers harshly.
I don’t dare stroke her face, which is what I want to do. “I don’t know that I can find the balance in all of this, if I can truly let go in the way anything beyond a single experience or two requires.”
“You know, perhaps better than anyone that we have to be broken down first. That it hurts. Then the epiphanies will come. Hasn’t it started already?”
“Maybe. Yes,” I admit.
“He knows what he’s doing.”
“Lovely Aimée. Do you think if I had any doubt of that I would even be able to try? There is no one else I could do this with, or for.”
She smiles, and I feel warmer—and more intimidated than ever at the thought of what happens next.
Christopher has often talked to me of being a walking contradiction, but I think at this moment, I may have him beat.
The Master has fallen. To his knees. Into the humiliation of struggling yet worshipful acceptance of whatever my Master Christopher deems to bestow on me. Pain and come. Pleasure and love.
Oh, yes. This is going to hurt.
The last several hours have gone by in a mad rush. The valet at my hotel packed my things and had them sent over, I’ve made a call and arranged to have my car picked up and brought back to the House, then a limousine arrived and sped us to the airport, where a small chartered plane waited. It was a quiet flight, while I wondered at how I never knew Christopher had this kind of money. Not that it matters. I care nothing about these things—only that I love him, that he tame me, and that Aimée is with us. All of this is happening—all of this is possible—because it is the only way I can be with them, and because I am aware that I owe them.
Another car picked us up maybe half an hour ago at the tiny Palm Springs airport—I had no idea where we were going until we landed—and now, with the lowering sun making a backdrop of purple and gold outside the car windows, we are being whisked off to…somewhere. Meanwhile, my new Master tortures me by kissing and fondling and pinching Aimée, pulling her full breast from her bra to tweak her succulent nipple, while ignoring me. Which leaves me alone in my head to wonder at my predicament.
Well, my “predicament” that also makes my dick so hard I can barely stand it. And I understand fully the psychology behind what he’s doing. I might have done the same myself—in fact, there are times when I have. Ignore a slave and they want you even more. Allow them—fuck, allow us!—to wallow in our sense of deprivation and we become even more desperate. The mind fuck is half the game, and he is very, very good at that. Good enough that even as he makes out with Aimée I catch his glance on me often enough to understand I cannot distract myself by looking out the window. He will not have it. The world is nothing more than a blur of soft twilight at the edge of my vision—that and the rampant confusion I’m trying hard to ignore. But the questions keep popping into my head: What the hell am I doing here? How can I possibly leave my responsibilities behind to indulge myself this way? And horribly, excruciatingly, what if this doesn’t work?
Perhaps even more excruciating is the idea that perhaps it will.
Eventually, the car slows, then stops. Christopher tucks Aimée’s luscious tit back into her silky bra and turns to me as she buttons her blouse.
“Say nothing to the driver
, Damon,” he instructs as a harsh and delicious mixture of relief and the urge to argue runs like molten silver through my veins. “Go directly to the door, and once it’s open I’ll expect you to undress in the foyer and get down on your knees.”
I swallow hard before nodding.
“Say it,” he demands harshly.
I know what he wants. My gut twists, but I have to say the words. “Yes, Master.”
It’s strangely familiar and unfamiliar on my tongue, and I roll it around, taking in the sensation then swallowing it down, hoping to keep it there, deep inside me.
Master.
Jesus. Fuck no.
I try again.
Master.
Oh, yes.
There is a moment in which I’m certain I’m going to throw up, but I grind my jaw hard until it passes.
The driver pulls open the car door, and Aimée and I wait while Christopher gets out. Then we follow him up a walkway to a modern home with the low, flat roofline common to the desert. The large rocks and scattered plantings are uplit, casting light and shadow onto the white stucco structure. The lines are clean, beautifully done. The house doesn’t appear to be overly large, but it really is an exquisite piece of architecture.
He unlocks the front doors—a double door of carved wood, probably from Spain or Morocco or India—and they swing open. He enters, then motions to us, and I wait for Aimée to follow him in before I do.
The lighting is soft, but I quickly take in the elegant expanse of travertine floors, the living area sparsely furnished in sleek white and gray and blue. The opposite wall is all windows, framed in wood, which lends warmth to the room. And beyond is a pool, the lights playing on the turquoise water.
Who would have expected him to have such a place? I would have thought some dark, gothic castle, not this clean space in Palm Springs. But my Christopher has always been full of surprises.
No, not Christopher. Master Christopher, and now I am his. I must remember.
“Well, fuck, Damon, if you can’t get this one simple goddamn thing right…”
Suddenly his hands are on me as he rips my shirt off so hard the seams bite into my shoulders and the buttons pop, flying onto the pretty floors with a small tink. He shoves me up against a wall and in seconds my shoes and pants are off, and I am naked and a little ashamed of myself for getting lost in my musings, rather than my orders. I would never put up with such a thing from a slave. But I must stop thinking of myself as the Master—clearly, I am not.
When he pushes me onto my knees, it hurts, the floor is so damn hard. But so is my cock, of course. And God, I want nothing more than for him to fuck me right here on the floor of the foyer. Instead, his boot comes down on my neck, pressing my face to the floor, and I remember just in time to keep my ass in the air, hardly believing I’m doing it.
“Aimée,” he says.
Her heels click as she comes closer.
“Strip, prettiness,” he tells her. “Good girl. Now down on your knees, yeah. Hands behind your back and sit up. Fucking Christ, you’re perfect like this. You have the most gorgeous tits I’ve ever seen.”
There’s a moment of silence, then her yelp, and despite his booted foot still on my neck, I want desperately to know what he’s done to her, but I don’t dare try to look.
She groans and my cock twitches. I want to see her. I want to see him. I want him to hurt me, to force me into slavehood in a way I know can only happen with real pain, real humiliation. Right now, it’s mostly my determination to regain their trust that keeps me here. Or maybe that’s the lie I’m still telling myself. I don’t know anymore.
He whispers to her, “Get my black bag out of this closet.”
There are muffled sounds, then he begins to beat me. The pain is exquisite, stinging like a hive of angry bees on my ass, my thighs, my back… It takes me a moment to ascertain that he’s using some sort of long, very narrow, flexible cane. He’s hitting me fast and hard, and without any warm-up my body is having trouble converting the pain—it simply fucking hurts.
“What is it, Damon? Don’t you remember how to do this? How to move into the pain? To breathe in order to help your brain release all the chemicals that allow us to do this crazy shit? I want you to remember. I want you to be able to take whatever I choose to dish out.” He stops the beating long enough to remind me, “Breathe, Damon. Do it. You know how. Your body has the muscle memory. You have the memories.
He’s right—I do have the memories, and as I follow his instructions, taking in and slowly exhaling one breath after another, they come flowing back to me.
It’s summer and I’m sweating in the Carmel Valley sun. The scent of meadow and trees is sharp in my nostrils as a handler drives me down the path toward the arena, my wrists bound tightly at the small of my back with rope that bites into my skin. I am put into a box-like stall, and more rope is used to tie a quick chest harness onto my damp body, then another length is tied around the base of my stiff cock and anchored to the chest harness. Confusion and desire are one and the same, my mind whirling at a hundred miles an hour with a dizzying love for those who abuse me along with the deep, driving need to please.
Another handler leads me from the stall into the arena by a lead attached to the rope around my cock, then one more handler joins them. They all start whipping me at once, so no matter which way I twist or turn, I am faced with another whip. The pain is incredible, and every time I move, the rope pulls hard on my rigid erection. When they wrestle me to the ground, all of them holding me down in the dirt, I almost want to cry. Not because I can’t take the pain, but because this is terrifying and beautiful and so utterly degrading, and it’s everything I need. The moment is everything.
My legs are kicked roughly apart, and my ass cheeks are spread by hard hands before a plug is shoved into my ass. No lube, of course, and it hurts like hell. I welcome it. It makes me proud—to wear the plug, to take what they’re doing to me. I am in heaven.
With the memory come the old feelings, the old conditioning, and just like that, my brain releases all those lovely chemicals as it automatically converts the pain to pleasure, the humiliation to stark wanting fulfilled. Like the muscle memory Christopher mentioned, the conditioned response that has been buried deep inside me. And despite the struggle that always comes with this extreme form of submission, I believe for the first time that I may actually be able to do this. Perhaps even eagerly, gloriously—even as I struggle, as I fight for it, as I fear it down to my bones.
Let my suffering begin in earnest.
CHAPTER FOUR
Standing back, Christopher holds his instrument of torture in front of my face. “Kiss it.”
I obey, my system flooded with adoration I’m striving to comprehend. But along with the bliss comes a wash of emotion that threatens to overtake me, and I can’t let it. Cannot let it.
When was the last time I felt like this—as if I am about to fucking cry? It’s not right. Not for me. My mind is doing these crazy tumbles, from sensation to emotion and back, all of it laced with dread and a nameless fear. No, it has a name—it’s letting go of all control, and I am powerless against it.
Daniel.
Master Stephan.
It’s letting go of everything I have become, and everything feel I must be, for everyone else even more than myself. Is it selfish of me to pursue this? Is it selfish of me not to?
Christopher’s warm breath wafts over the back of my neck. “You’re fighting it again,” he says softly, understanding the power of a lowered tone. “What? Did you think the struggle would be over the first time you gave in? Not even the second, Damon. Not even the tenth, after your years as Master of the House. It wasn’t gonna be easy, no matter what, and I’ve already told you I won’t make it easy for you.”
Grabbing my hair, he yanks me up until I am sitting up on my knees, his face right next to mine, his low tone now a threatening growl. “Easy is for pussies, Damon, and that word couldn’t be used to describe either one of us, coul
d it? Fuck no. You have to suffer. It’s the only way, and you know it. Isn’t that right? You may answer.”
My throat is so tight, I have to swallow not to choke on my own tongue. But a vicious yank on my hair gets my lips moving.
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes…Master.”
Almost painful to say the words aloud. Painful and exhilarating. God, I’m a mess. Blinking, I try to focus, and it’s only then I realize there are tears blurring my eyes.
Christopher wipes the corner of my eye with his thumb, then leans in and kisses the wet spot, and oh, it’s fucking lovely—his lips pressed to my skin. But when he releases me with a small push. I feel bereft. Angry.
“Aimée, get Damon settled in the first bedroom on the right down that hallway, then come find me in the kitchen. I plan to strap you to the granite counter and see how many spatulas I have on hand to spank you with before I fuck your pretty ass. Oh, and lock the door behind him.”
“Yes, Master Christopher,” she says.
My heart pounds. I am to be left alone so quickly? God damn him!
But haven’t I done the same to him?
I have only an instant to feel sorry for myself before Aimée helps me to my feet, her delicate hands soft on my naked skin. She keeps a steadying palm at the small of my back as we walk down the hall, her heels clicking on the floor. Breathing her in, I can almost tatse the delicious scent of wanton female. It makes me headier than I am already, if that’s even possible.
Oh, but I know it is. I know Christopher has plans for me that will make this little welcome scenario seem like a walk in the park. Lust shivers over my skin, like a warm breeze of desire that spirals down to punch me in the gut. In my pulsing, swollen cock. And Jesus, I wish he would punch my cock, take out some of his rage on me. Hurt me enough to stop my mind from screaming. Let me come, from pain or pure bliss or both.
We enter the bedroom and Aimée turns on the light. The room is carpeted in white, furnished with a spanking bench and an interrogation chair, both upholstered in white leather. Steel shackles and chains are set into one white wall, with a pile of white pillows and blankets on the floor beneath it, as well as a mysterious armoire in whitewashed wood. I understand immediately the irony of this entire setup—the innocent white palette, the sparseness of the room. And the back wall is, of course, part of that wide expanse of windows looking out onto the pool, which is, perhaps, all the color this room needs. It’s like another world entirely on the other side of the glass.
