by Aspose
She smiles as she moves toward me, a black crop in one hand, slowly slapping the outside of her thigh. Her ice blue eyes are gleaming. With humor. With lust.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my dear friend Master Damon. Or Damon now, of course. What a pretty Boy you make. I would never have guessed.” She pauses, licking her scarlet lips. “But there’s always a certain excitement in seeing one of our own being taken down, isn’t there? It’s the ultimate power exchange, to take a really large degree of power from someone. Oh, I can see why he adores you so. Your cock is beautifully hard.” She steps closer, taps my swelling dick with the crop. “And so lusciously long. If I’d known, I would have tried to get you to fuck me before now.”
I feel my jaw drop. The very idea that she would call me Boy!
Even worse is the knowledge that desire is like a flame licking at my balls.
“What? Did you actually think you were going to fuck me now? Today?” She clicks her tongue. “Really, Damon. You, of all people, know better. I’m here to work you over, my dear. I’m here to beat you until you scream.”
Fuck. I know damn well she’s capable of it, despite her tiny frame. The woman is a powerhouse among the very elite Masters and Mistresses. Even as she raises the damn crop, I can hardly believe this is happening.
“Hands clasped behind your neck,” she commands. “Do it, Boy.”
I find myself following her orders, the slavespace muscle memory working even as my face burns with rage and shame.
She smacks the tip of my dick, and it goes an angry red. Then, moving around me, she begins to hit me all over—my shoulders, my chest, my thighs, then back to my poor, hurting cock. Even the bottoms of my feet. One small implement of torture, but it does the job. It’s all happening so fast, the pain building in an excruciating spiral, with no chance to pause, to catch my breath. Nearly instant overload. Pain and desire and utter degradation that she should be doing this to me. But I will not scream. I won’t give her the pleasure of it.
She pauses a moment, and Aimée appears beside her, handing her a bottle of water. Mistress Alexa drinks a bit down, then pours the rest over me before Aimée hands her a small whip—a single-tail with a double cracker on the end. That on wet flesh…I shiver so damn hard it feels like a muscle spasm moving up my spine. I can’t even look at Aimée.
“This is going to hurt rather badly,” Alexa says before she draws her arm back, then swings.
And God, the first crack lands on my right nipple, making me yelp. I grind my jaw tighter, my stomach contracting with the pain. She lands another one on my left nipple, and I nearly cry out, my head spinning. When I try to move away from the next blow, she steps closer, kicking one stiletto-booted foot out and digging the heel into my inner thigh.
“You will hold still and take it,” she says, the cruel scarlet line of her lips tight, only letting up on my tortured thigh when I nod in assent.
The rest quickly becomes a blur. One blow after another, the pain incredible, as it always is with a whip. My body loves it even as it wants to recoil, but somehow I manage to do as I’m told, still resisting the nearly impossible urge to cry out, pride perhaps the only thing allowing me to retain that small shred of control.
She stops and stares at me, her corseted chest heaving a bit with exertion. “You take it well. Better than I thought you would.”
Turning, she gives Aimée the whip and opens her palm to receive something that I can’t see. Then she stands there with one hand on her hip, staring at me while my body tries to convert the extreme pain of the whip to pleasure. And it succeeds, but only in part. It was too much all at once, and I am left with tiny points of fiery bee stings all over the front of my body, even the shaft of my cock.
“Enter,” Mistress Alexa says over her shoulder.
Two male slaves walk into the room, both beautiful and naked, both very strong and muscular, with shaved heads, pierced cocks and nipples, and wearing the brand of her House. I’ve seen these two before. I know what they can do.
“Boys, put him in the chair.”
I blanch a little, hating my helplessness as they carry me by my arms to the interrogation chair. It’s a standard piece of torture equipment, on tall legs, the seat split so the thighs are spread wide. I’ve used them many times myself, but have never been in one.
Until now.
Fuck.
Fuck!
They snap my cuffs and shackles to eyebolts set into the sides of the chair, then use wide thigh straps to bind my legs to the white leather seat. My balls hang down between my spread legs, and I am thoroughly humiliated, utterly vulnerable, and as hard as the steel frame of the damn chair. All of it even worse—or better, depending on my ranging perspective—when she orders Aimée to stand beside her.
“You will watch, Aimée. No, on second thought, you will stand behind the chair and drape your arms around his shoulders. Hold on tight. He’s going to need it.”
I have a brief moment to savor the sensation of my beautiful Aimée’s soft skin as she wraps me up in her arms. Her face beside my ear, she whispers, “I love you. You can do this.”
Mistress Alexa grabs my face, and the metal claws she is now wearing on her fingertips bite sharply into my flesh. I know them well—I gave the set to her myself. Filigreed steel, and quite sharp. Evil. They dig into my jaw, and I smell the faint, metallic scent of my own blood.
“You know the joy of my claws, Damon, don’t you? Or is it only from a Master’s view? How will you handle me drawing your blood? The excruciating pain they can cause? I have to tell you, my heart is pounding at the thought. I’m going to enjoy this.” Her tone drops. “And we both know I don’t really care whether you do or not.”
My stomach goes tight. I don’t even have to guess where she’ll begin.
Lowering her hands, she keeps her glittering blue gaze on my face, forcing me to look her in the eye. I flinch at the first tiny prick, then another and another as she closes a hand around my balls. And fucking God, it hurts—it hurts like nothing I’ve ever quite felt before, or perhaps I simply don’t remember. She squeezes, and the tips of the damn claws pierce my skin. My warm blood seeps out, damp on my skin, and I hear Aimée’s soft gasp next to my ear, feel her tears hot on my shoulder.
“Such a pretty red,” Mistress Alexa remarks. “Red is my favorite color. But it’s also your Master’s. Shall we have him come to look? Yes, I think that’s an excellent idea. Boys, let Master Christopher know it’s time to join us.”
Keeping her steady grip on my balls, she waits until heavy booted footsteps behind her indicate Christopher—my Master…my Master—has entered the room. Then she squeezes hard, the claws digging into my flesh.
I pant, but I will not scream. I will not. Not even when she lifts my balls and uses the other to dig one of the talons into the most tender flesh of my taint.
“Oomph!” Biting back the yell gathering in my throat, tears burn at the back of my eyes. Goddamn tears!
“Does that hurt, Damon? You can tell us. We want it to. No? Then I shall have to try harder.”
Fuck. Fuck!
I grit my teeth as the damn claws dig deeper, as she drags them over my flesh, scratching my ball sac. I hear a drop of blood spatter as it hits the floor, and my sweet Aimée lets out a sob.
Master Christopher says, “How generous of you to make one of my slaves bleed and the other cry, Alexa.”
“I’m a very giving person,” she answers, ice in her voice, in her eyes. “But now I need my Boys to fuck me. You must excuse me, Christopher. All this work makes a woman needy.”
She lets me go, giving a farewell flick to the tip of my stiff cock before stepping back. Her Boys remove the claws and clean her hands with steaming cloths, then without another word, she turns and leaves the room, leaving them to trail at a respectful distance behind her.
My world has narrowed once more—there is nothing now but my Master, the quietly sobbing Aimée, and the stinging pain in my balls, in my nipples, in every welt from the evil whip.
He approaches, his gaze on my face. When he is standing before me, he reaches out and strokes a finger over my jaw, then cups my cheek in his hand. Oh, this is going to be very bad, I can tell. It’s only when it’s bad that he is so tender with me. I love him all the more for it, which he well knows by now, and which is also part of the extreme mind fuck that is ever-present, the one thing I know I can count on. I sink into the certainty of it almost with a kind of relief. There is only one vague corner of my mind which is still capable of pondering how fucked up I am.
When he takes a half step back and slaps my face so hard it leaves my ears ringing, the narrowness of my world contracts even further. Now it is only him, his cruel and loving hand, and my need to please, my need to reject those desires. But I am stuck in the damn chair. Completely powerless.
He once gave it to me, and now he takes it away. Fitting, somehow.
He slaps me again, then a third time, and I am dizzy with love and pain. Love. Yes. I am a sick fuck. I don’t care. And Aimée still has her sweet arms around me, holding me tight, crying quietly, her tears all over my neck, my shoulder, sliding down my chest. No one who isn’t me—who isn’t us—can possibly understand the raw beauty of this moment.
And then he kisses me. His lips are hard on mine, his hand going into the back of my hair and pulling tight, holding me in place as his tongue forces its way into my mouth. He tastes of him—Christopher, a flavor I can’t define—and my body shudders with desire. Pain. Love for him. My heart is bursting. Another piece of my resistance crumbles away, falling like a small pile of dust at my feet. No, at his feet.
He pulls back a fraction of an inch, whispers, “Yeah, you are mine, Damon. Mine. Do you know what it does to me to own you? To have you serve me? It’s fucking hot as hell, is what it is. To know I can do whatever I want with you. To know you’ll take it. To know you want to. Yeah. Fucking hot. And you, my pretty girl…”
He leans over me and pulls Aimée’s face to his, kissing her even harder than he did me. She moans softly, then he pulls her to him, dragging her to the center of the room, forcing her onto her knees on the floor. His hands are cupping her breasts, kneading and squeezing and pinching her flesh.
My cock pulses as I watch. His hands. Her flesh. Jesus.
Then he’s pulling his heavy cock from his jeans, and he’s down on one knee, forcing Aimée’s head to the floor as he plows into her from behind. My entire body twitches as he fucks her, as he leans down to bite her back and shoulders, the back of her neck. As he grabs a fistful of her long, red hair and yanks her body upright, his arm snaking around her. His teeth sink into the back of her neck, and she makes adorable little mewling noises, and in between I can hear his panting breath.
Pre-come drips from my poor cock, and I can smell it in the air, along with Aimée’s wetness, and the faint iron-scent of my own blood. Has there ever been a more powerful elixir?
It seems to go on forever—or maybe that’s only because I am trapped here, watching, wanting, needing to the point of pain. And just when I’m certain I can’t take anymore, my Master pulls from Aimée’s sleek little body and gets to his feet, stalking toward me. Very quickly he unbuckles my straps, unclips my cuffs and shackles, and yanks me to my feet.
“Aimée, sit on the side of the spanking bench. Good girl. Now spread your pretty thighs. Damon is going to reward you.”
He marches me over to her, and I can’t help but stare at her lovely, wet pussy, the pink flesh making my mouth water. And as Master Christopher shoves me forward and onto my knees, I understand it’s my mouth he wants me to pleasure her with.
Ah, my poor, throbbing cock! But I can hardly feel sorry for myself as I lean in and taste her. She is all liquid sweetness on my tongue, gently squirming girl as I lick her slit, as I suck on her hard little clit, then slip my tongue down to push it inside her. And the whole time, our Master is grasping the back of my head, shoving my face harder into her soft cunt.
Then he is behind me, parting my ass cheeks with strong hands, and as I bury my face in Aimée’s lovely body, he plows into me.
Gasping in pain, in pleasure, I try to relax around his thick cock in my ass. But he’s so damn big, loosening my muscles is completely impossible. His solid flesh pushes deeper and I feel myself tearing, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except that we are finally joined, he and I and Aimée, and it is perfection. Perfection.
Time goes by in a blur of fucking and sucking, hurting and spiraling need. His teeth sink into the back of my neck and his hands dig into Aimée’s arching hips until it’s her blood I smell—blood and lust and the scent of her coming as she screams. Then he’s coming, pumping so damn hard into me, I would be forced to fall to the floor if it weren’t for Aimée’s body holding me up.
Christopher coming is a beautiful thing to behold. He growls deep in his throat, the growl becoming more vicious, his cock stabbing into me more savagely, over and over until his hot come spurts inside me.
He whispers harshly, “Come, Damon.”
And I obey instantly, my lonely cock spilling into the air, untouched.
“Aimée, hold him,” he orders.
He starts to smack my ass, my thighs, to rake his nails down my back, to grab my sides in tight, painful fistfuls of flesh. I start to overload right away—as if this entire day hasn’t been overload already—and my mind is absolutely empty.
Finally it stops. He’s panting hard as he leans over me to kiss Aimée—her lips, her cheeks, her breasts. Then he bends down to brush a kiss across my shoulder before pulling me to my feet and kissing me hard on the mouth. Sinking into him, my body knows only the pleasure of his touch. My heart knows only the bliss of connection. Finally.
Will I never need anything but this again?
Maybe. Don’t know. Can’t care right now. No, at this moment all I know is this perfection. Purity in a way perhaps no one else could understand.
This is my heaven. This is my hell.
This is fucking heaven. I never want it to end.
CHAPTER SIX
It doesn’t end until the next night. Until that point, I am well-used, exercised, bathed by Aimée, and shaved by Master Christopher himself with a straight razor, which is terrifying and makes me swoon at the same time. He’s nicked my hip, my collarbone, my ribs, and the spot just below my right nipple, which also makes me swoon—something about bleeding for him, as he told Mistress Alexa. For him.
It is also he who comes to my room and wakes me from a dead sleep in the dark of night, with nothing but the glimmering pool lights to allow me to see him tossing clothes down beside my pillows on the floor. I see he’s just dyed his hair—it’s a bit of a shock, from platinum blond to coal black, and he’s cut his Mohawk to a short stubble all over his well-shaped head. It looks as good on him—stunning—as everything else does.
“Get dressed, Damon. We’re leaving.”
“We…” I stop myself just before asking the questions at the tip of my rebellious tongue: Where? Why?
Instead, I simply nod and reach for the clothes as he bends one knee to unlock me from my chains, leaving the cuffs tight around my wrists. But I don’t mind. My bonds have become a form of security for me, just as they have for every slave I’ve ever trained. But I can’t think about those days right now. No, if I do, I think I may really lose my mind.
He leaves, and I quickly dress in a pair of nicely tailored slacks and a white shirt—not my own, and I have no idea where they came from. It doesn’t matter, though, does it? All I need to know is he wants me to wear it—well, and if this means I haven’t done well enough, if he is sending me away, ending our arrangement. But I cannot even deal with that idea right now.
The shoes are mine, and I slide into them. Then Aimée appears, dressed once more, this time in snug-fitting black slacks that hug her hips flawlessly, and a pale green silk blouse, her lovely breasts pushed up and showing a mouth-watering bit of cleavage between the low buttons. She’s also wearing a choker-length chain o
f silver, or probably platinum, around her slender neck—a “day collar”, I am certain. I admire the way it lays against her skin. I am filled with envy and a strange sort of dread. Is that what I really want? I realize I do—desperately—and yet I can’t even comprehend it, emotion and logic warring in my head, in my chest, making my muscles go tight. Another mind fuck. The story of my life at this point.
Aimée moves gracefully to my side and laces her arms around my waist, bringing me a measure of warmth and calm. Laying her head on my shoulder, she whispers, “How are you, Damon? Are you okay?”
Am I?
“I think so,” I tell her. “Wonderful in some ways, completely fucked in others. I’ll figure it out. Eventually.”
“Are you still so uncertain?”
“My darling girl. So sweet to me. So sweet, always.”
“I do try,” she says.
Daring for a moment to brush her cheek with my lips, I tell her, “Yes, always. And you? How are you?”
“I’m better than I’ve ever been in my life. I am honestly living in pure bliss, being exactly what I’ve always needed to be, where I need to be. And I have you both. For now, at least.”
She stays with me for a long, lovely moment, then her arms slip away. “You’d better hurry. Use the bathroom, brush your teeth. He wants us ready in five minutes in the living room.”
“Of course.”
I go about my tasks, hyper-aware of the loss of her warm embrace, the fragrance of her hair next to my cheek. Trying not to frankly freak the hell out at the idea of being moved again, if he’s done with me. He knows how to unsettle, my wicked Master. He does everything with intention, as I once did myself.
No. Don’t think about it.
Moving to the unlocked door, I glance around the small, white space I’ve inhabited these last nine or ten days—I think it’s been that long, anyway—and I realize it has become a sort of sanctuary for me, one in which I’ve been able to discover my submission, to contemplate how my life is changing as I strive to be what I must in order to stay with those I love so deeply. To fear the submission. To hope for it.
