Fluff

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  This was how I grew up.

  It was better when Evie was still at home, but when she left everything went to shit quick. My one scraped up meal quickly went to nothing. I was hungry and cold and alone. I could cry out for help, but that would only render me in a foster home. I was too close to being free and legal, so I made due. People can think and say what they want, but I thought I was ingenious—an enterprising young woman taking care of herself.

  Yeah, it was illegal, and the men were wrong. The drugs on the coffee table at home were illegal, too. And the way my mom neglected us. And the way her long line of drug dealers and Scuz treated us. The list went on and on.

  I was smart enough to know if I got a real job, I wouldn’t get to keep any of it. Mom and Scuz would take it because they didn’t have real jobs. Scuz was a small step on the ladder under the head honcho drug ring leader. He dealt in trades a lot – fix my car for this vial, give me head for a dime bag. What this meant was that his actual paying customers were gouged out to make up the difference, and all that money went back to Pock.

  I had never had the displeasure of meeting the infamous Pock. The rumor surrounding his name involved his teenage ache problems. Supposedly, the pock marks left him terribly scarred. Between the ice pick holes from the ache and his own business in selling drugs for years, his face had taken numerous blows – stabbings, gun shot grazes, broken bones – leaving his face horribly disfigured. I sort of prayed I never met him.

  I kept to myself and the pigs until I called Percy. She gave me the number of Cyclone Indies, saying they were a decent bunch. I called and set up the interview. After talking a couple times on the phone, they eventually agreed to meet me.

  I begged my sister to do my hair. She gave me a new bottle job blonde and spiral perm one night at her house. Of course, Jimbo came home later, and together they ended up higher than a fucking kite. I raided her closet for a cute outfit and her vast assortment of makeup for a few select pieces - some lipgloss, blush, and mascara. I wanted to keep it simple and play into my youthful appearance.

  I gathered everything I could in a bag I found in mom’s closet. I had enough money in a pickle jar under my bed to buy a bus ticket to Atlanta. I took the red-eye so I could walk right in the door. I was never going back to Arkansas. I was waking up from the nightmare. And I had no clue what would await in my future, but it had to be better than staying in Nowhereville and ending up impregnated with some abusive jackass’ kids.

  I had applied to colleges. Even gotten in. But there was no way to afford it and financial aid seemed a pipe dream. I wanted to be able to pay for it myself. Little did I know at the time, but in a few years, I would get my Bachelor’s and Master’s in business. I paid for it all in cash. Stripping and making movies had paid damn good with the blessing of genetics like mine. And that is where my connection with Sal Raniero came into play. We each understood the need to get out from under the thumb of our past.

  But I am getting ahead of myself.

  Probably to avoid talking about the man that gave me all those things. It’s easier to gloss over the gift of him because to admit what all he has given me renders me in useless, crying and babbling about how I didn’t deserve to win the lottery of Cyclone Blonde. He wasn’t just a win; he was the grand fucking prize wrapped up with a pretty black bow.

  I was tied and tethered most of the weekend—to a chair, a bed. Or the makeshift bolts screwed into the wall and mounted into the floor. My wrists bore the signs of a slave, reddened and slightly bruised. Every time I noticed them, my heart pounded with a proud resolve. They were my blue ribbon for a job well done. They were my marks. Marks I chose. Better than the tracks I would’ve had if I had stayed at home.

  Not only did I save myself, I was getting paid to explore my fetish with the dream god of the porn industry. Never once did I take advantage of it. I knew early on I struck it lucky.

  I surmised early during the week that Cyclone was the substitute for the toxin I could be putting in my body. He was my high, and I was using him like a junkie. I needed to make him happy as much he wanted to push me. And that led us here to the cabin where I was currently naked and bound to the bolts on the wall.

  He had spent the better part of the day watching sports and stroking his dick hard – but never coming – in a chair parked directly in front of me. He had fed me a breakfast of eggs and toast, lunch was leftover chicken soup from the night before, and dinner a steak he grilled outside. I had been held captive to the wall all day. It was beautiful and perfect and everything I had ever dreamed.

  When he allowed, I pissed in a bucket he would hold under me. He would wipe me and water me and offer smokes to my lips. He was twisted in a sexy kind of way. He loved it when I cried, and although I hadn’t cried yet, I knew it was coming. I kept my head down and my flirtations turned up the max. A swish of the hips, a bite of the lips, a flash of the eyes when he held the straw. I taunted with my expressions as I watched him stroke his bad boy.

  It was warped.

  With one another, we could be honest and truthful, transparent with each other and with ourselves. In that, we found beauty and ecstasy. He provided me everything, and I was his ultimate sex kitten.

  I had never felt so protected, so safe. I didn’t have to ask, I knew he would kill anyone who messed with me. If he knew the whole story, he would have hits out on all the pigs. I am certain Scuz would find himself in a compromising situation soon. If I judged Cy right, I knew it wouldn’t just be a bullet to the brain, but an entrapment to send him to the hell of the big house for many years.

  Cy was maniacal, deviant, and manipulative, utterly brilliant in his ability. I was his—complete and totally—there would never be another.

  I stayed on the wall until night fell. He whipped my flesh with the back of a hair brush. I cried like a baby. His cock raged and eventually fucked me like a madman against the wall. I was his slut, his bitch, his cunt, and his whore. And I didn’t want it any other way.

  The things he said to me in the heat of the scene stayed there. Later, when the aftercare happened, I was his angel, his princess, his beautiful cradled safely in his arms. He would praise me for – days – for my ability to stay wherever he put me for however long he deemed necessary. I welcomed his discipline to my body and savored the worship afterwards.

  It didn’t matter if anyone else understood. We got each other in such a deep way; he was my soulmate. Together we were balanced excellence and an exquisite alignment of his Dominance to my submission.

  I was Cy’s little love slave, bound and loyal to the end. I had no idea that collar – present or missing – would last a lifetime. I was forever faithful to one even when I wasn’t. I walked the path he chose even if he regretted the journey he sent me on. I relished in the punishment of his mistakes.

  Even when I discovered he used me wrong – behaving and treating me poorly – I never wanted anything other than to be Cyclone Blonde’s bitch.

  DALE

  IF SHE KNOWS me as well as I think she does, Amber knows I am not as mad as I act. But it is just an act, a farce, a scare tactic. I want her trembling. I need her to think and believe I am some sort of monster. It is imperative to the game we play. That said, her punishment is real.

  Her body is filthy, covered in dirt and scratches. Without a sound, I set her down on her feet in the tub. I grab the shower head and turn the nozzle on high pressure, hosing her down. I am kind-hearted enough to spray her with lukewarm water. In the past, I haven’t always been so nice. I scrub her body – my body as I own her – with a rough kitchen sponge. She is a disaster. Cuts and scrapes everywhere. I ought to blister her ass good for this.

  And I might later.

  Bathing her like a dog covered in fleas, I wash her over twice and then shampoo and condition her long auburn locks. I realize as I wash them how much I miss her looking like my trashy little blonde thang.

  Her eyes stay cast downwards, clearly ashamed by her actions. Her moves stupid, especially c
onsidering we were getting shot at the other day. My temper rises at the thought of how she risked her life, all to lure me. She did it on purpose, and we both know it. It was never about getting away from some sort of captor. She likes toying with me to push the limits, and typically I don’t mind. But this was a bad decision on her part. Her poor choice concerns me. Perhaps she isn’t as stable as she once was, but I am willing to test the waters, knowing I can bring her back from the brink of self-destruction.

  We’ve been there before, too.

  I want to shave her—everywhere, but I’ll save that for a treat. She is in trouble now, and I cannot have her thinking I have forgotten the complete idiocy of what she did. Grabbing a towel, I dry her body without regard to being gentle. I pick her up out of the tub, grab the hair dryer, and the brush as we walk her ass to the bedroom.

  Her expression is worth the extra time it took me to go retrieve her out of the woods. I moved all the furniture out to the shed and covered the windows with black sheets I found in the linen cabinet. I brought in a couple of saw horses, securing them with screws to the already abused floor. When the bed returns, the holes in the wood will be hidden underneath. Besides, when I tell my sister about the events about this scene, she won’t give a damn. On top of the saw horses, I screwed a six-by-three foot piece of plywood that I was nice enough to cover with a sheet.

  In addition to my new makeshift dungeon room, I have aimed the two floor lamps at the torture table. She gasps loud enough for me to hear. Her first sounds since I plucked her out of the woods. She is impressed—I know. Part of the true joy of being a Dominant is coming up with challenging new positions to put your doll into. It can be a struggle and thinking creatively helps, but I never want her getting bored. I want her well-trained and worked over, prepared for any situation which may arise.

  Leading her over to the table, I plop her ass up on the it. I plug in the dryer and methodically begin drying and brushing her hair. She may see it as a reward—it’s not, but I cannot have her getting sick on me. As I finish up her hair, she mumbles, “D?”

  With a stoic resolve, I lift a brow at her as I growl, “What?”

  “I have splinters in the bottoms of my feet, Sir,” she meekly reports.

  My fists clench with a vehement indignation. I am so pissed, I know she isn’t safe with me right now. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to care for her.

  “Stay,” I threaten harshly, lifting my finger to her chin and pulling it back quick. It doesn’t hurt her, but it’s enough of a warning she knows I will lash her ass all the way home if she runs off again.

  Hastily, I return to her side with a snap-blade knife, a pair of tweezers, a damp cloth, an empty coffee cup, and a chair. I point the lights at her feet and sit at the end of the table. “What the hell…”

  “I ran through thorns,” she says.

  “I wasn’t asking,” I grumble, trying to ignore than my face is on the same level as her crotch. Gripping her foot tighter, I warn, “Stay still. Don’t move.”

  After almost an hour in complete silence, her feet are finally free of splinters and thorns. Damn girl must have had a hundred.

  “If you ever do that to me again, you will not be able to sit down for a month.”

  “Yes…”

  Placing my hand to her mouth, I interrupt, “Hush. I don’t want to hear your excuses or apologies. What I need you to understand is your house was someone’s target practice. If they were capable of doing that, they are also damn well capable of taking your ass.” I rub my thumb over her lips several times. At first, I am gentle, and then I rub a little harsher, reddening her lips. I squeeze under her jaw and pull her face to mine as I force her to look at me. “And I will not lose you again.”

  She blinks in acceptance.

  I leave the room, closing and locking the door, Returning the items to the kitchen, I grab a couple of things for the night. Before I return to her, I do myself a favor and jerk one off in the kitchen. I cannot be persuaded by her game—it’s tight and she knows how to manipulate the scene. I have to do it better, which means the chub I have been packing since seeing her helpless on the ground has got to go.

  Ten minutes later, I walk in carrying the heavy leather bands and chains. Her face shows an unexpected shock, like she thought she would get out of her stunt scot-free. She is also fucking crazy if she truly believed that.

  Cuffing her wrists, I secure the chain and padlock her to the heavy eyebolt in the wall. The damn thing is in a stud and she would have to be a fucking super hero to pull it out. Her eyes well with tears when she realizes how serious I am.

  Oh fuck.

  Her damn waterworks turn on and up comes the johnson.

  I give her a generous drink of water and leave a metal bucket in the corner of the room. “Sometimes I hate you,” she glances up as the tears drop down her cheeks.

  “The feeling is mutual, babygirl. I wish you would just bend already.”

  “You want to break me,” she whispers, licking her lips. “I spent years trying to recover from the end of us…”

  “End of us?” I question, furrowing my brow. “Does it look like we are through?”

  “You know what I mean,” she sniffles. “Our separation just about killed me.”

  Handing her my handkerchief, I have a sudden desire to bend her over the table and fuck her raw. But I can’t let myself give in, or she will immediately have the upper hand.

  Patting her on the head and smiling from ear to ear, I mumble, “You have a good night, sweet girl.”

  “Fuck you,” she sasses as her tears come to a screeching halt. She is kicking and flailing about as I back up quick, laughing. “You are fucking crazy!” She screams. “I hate you, you son-of-a-bitch! I hate you!”

  Clicking the light off, I say, “Goodnight, Amber. I love you.”

  Turning away, I shut the door and lock it. Immediately, I go find solace in a bottle of whiskey and a pack of smokes. The ache of leaving her alone is real, but she doesn’t deserve my attention. Not tonight.

  She will not win—this time.

  * * * *

  The weeks passed with Amber by my side. In my dressing room and in my bed, I encouraged her to spend the next seven weeks, riding my dick and enjoying my belt. She did both—in equal amounts.

  Amber made every other girl I had on their knees pale in comparison. She never questioned why or how, she obeyed and did as I asked. And the relationship blossomed with an intimate trust and sensuality.

  Lele Love became increasingly problematic, showing up late and acting the diva role to the hilt. By the end of the third week, the director fired her in the middle of a shoot. I was stunned, but from a business perspective, I understood. Her behavior was a liability, costing us time and money. Not to mention morale on the set plummeted as she wasn’t just catty with Amber, but rude to everyone.

  The emergency meeting that followed at lunch was one I would never forget. We are all sitting in the big board room – twelve of us. Although actors weren’t typically privy to the business side, I was the boss. I kicked back in the reclining office chair, rocking and chewing on a straw when Amber walked in. She brought the catered lunch in quietly as I smiled.

  “We have to do something!” The director, Claude, yelled with his French accent. “We cannot make a movie with no leading female.”

  “We can write her out easy enough,” the lead scriptwriter said. “But finding a replacement with her billing on such short notice will be tough.”

  Around this time, I noticed Claude checking out Amber in my favorite shorts.“What about her?”

  Her innocent does eyes flew open wide as her lips parted in a silent gasp. “She can’t do it.”

  “Why?” Claude demanded to know, walking over to her and playing with the tips of her blonde hair. “She is young and beautiful, the camera will love her!”

  “Because,” I warned, “I said so.”

  My assistant, Celeste, urged, “He’s got a point, Cy. She’s fucking gorgeous.�
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  “I am not sharing her.” The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them and left everyone staring between Amber and I.

  “So, you are already fucking her!” Claude prodded, “Why not on film? It’d be so good for your relationship. Little exhibitionist fun.”

  Back up. Back the fuck up. That little sentence – “It’d be so good for your relationship” – was absolutely the worst prediction anyone ever made. Ultimately, the worst. The fact Claude followed it with an ‘exhibitionist fun’ and I heard exhibitionist – kink – only shows you how fucked up things had become in my head.

  But somehow, they managed to talk me into it, and Amber signed a contract that afternoon.

  She agreed to continue to work as my fluffer. And I agreed to fuck her on film.

  Worst. Decision. Ever.

  Eventually, I chalked it up to being young and dumb, but that took years to get there. The next five weeks started as a hell of a ride, but quickly morphed into my worst nightmare. I wished I had never let it happen, but I did. It was all my fault.

  And that was when I understood how smart Amber Rosen was.

  I had the girl at night, but she outplayed my rank during the day.

  And I had let it happen.

  I lost control.

  AMBER

  SPENDING THE NIGHT in D’s makeshift dungeon, I find peace in just existing. The room proves to be the darkest dungeon I have ever been in. Strangely, I find this tidbit impressive. I don’t mind the blackness, but I am one crazy ass girl.

  We have done this – well, not quite to this extreme – so many times, I am numb to the dark. I cannot see and am forced to deal with my own fears of what may linger where I cannot see. It doesn’t sound as hard as it actually is. The wonderful thing about the room is at least I do not have to concern myself with the insects and vermin that sometimes reside in the underground kink tombs.