Satisfaction made him smirk.
Oh yes, Portia. Please squirm. Because that's all you'll be doing when I'm your Master.
Well, no. Actually, squirming would be the first thing she'd be doing, just before the begging, pleading and crying. Oh, and apologizing profusely. And begging. Did he already say begging? He could already feel the power coursing through his veins—the satisfaction of dominance, the arousal of hearing a woman's cries and seeing her tears at some pain he'd inflicted.
He would make sure she found satisfaction, too. He knew how to make even the worst of punishments good for a sub, once he'd brought her to hell and back. And he did intend to bring Portia straight to hell. But he'd keep her on the edge—give her just enough pleasure or security to prevent her safewording out of the game. Because he had no intention of missing out on one minute of torture of that woman.
To his slight dismay, Jasmine sold for thirty-eight hundred dollars, which was a lot more than he'd expected to spend. But then, she was the first slave, maybe they wouldn't all cost that much. It wasn't that he didn't have the money, but he'd already paid four thousand for the vacation, so the thought of doubling his expenditure came as a shock. But hell, what amount wouldn't he pay for the chance to get even with the little bitch? He folded his arms across his chest. He didn't care how much she cost, he would walk away with Portia on his leash by the end of the auction.
The second slave arrived and departed, a nervous-looking blonde by the name of 'Blossom', who went to the first bidder for five thousand dollars.
He read and re-read the program, trying to figure out which name Portia had chosen. He thought she'd been wearing a number thirteen when he'd seen her at the Meet and Greet. But thirteen's name was 'Kitty,' and Portia hadn't been dressed as a cat. He watched as number seven, a hot little thing in a corset, bent over and held her ankles, putting on a sexy show. Number eight was a very blonde submissive named Silver, purchased by two men—they appeared to be twins—for eight thousand dollars.
"And our next slave goes by the name 'Kitty,' although pet play is not her specialty. Number thirteen, please step up on stage," Marshall announced.
David sat up straight and saw Portia moving toward Master Marshall. So she was Kitty, eh? He wouldn't have thought of her as the warm and fuzzy type.
"Kitty considers herself a pain slut, with a great aptitude for obedience. Her interests include corporal punishment, bondage, and cock sucking. She is curious to explore a scene with two men, so if there are two of you who want to go in on one slave, this is a good opportunity."
David stiffened. The hell it was. He glared around the room, mentally daring anyone to outbid him.
"The starting bid is two hundred, do I have two hundred?"
He held up his number.
Portia flinched.
He smiled. Even with the lights shining in her face, she knew David had been her bidder. Perhaps she had remembered his placement in the room.
"Three hundred, do I hear three hundred?"
A Dominant from across the room lifted his number.
Damn him. David feared, from watching the way the bids had worked, that the Castle had planted people to help drive the prices up. If so, he did not appreciate their efforts.
"One thousand," he called out, trying to hurry the bidding along.
"One thousand in the back. Do I heard two thousand?"
"Two thousand."
He grit his teeth. Which bastard had bid two thousand? "Three thousand," he said.
"Three thousand from the Master in the back. Do I hear four?"
The room remained silent.
"Three thousand going to the Master in the back. Going once…"
"Thirty-five hundred."
If David had a superpower, it would be the ability to make the other bidder's tongue roll up and gag him. "Four thousand," he countered.
"Four thousand. Do I hear five? Five thousand?"
He held his breath until Marshall spoke again. "Four thousand going once... going twice... SOLD, to the Master in the back. Congratulations, please come to the front to make your payment. Master Grimsley will have your slave waiting for you."
Success. The triumph surged through his body like a drug kicking into high gear as David made his way to the table to pay for his slave. Four thousand was not too high a price to pay for sweet, sweet revenge.
#
Portia's entire body was trembling. Even Master Grimsley noticed. "There's nothing to be afraid of. You know your safeword, right?"
She gave a wobbly nod. "Yes, sir." Easy for him to say. He had no idea who'd just bought her, and why. David hadn't bid on anyone else—she'd been watching. He'd waited for her and then gone after the win with determination. He had to know her identity, and he planned to make her suffer. The thought of spending New Year's as the slave of a man who hated her spiked her insides with shards of genuine fear.
She wondered if she could get out of it. Just tell Master Marshall she didn't want this particular Master. But no... how would that work? David was already paying for her. They wouldn't want to refund his donation. Besides, they'd probably tell her that if she wanted out, she'd have to pay for her three nights at the Castle, which she didn't have the money to do.
The stone in the pit of her stomach rolled over. This couldn't get any worse. Portia drew in a shaky breath and closed her eyes, sinking into the chair beside Master Grimsley's station. The best she could pray for was anonymity. Perhaps he'd just recognized her from the bus ride and decided to bid on her. Could she hope for that stroke of luck? And if so, could she keep up the charade for the entire weekend? What would she say when he asked her what she did for a living? Her lying skills lacked refinement.
Please, please, please don't let him know me.
"I um... have to pee," she said, picking at one fingernail. She always had to pee when she got nervous. Sometimes she had to run to the restroom two or three times before a scene.
Master Grimsley lifted an eyebrow as if he didn't quite trust her.
"Truly. I'll be right back, I promise."
He fixed her with a stern look and looked at the clock. "You have forty-five seconds, slave. If you're not back by then, you're going over my knee for a long, hard spanking. Understand?"
Despite all her nerves, his dominant words made her pussy quiver. "Yes, sir," she breathed, jumping up and dashing for the door. She found the restroom and urinated in record time, although probably not in less than forty-five seconds, especially since she stopped to wash her hands.
When she dashed back, David was standing there, looking imposing in his black jeans and tight black t-shirt, his face inscrutable.
"Just in time," Master Grimsley said, addressing David. "Your slave requires punishment. She took too long in the bathroom."
The corner of David Dean's mouth turned up in a smile. "I will handle it," he said smoothly.
Portia eyed him, trying to get a read. Did he know her? His dark eyes seemed to penetrate right to her soul, but he showed no sign of recognition. And he didn't look particularly angry. But perhaps he wouldn't show her that.
"Come, slave," he said, beckoning to her.
She swallowed, but her feet didn't move.
He lifted an eyebrow, sending her tense stomach dropping.
Her body surprised her—how easily she flipped from fear to arousal. Or were they one and the same, entwined together, making the perfect submissive cocktail? Did she actually want David to punish her? That might make her one hundred percent crazy.
"Now, Kitty," he said, his voice hard and unyielding.
She shot forward, dropping to her knees at his feet, her head bowed. If he did know her, if he did intend on punishing her, she would not give him one reason to make it worse. She would be the model submissive, obedient in all things. She would not give him the satisfaction of breaking her down—because she would be too pliable to be snapped.
"Good girl," he murmured, his cold tone turning warm. He stroked a finger up her neck a
nd under her jaw until it reached her chin, which he raised. "Look at me."
She lifted her eyes.
"I am Master D. When you speak to me, you will address me as Master, Master D or sir. However, you do not have permission to speak. I am making you my pet, Kitty, and pets can't talk, can they?"
She made her head wobble in a weak no, unsure whether he expected an answer.
He gave her an icy smile. "You know the Castle safeword. Your safeword with me is 'red.' Those are the only two words you may speak without permission. Otherwise, if you really need to say something to me, you will lick my hand to request permission. Understand?"
She nodded. Part of her thought what an asshole, while the other rejoiced at his edict. Being free of the need to speak or interact with him alleviated half her worries. If he didn't know who she was, she wouldn't give it away. And if he did... well, at least she wouldn't have to explain herself.
He tugged at the ribbon around her neck, untying the bow and slipping it off. Placing a thin leather collar around her neck, he buckled it in place. "Mine," he said, with a wolfish glee that unnerved her. She had to pee again. It took all her self-restraint to keep from backing away from him.
Master Grimsley handed him a leash, which he clipped to the ring.
"Come, pet," David said, taking her elbow and lifting her to her feet.
Relieved he wasn't making her crawl on the hard stone floor, she stayed right at his heel, trailing a half-step behind him, the way she imagined a slave should. He led her to Wardrobe, where he asked to see the pet wear. He chose a black satin corset, the kind that fit below the breasts, cinching her waist and pushing up her bare size A's.
"Put it on her," he directed, giving her absolutely no possibility for privacy, despite the other people milling about the costume room.
Portia stepped forward and allowed the costume attendant, a Goth-looking girl dressed in Victorian attire, to strip off her red dress, leaving her standing in nothing more than the matching red g-string and her knee-high boots. She licked her lips, pretending not to notice David's obvious and intense scrutiny of her body.
"Wait," he said, holding a hand up to the attendant. "Turn around," he commanded to Portia. She tried to steady her breath as she turned a slow circle. She knew her flaws—small breasts, stretch marks on her thighs from the growth spurt at age twelve. Cellulite, despite the fact that she had very little fat on her body. "A little thin," he said critically, when she'd completed the turn.
Asshole.
Her ears grew hot, but she kept her eyes lowered to hide her anger.
"Take off the panties."
Her pussy contracted as if it knew it would soon be the object of scrutiny. She slid off the tiny g-string, hopping a little as she struggled to get the panties over her boots. She had shaved everything bare for the trip, and she turned to give him the full frontal view now, for inspection.
David gave a faint smile. "Very pretty, pet. Thank you for grooming your pussy so nicely for me."
It wasn't for you, she thought darkly, but kept her mouth shut.
He nodded to the attendant, who slid the corset around her waist and cinched it tight, tugging at the laces in the back until Portia could scarcely breathe. She hated the choice—a small-breasted woman like her did not need to have her lack of boobs highlighted by this style of bustier.
"A little less," David Dean told the Goth. "I don't want her fainting when I punish her."
The word punish made Portia's bottom flinch, an involuntary clenching not missed by David. He smirked as she flushed with hot shame. Damn him.
"What else?" the attendant asked, after loosening and retying the corset.
"Do you have pasties for her nipples?"
The girl smiled. "Of course. Here, take a look," she said, bringing out a box of small nipple ornaments.
He chose a pair of black stars, with open rings in the center for her nipples to poke through. The attendant slid them over her nipples, tacking them in place with a little spirit glue.
Portia caught sight of herself in a mirror on the wall and stared. She looked every bit like a sultry burlesque dancer. Beautiful, despite her small breasts. Even her bare pussy looked beautiful—not shameful, but sweet, as if it, too, went with the costume.
"Anything on the bottom?" the assistant asked.
"Not on. In," David said, the glimmer of a smile playing over his lips.
"Of course. A butt plug? We have some pretty jeweled ones."
"A tail. She is my pet."
"Any particular kind? Cat? Dog? Pony?"
"Not pony. I can't decide between cat and dog. I prefer to think of her as a nondescript sort of pet. Can you bring out both cat and dog tails for me to inspect?"
"Of course," the Goth said, bustling over and bringing out several boxes.
David perused them, not allowing Portia to look. At last, he pulled out a short black tail that curled up. "This is cute," he said, walking over to her as he removed it from its plastic wrapper. He held the stainless steel bulb up to her face. "Lick it."
Portia reached forward with her mouth, sticking out her tongue and moistening the tip.
David slapped her ass so hard she yelped and jumped into the air. "Really, pet? Do you want me to stick this in your ass with that little saliva?"
"N-no, si—" She forgot—too late—not to speak.
"Miss," he said, turning to the attendant. "What is your name?"
"Melony, sir."
"Melony, please bring me a riding crop."
Portia's inner thighs squeezed together as moisture gathered between her legs. It seemed as though it didn't matter at all to her body that she did not like this man; the idea of punishment at his hands turned her to a noodle. Light-headed with anticipation, she drew in several deep breaths.
"Why will I be spanking you, Kitty? You may speak."
The game, perfectly played, kicked in the appropriate emotional response: shame. She hated making mistakes. Not because she hated to be spanked, but for some deeper, as yet, undiscovered reason. The one she suspected was at the heart of her need for pain. "For speaking, sir," Portia croaked, cursing her voice for its tremor.
"That's right," he said.
The attendant handed him the cruel-looking crop.
"Bend over and put your hands on that stool, there," David said, pointing with the crop toward the stepstool the assistant used to get boxes down from high places.
Portia walked, weak-kneed, to the stool and dutifully bent over, placing her palms flat on the step.
"Arch your back. Push your pretty little bottom out for me."
#
He'd had doubts about Portia's submissiveness, considering what a stuck up bi-atch she could be, but they all disappeared now. Real dismay had registered in her eyes when she'd blundered, certainly not for disappointing him, but because she had that inner urge to get it all perfect. Like a true submissive, she craved approval; hated punishment—except that she also loved it. And Master Marshall had been right when he'd called her a pain slut. She did not utter a sound when David whipped the wicked implement across her tight little ass, although he knew it hurt like hell.
Normally he would give a sub a thorough warm-up with his hand, to make sure he didn't leave marks, but he was feeling merciless. He also resisted the urge to rub away the sting, saying instead, "Count them."
"One, sir," she gasped.
He brought the crop down again, making a neat line just below the first.
"Two, sir," she said in a strangled voice.
"Count them quickly," he said, applying three crisp strokes in rapid succession.
"Three, four, five," she exclaimed, sounding panicked.
He paused, swishing the crop through the air beside him and smirking at her flinch. "I'm sorry, Master," he prompted, before delivering the next one to the very lowest part of her buttocks.
"Six—I'm so sorry, Master!"
His cock pressed against his jeans, the desire to plunge deep inside and ball her til
l she screamed making him itchy. But no, they had plenty of time for that. Right now he had a slave to train. "I will remember your rules," he dictated, and applied the crop to the backs of her thighs.
She yelped, arching her back like a cat, and squeezing her muscled buns together. She seemed to be struggling to catch her breath. "Seven," she said at last. "I will remember your rules, Master. It won't happen again, I promise."
"It had better not," he drawled. "The next time I will not be so lenient." He threaded the crop between her thighs, stroking her sex. Her juices turned it glossy, as he'd expected. "Spread your legs," he said, his voice growing thick.
She shifted to make her stance wider.
The crop had a clever little flap of leather, just an inch in width, two inches in length, designed for spanking naughty pussies.
He tapped her thighs with the crop. "Wider."
She obeyed.
Moving further back, he brought the spanker between her legs, and perfected his aim over her labia. He snapped it up, using little strength.
She gave a startled bark, lifting to her tiptoes.
"Naughty pet. When you disobey your Master, you will be punished." He slapped her pussy again with the slender strap.
"Ahhh," she groaned.
He gave her one more for good measure, then walked around beside her and tapped the leather against one of her breasts.
She shot him a frightened glance.
"What's the matter?" he asked silkily. "You don't think your breasts can take it as well as your pussy can?"
She swallowed and shook her head.
"Why not? Because they're small?"
Her head bobbled, and he couldn't tell if it meant yes or no.
"Have you ever had your breasts spanked before?"
She gave a quick shake of her head.
He brought the crop up, slapping the side of her breast. "You're lucky you're wearing the pasties," he told her. "At least your areolas are protected."
He tapped her other breast with the slapper on the tip of the crop, then brought it up smartly.
When The Gavel Falls (Masters of the Castle) Page 27
