by Linnea May
"Why didn't you just buy me?" she hisses, fighting back another wave of tears. "Or someone like me? Why didn't you just pay for this? It's clear that you have the money for it."
She pauses, considering her words before she continues.
"Or is this not your house? Is this not your stuff? Did you steal all of this, too?"
I shake my head, ignoring the fact that she tries to flinch away from me when I reach for her to gently stroke along the side of her face, moving away a strand of blond hair.
"No, this is my house, my stuff," I say. "And you're right, I could afford to buy you. I've actually contracted with the agency before."
She inhales audibly, suggesting that this revelation gets to her.
"Which is why I'm familiar with the agency you work for," I add.
"How do you know-"
"Because I found your business card, toy," I cut her off. "Violent Delights. I've actually been one of their clients."
"But not this time."
"Not this time," I confirm.
"Why not?" Her lower lip is quivering, and her question is laced with desperation. "Why the hell did you not buy me or someone like me?"
"Because I grew tired of acting," I tell her. "I'm tired of fancy whores pretending to be someone they're not, pretending to like something they don’t like for the sake of the client, pretending to be scared or helpless, when in reality they know they're perfectly safe because of a contract. I've grown to hate this fakeness, people who show anxiety when they have nothing to fear."
She looks at me with a contemplative expression on her face. It actually looks like she understands me, like she can relate to what I'm sharing with her.
"You wanted the real thing," she concludes in a hoarse whisper. "But all you got was another whore who thought she was hired to do this."
I'm startled when she begins laughing. It's not a happy laugh. It's the creepy kind of laugh from someone who's about to lose their mind, the kind you hear coming from the evil villain’s throat in a movie, just before he blows up an entire city. The kind of mad laughter of a lunatic.
I stare at her with narrowed eyes and can't help but worry for a moment, but she recovers soon enough. She's shaking her head as if trying to cast the urge to laugh away.
"I can't believe this is fucking happening," she breathes without looking at me. "This cannot be fucking real."
I huff. "You're telling me, toy."
"Stop calling me that," she demands.
"I can call you whatever the fuck I want," I remind her, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling her head back so she's forced to look at me. "Do you understand?"
She glares at me through glassy eyes.
"You must've been so disappointed," she says in a voice so low that I can barely hear her. "Here you are, out to get yourself a pretty little victim to fuck, something real, someone who's actually afraid of you, someone who does what... succumbs to your dominant charm eventually? And all you get is the same old thing, a whore, ready to bend way too easily at your will."
I let go of her hair, feeling oddly defeated by her words. Everything she says is true, but it makes me feel terrible to hear her say it.
"You know, I'm not doing this job because I have no other choice," she goes on. "I'm doing it because I fucking enjoy it. You say what we provide is merely an act, but it's not, not with me."
Our eyes meet. Her lips are pressing into a thin line, trembling as she pushes them together, unable to prevent another set of tears from streaming down her cheeks.
"I admit, I started doing this job out of necessity, but if I wanted to, I could've stopped a long time ago," she adds. "But I didn't. I need this. I enjoy it, and what I'm giving my clients is way more than just an act. I crave the things they do to me just as much as they crave doing it. There's barely anything fake about me."
She stops, smiling to herself. "Except for my tits, I give you that. They're as fake as they come."
I can't help but join her little chuckle. Her eyes flicker when she sees me laughing with her, silently telling me to stop.
"You don't believe me?"
I clear my throat, throwing her an earnest look. "I have no reason to doubt your words, toy."
She sighs.
"This could've been nice, you know," she laments. "If you had just paid for me, if you had indeed been my client. I think I would've enjoyed that."
She adds another pause, sniffles, and visibly fights off another impending wave of tears. But her sad desperation soon wins over, shaking her body with violent sobs. Seeing her like this doesn't give me anything. It doesn't please me, it doesn't arouse me. It fucking hurts to see her like this - and I hate myself for feeling this way. This is not how it's supposed to be, not at all.
"You know, I was actually looking forward to this job," she whines. "I was scared, too. This is bigger than anything I ever signed up for before, so much bigger, but also so much more exciting. I wanted this to happen. I wanted to be kidnapped. I wanted to be someone's possession. I wanted to be treated like fucking property. I wanted to be fucked like there's no tomorrow, trained, and chained."
Her watery eyes seek mine. "I wanted to see how much I could take. I wanted to be tested, really be tested. But I wanted it to be safe. And now..."
Her voice breaks as she succumbs to another crying fit. I hate the goddamn daggers that she's throwing at my heart with this. She's a fucking witch, and she’s killing me.
It's as if my arm is moving on its own. I'm surprised that she doesn't try to fight me off. Instead, she not only accepts the comfort I'm willing to offer her, but she actively seeks it. I pick her up in her awkward state, making use of the fact that my ragged hogtie allows her to kneel with her back only slightly bent backwards, and wrapping my arms around her as she sobs like a hurt child.
"Why didn't you just buy me?" she utters tearfully. "You could've been my client. You didn't have to kidnap me."
I tighten my embrace around her, closing my eyes as I press her closer against my body.
"No, my toy," I object in a low voice. "I had to."
Chapter 19
Ruby
I don't understand why this is happening to me. And I don't understand him.
Why is he doing this? Why is he being so gentle with me now? Is it my vulnerability that turns him on? Is this part of the thrill for him?
I don't know what he has in store for me. Now that I know who he is - or rather who he isn't - there's nothing I can hope to expect from him, there's nothing I can rely on. He could hurt me, abuse me all day long - he could kill me.
He could actually kill me.
Is that what he had in mind when he took me? True fear, true terror - followed by a true end so his deed never gets discovered?
"Are you going to kill me?" I ask him. My words are muffled as my face is pressed against his firm chest. His strong, muscular chest that I adored just a few days ago, when I refused to believe this is not what I thought it was.
"Not if I don't have to," he says. His words make my heart stutter with fear.
"How will you know if you have to?"
He doesn't give me a reply, but instead he carefully pushes me away from him, making sure that I'm stable, kneeling next to him, before he brings his hands behind my back, looking over my shoulder as he fiddles with the knots around my wrists.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Using you," he replies. "That's what you're here for after all."
I take in a big gulp of air, scolding myself when I notice a subtle wave of arousal washing over me, warming my core and making my heart turn in somersaults. This is sick. Even I should know that this is the absolute worst moment, the absolute worst circumstance to be aroused by.
"What are you going to do?" I elaborate. "What's going to happen?"
"Shut up, toy," he hisses, finally loosening the knots pinching around my wrists.
He holds my arms in place, his hands replacing the rope, yet immobilizing me just as effectively.
<
br /> "You don't want to fight me, toy," he warns hoarsely. "You'll regret it."
I'm paralyzed, unsure what to make of the thrilling heat that's spreading throughout my body. Holy shit, I'm fucked-up.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes," I hurry to reply.
His grip around my wrists tightens, and he bends my arms, causing me to groan in pain.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, master."
The pressure on my arms eases immediately, and I sigh in relief, the rush still accelerating my heart rate. To my surprise, he unfastens the ropes completely. I don't even think to fight him, letting my limbs relax when he lets go of me. I feel like a fool when I breathe in his scent as he bends over me, reaching for the hem of my shirt and slowly pulling it up and over my head, while I obediently raise my arms to help him.
I even moan when he touches my exposed breasts, cupping them almost lovingly before he squeezes them forcefully, with need. His eyes hungrily travel along my upper body, a focused expression on his face as he contemplates his next move.
His hands leave my body, and I watch as he fiddles with the rope, calmly rolling it up in his hands.
"Stretch out your arms and cross your wrists," he commands.
My hands are visibly shaking when I oblige and hold out my arms toward him. I cross my wrists and observe his skillful dexterity as he closes the rope around them, quickly fastening expert knots to tie my hands together.
He gets up from the mattress and pulls at the rope, beckoning me to follow him. "Get up."
I get to my feet and stumble behind him, and he leads me over to that damn stretching bench. My heart sinks at the idea of being tied up on that thing again, but as it turns out, that's not his plan at all. Instead, we circle the bench, leaving me wondering what our actual destination could be. He turns around to look at me, visibly enjoying the view of me walking behind him, my tits exposed and my wrists tied. I'm wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, and I'm pretty sure that I'm about to lose those, as well.
He pulls me away from the stretching bench and finally shows me where we're headed. We have never used the leathery bondage horse before, and despite everything, I can't help but feel excited when he tells me to climb on it.
"Not perfect, because I don't get to see your perfect tits," he comments, as I position myself. "But it will have to do for right now, toy."
I cast him a look that lets him know I have nothing in the way of a reply to that, and he lets it pass.
It's a rather small piece of furniture, and even with my short body, it allows me to put my tied-up wrists over the edge at the top while still having my ass exposed on the other end. I'm pretty sure this is no coincidence, because this way he can fuck me from both sides, if that's his wish. He positions my knees to his liking before he comes around to the front, never letting go of the rope binding my hands.
He looks at me as if to confirm that I'm okay, but he doesn't say a word. My eyes follow him when he falls to his knees in front of me and quickly fastens the rope around the legs of the furniture. It's obvious that he's very experienced with rope, and I like that about him. I've always enjoyed the sight of a man who knows what he's doing.
Even though his skills could mean a lot of trouble for me.
The thought sends chills down my spine. The realization comes back to me in flashes, reminding me of the danger I'm in, but only for as long as I allow my mind to go there. I let out a desperate sigh, causing him to cast me a questioning look.
"I want to enjoy this," I say. "I want to, because I really need this. But I'm scared..."
My voice fails me once again, and I'm capable of nothing but a pleading gaze when he reaches for my face, squeezing my cheeks with one hand tilting my head back to face him. The look on his face remains neutral, unreadable - until his lips turn up into a subtle smile.
"Good," he says simply.
He gets back up on his feet. "It'll be easier for you if you don't fight me."
Easier. I never wanted easy. I'm not a brat, but I've always enjoyed teasingly fighting back to whatever was asked of me. Punishment didn't come with the same sweet taste if I didn't deserve it.
With him, things are different. I don't know how far he's willing to go, I don't know his limits, or if he has any, and he might cross my hard limits because he doesn't even know what they are.
Yes, he could do that. But somehow I don't think he would intentionally. It strikes me as odd that I still trust him in this regard, but the way he held back when I begged him not to slap my face gave me confidence. He listened then because he could tell that he was about to do something wrong. Back then I thought it was because he remembered the contract he signed, but now that I know he's not the one who signed it, I'm inclined to think he can sense when he's going too far, when things are getting too real for me.
On the other hand, isn't that exactly what he wants? Something real?
"Toy," he calls to me. He‘s now standing behind me. I didn't even notice that he'd moved.
"Yes," I breathe, trying to look back over my shoulder, but I can't bend far enough with my hands tied to the legs of the bondage horse.
I yelp in surprise when his hand lands on my behind with a sudden slap.
"Yes, master," I correct myself.
"Defiance calls for correction," he says, and I jerk again when I can feel something cold on my upper thigh, just where my shorts end. "You know that, right?"
"Yes, master," I reply, wondering what he's about to do.
I gasp when he moves the cold metallic item along my skin, and I realize that it's a pair of scissors. For a moment I’m consumed by panic, panic that he might want to hurt me.
No blood.
No cuts.
But he's not using the scissors on my skin. Instead, he uses them to cut my shorts, the most luxurious pair of shorts I've ever worn, and he just cuts them as if it was nothing. To him, it probably isn't.
He moves the scissors along my skin, cutting the fabric all the way from bottom to top in various places, until he's able to rip them apart and expose my ass in front of him.
"Now," he says, throwing the pieces of fabric aside.
"I know you can take this. You have been spanked before, haven't you, toy?"
I mentally sigh in relief. Spanking. I can not only take that, I might actually enjoy it.
"Yes, I have," I respond, shivering with anticipation when I hear him unbuckling his belt. A classic.
"Good, you have nothing to fear then, have you?"
Before I can give him a reply, I feel the first blow cutting across my skin. I shriek out in pain, instantly wondering why I thought I'd enjoy this.
I'm whimpering, and it's only been one slap.
"This will be easy enough for you, toy," he says in a hoarse voice. "But I don't want to make this too easy for you, so there's one thing you'll have to keep in mind. If you don't... well, you're going to be in bigger trouble than before."
I nod, even though I don't know what I'm agreeing to, because he hasn't specified his demand yet.
"This belt will land on your pretty ass as often as I deem adequate," he continues. "You can scream, you can cry, but there are two things you're forbidden to do."
He pauses, filling the silence with another burning hit to my ass. I don't cry out this time, but instead I endure the pain in tense silence.
"First, you're not allowed to move," he elaborates. "And second, you're not allowed to get wet."
My eyes widen in shock, and I can't stop myself from letting out a helpless moan.
That's impossible.
There's no way I'll be able to oblige his second command.
Chapter 20
Ruby
He doesn't check my status for a long time. After every strike with the belt, I fear that his hand might wander between my legs to see if I'm obeying his demand.
I know I'm not.
I can't help it. It's a natural response to the kind of pain he's inflicting upon me. There are no tears
yet, but my body tenses up every time he hits me with the belt, always meeting a slightly different spot on my ass than the time before. Once he has covered the entire area, he returns to the beginning, inflicting more agony on an already sore spot.
The pain is intense, almost blinding. It’s molten iron. A reminder that I am alive.
After a while, I no longer suppress my anguished cries, filling the room with unbridled shrieks that no one but him will ever hear. I don't even notice that I started crying until I taste the trickling salty liquid on my lips. The taste awakes me from a slumber, one that provides the comfort I need during sessions like this. Some call it subspace, but I've always called it warmth, simple warmth. It's a kind of vertigo that helps my mind elude the agony at hand, and escorts me to a place where there's no pain, only the throbbing left by every impact. That hot pulsation, the one that carries me off to a place to which I have no access unless there's a man to help me get there.
I crave this feeling and the surrender that comes with it. I almost feel sorry for him, for my captor, because I know that whatever he's feeling right now, it can't be nowhere close to as good as what I'm experiencing.
And that's exactly the problem.
I know my core is dripping wet. I know it before he finally moves his hand there, his gentle touch clashing with the torment from before. My skin is glowing and I moan in anguish when he graces my tortured ass, as his fingers part my velvety lips, revealing that I've been anything but a good girl.
"Oh, my sweet little toy," he whispers, his voice underlined with an ominous threat. "You're being punished, and yet here you are, disobeying your master again."
I groan with relish when he begins playing with my clit, sending sparks of pleasure along my spine. I know this won't end the way I want it to, but I choose to enjoy the bliss while it lasts. He draws circles around my swollen nub, inserting one finger, then two. I know I'm only making things worse for myself when I start grinding against his hand, eager for more.
