by Joey W. Hill
The cry caught in her throat, a near miss. He'd reduced the water pressure, the diabolical man. The water now flowed over her swollen tissues in a languorous stroke that in some ways made it harder to be still. But as Logan moved his mouth back to her cheekbone, the corner of her lips, her lifted jaw, things slowed down, the throb of her body becoming more like a heartbeat, pounding and sure, irrefutable.
Images filled her mind, riding that rhythm. Their first session, where he'd tied her to Troy, her "helping" him train the male sub. Sitting on the tailgate of his truck with her, Logan letting her see his sadness over Veronica's situation, as well as his adamant desire that Madison should never fear him the way the abused sub had feared her Dom. The way he'd backed down Veronica's Master, he and Troy ready to protect them both, with a great deal of violence if necessary. Such things stirred a woman's blood, no matter how barbaric it might seem.
His expression when he made her smile, as if he was the one who'd been given a gift. She thought of the many times she'd visualized Logan at Alice's bedside, caring for her, her primary caregiver, doing what Madison should have been doing. And would have, if her sister had let her know she was sick, or if Madison had paid closer attention to the signs. Except now Madison realized maybe Alice had wanted to go out on her own terms, and part of those terms had included helping Madison find what she'd never been able to find for herself.
Now, in the touch of Logan's hands, in the way she was sure his eyes rested on her, she realized that hadn't been a gift for only one person. If Madison believed Logan, Alice had given him something he hadn't been able to find for himself, either. Just one more time, could she risk her heart? Trust that she'd finally found what she'd always been seeking?
Tears burned in her eyes under the mask. When Logan's thumbs moved over her throat she swallowed beneath his touch, his collar. "I love you," she whispered.
His hands stopped but she shook her head. "Please don't take off the blindfold. I want to be yours . . . I want the fantasy to become the reality."
Would he understand such a strangely worded request, since keeping the blindfold on would seem to be promoting the fantasy? In the end, he was a Master, wasn't he? He understood that some things became far clearer while within the session, things that escaped when they were outside it. If she stayed within it long enough tonight, she could brand it on her soul, so she never lost it. She hoped. There were truths to be found here, and she'd just stepped over the threshold, saying she was willing to accept them, find them in his ownership.
"When I'm done tonight, you'll feel like you've been fucked by ten men," he said, after a long pause, making her breath sigh out in relief. "But they'll all be me. I'm not going to share you. It will always, only, be me. Say it."
"Only you, Master." Her lips curved in tremulous answer, and his hands dropped to her waist. For one blissful instant, he was up against her, his lips at her temple, telling her he understood. That he knew what this moment meant to them both.
He unhooked the thigh straps. "Hold your breath," he said quietly. "And trust me."
"I do."
He pushed her beneath the water, into a thundering world of bubbles. Her knees bent, the ankle straps holding her feet against the opposite bench. The chain pulled against the collar, reminding her of her connection to the world above, but it had enough slack her head came to rest on that bench where she'd been sitting, her backside now suspended in that open area between the two benches. One second, two seconds . . . He caressed her, hands sliding over her breasts, dislodging the wax, rubbing her nipples. She tried to hold her breath rather than strangling at the incredible sensation. Then, slowly, he brought her back up.
She'd trusted him entirely for that, for holding her underwater, and her response to that was powerful. She'd been shaking for a while, but now the feeling had doubled in intensity. He removed the tether attached to her collar, freed her ankles and pulled off the thigh straps, but left her hands cuffed behind her back. Then he scooped her up and brought her out. As he set her down and drew back, she assumed to find a towel, he had to remove his hands from her, step away.
It was then she realized all these revelations were too unsettling. Her knees buckled, a tree without roots.
She didn't even have a chance to call out. He was back in the space of a heartbeat, his body providing her support. He bent and lifted her again, cradling her back so even with her arms pulled behind her, she felt secure. She was soaking wet and against his dress shirt, but he didn't seem to care. Taking her a few steps across the room, he laid her down on her side on a thinly padded table.
He spread a towel over her, gently dried her, head to toe. The sculpting clay had done its job: even after her dunking, her hair still firmly held in that topknot on her head, but he patted the area above the collar, her face, then all over, careful and thorough as if drying a child. She quivered under his touch and thought thoughts no child ever did.
When he was done, even down to rubbing the soles of her feet dry, he unhooked her wrists and turned her on her back. Her ass was on the table's edge, but then she heard a sliding sound, and her legs were fitted into bendable cool metal brace pieces that came out from beneath the table, like stirrups in the doctor's office, only for a far more sexy use. He strapped her ankles, calves and thighs to those brace pieces. Then he bent her legs to a more severe angle, her knees pushed up toward her body, but spread out so her anus and cunt were completely exposed to him on the edge of the table. She was supported and helpless at once, from the waist down.
Of course he wasn't done. He strapped down her upper body as well, her forehead, hips, and above and below her breasts. They were wider strips, padded, so they didn't cut into her as her weight redistributed. He stretched her arms out on braces as well, held them there like bent angel wings.
He had her completely immobilized, at his mercy. She was a little teary, and so aroused she could barely speak. Fortunately he wasn't asking her to recite poetry, though she had a feeling by the time he was done, she'd be speaking in tongues.
He moved away from her again, and she heard him open a drawer, remove something. The tear of foil, possibly a condom being rolled on. Then another scent, the squirt of a bottle. Lubricant being added to the condom, to augment what was already there. The sound of something being snapped in place, and then rolled across what had to be a wood floor, based on the sound of his shoes on it earlier and now.
Touching her pussy lips, he pushed an oiled finger into her to tease her channel with tiny caresses that had her trying to lift up to his touch. She could manage some movement, but her restrained legs kept it to a limited wriggling that seemed to please him, because he put another hand on her breast, gently thumbed the nipple.
"That's my gorgeous slave, all wet and eager for me."
His fingers withdrew, but only to replace them with something else. He began to ease a dildo that felt like flesh into her. Thick, very thick flesh. "This is my friend with the sizeable cock. The one that I would have had stretch your mouth, push down into your throat until he made you gag. Looking at you all tied up like this, he can't resist. He wants your pussy, and he's such a good friend, I won't deny him the gift. No, don't you tense up. You keep moving your hips. He's dripping with lube. You can take him."
It was a credit to his skill, that he could use that mesmerizing voice and her subjugated position, the way it scrambled her brain, to revive the fantasy, despite the fact she knew he was alone with her. She heard the murmur of voices, wondered if he'd turned on a recording, but it didn't matter. Like the auction, there were erratic air currents, as if there were more people in the room, and now it was as if he was talking to his friend, not her.
"She's trained to do this. You can go balls deep in her. How does that feel? Tight as fuck, right? Look at her face. Lips parted, practically begging to take another cock down her throat. She loves serving her Master."
He bore down, kept working it, working it, as it stretched her impossibly, filled her. When she thought she couldn't take a
millimeter more, he stopped, strapped it in place.
"My other friend wants your ass. What do you say to your Master?"
"Yes . . . sir. Please."
She let out a startled breath as the table was elevated, her hips at a higher angle than her head. The reason for the supportive, wider straps was now apparent. Once she was in position, he began to work a plug into her anus. This one was as thick as the one in her pussy, though perhaps it wasn't, because she couldn't imagine taking two of that size without splitting in two.
"Master . . . I'm not sure . . ."
"Are you afraid your Master will let someone hurt you in a way you won't like?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have I ever done that before?"
"No, sir." She swallowed. "Please . . . I'm sorry. Please, keep going?"
He did, working the other one into her until it was seated and cinched in place. Moving upward, he stroked her temple, then adjusted another hinged piece to tilt her head back, toward the floor. A ring gag was lodged in her mouth to hold it open wide. As he buckled the strap for it around the back of her neck, the ring made her jaw ache, but the idea of a thick cock being thrust between her immobilized lips made her tremble more.
"My friend wants you to suck him off while the other two fuck you. You're being such a good slave. I'm very proud of you."
Her pussy got even wetter, just from her hearing his approval. She adjusted her jaw so she could take the ring gag deeper, make her mouth wider. He growled in response. "Are you pleasing them or your Master?"
"You," she said, despite the ring holding down her tongue. "Only . . . you."
He fit another dildo into that, a firm, flesh-like one with testicles that were so lifelike, it just took her further into the fantasy, the way they squashed against her forehead, the bridge of her nose. She was twitching, so aroused, her nerves so wound up, her emotions started to spiral everywhere, a perverse reaction to being so restrained.
He trailed a hand down her body as he moved back between her legs, a firm caress that reassured. When he moved the two dildos slightly, working them in and out, greasing her up further, she moaned against the gag. There was no direct contact with her clit, but every other erogenous nerve ending was on high alert, including her mind. She could envision the way she looked, spread out and impaled for his pleasure. Because of the pictures he'd painted, she could imagine his three friends there, all military men like himself, with muscles, tattoos and short, shaved hair, eyes intent and serious, filled with lust and need. Wanting to take pleasure from her bound, helpless body. It was her fantasy and more . . . by making it only him, he'd made it the reality she craved as well.
A hum and she let out a cry as the dildos in her anus and pussy started moving in a synchronized way. The rolling and snapping sounds made sense now. The dildos were attached to one of those machines she'd seen in the clubs she and Alice had visited. A fucking machine, one with a dual attachment, adjusted to the right angles. Slow push inward, then withdraw, then repeat. It made the idea of two males fucking her all the more real in her mind. One beneath her, thrusting up as she lay upon him, the other pushing into her pussy, standing between her spread knees and straddling the other man's legs.
The next change nearly shattered her. The dildo in her mouth was removed, as was the ring gag holding it, and instead she got the real thing. Her Master's flesh and blood cock between her lips. She sucked him in with all the eagerness and desire she could convey, to the point she was almost a little too enthusiastic. He tightened a hand in her hair, a gentle reproof to tone it down. Oh, but it was so difficult to do so, especially with those other two pushing in, pulling out. His testicles pressed against the bridge of her nose, his scent filling her like his cock.
"There you are. You serve me with your mouth as your ass and cunt are taking care of my friends. My sweet, sweet slave. Worth every dollar I paid for you. I'm going to keep you naked in a pretty gilded cage when I'm not fucking you, let everyone see my gorgeous pet, walk you around the grounds with a leash, remind you who you belong to every day . . ."
God, he was driving her even crazier. She heard the mutter of other male voices now, while the scent of his cock and seed absorbed her, along with the heat and aroma of the candles, making it all come to overwhelming life.
"Damn, Sarge, she's a beauty. She's so bloody tight and wet . . . I could bugger her ass all day long. We'll switch after this and have another go at her. I want to fuck her to death . . ."
A husky Aussie accent, coming from the direction of those fucking machines. Yeah, it was probably a recording, but in her current state it sounded real. Jesus, the man didn't miss a trick. She moaned, kept working him in her mouth, lost in the bliss of it. Her pussy spasmed hard, wanting the climax so much, but the stimulation was so crazy, so intense, it was as if she were paralyzed on a point of arousal that was mindless and infinite, no going forward or back.
Infinite . . . a figure eight symbol . . .
The significance of eight had hit her earlier. Now it flashed in her mind again, lingering at the edges of her consciousness. In this state, she couldn't recite her ABCs, let alone reach out for a nebulous thought. But she wanted to. It was important. Something about that symbol was important, especially now.
A moment later, she was sure of it, because seeing the flash of that symbol in her mind changed something. Though this was all perfect, so perfect, tears were sliding out from beneath the blindfold. She was breaking apart, and making pleading noises. She knew when the tears hit his thumbs, from his rough words, his rough demands.
"You don't like my friends? You won't serve them if I demand it?"
She shook her head, not really clear on what she was conveying until she realized she was indicating a negative response. His voice got harsher.
"You're my slave to loan out as I see fit. If I order you to fuck my friends, you'll refuse me?"
She'd refuse him nothing, but perversely she was nodding, even as she sucked harder on him. I'm sorry . . . I only want to belong to you. Only you. "Only you," she pleaded against his flesh. "Only you . . ."
A fantasy couldn't work; not if the reality was so precious that any illusion paled in comparison. Denying herself what she'd always wanted, because of something as pointless as fear--fear of failure, rejection or loneliness--God, that was the bigger mistake, the bigger terror.
Logan paused, his hands resting on her throat. She had her head tilted up toward him. In that charged second, both of them so still, the importance of that infinity symbol came to her. The figure eight, the sign of infinity, of eternity.
Alice had it tattooed on her wrist. She'd explained it to Madison, words that had fallen on mostly deaf ears, but apparently the words had bypassed her consciousness and planted themselves in Madison's soul, coming forth to show her the way now, to make everything else make sense.
It was as if her sister were speaking to her directly from Heaven itself.
*
"Did you know there are eight parts to reaching Nirvana?"
Alice spoke between labored breaths. Madison, lying on the bed next to her, her arm around her waist, felt like she struggled for every breath with her. Her sister lifted a shaking hand, ticking off the points on thin fingers.
"Faith . . . judgment . . . language . . . pure action . . . the right livelihood . . ." Alice paused at that, her eyes twinkling as if at a private joke. "Spirit . . . spiritual application to all aspects of the law . . . the right memory, and the right concentration . . . meditation. Don't make a face. I know you hate meditation. But eight is a very good number, Madison. Remember that. It's the number of infinity, eternity, self-destruction. And sometimes self-destruction isn't a bad thing. It's the final moment, when everything is revealed."
When Alice turned her head on the pillow, Madison couldn't pull herself away from the intensity in her sister's eyes, as if Alice was struggling particularly hard to make this point.
She raised her other hand, showing Madison the tattoo on the inside
of her forearm. The figure eight, the symbol of infinity, was surrounded by lovely vines and scroll work. Madison passed her fingers over it, caressing her sister's fragile skin as Alice's eyes stayed fastened on her face.
"I got this a few months ago, when I realized where my path was headed."
"Oh, Alice." Madison circled her wrist, then bowed her head, her grip slipping away as Alice laid that hand on her hair.
"Don't forget, MadGirl. Eight . . . the sign of infinite possibilities. Promise me."
*
Madison had, even though she'd thought it ramblings due to illness and medication. Now she knew differently. Eight. Logan would be Madison's eighth significant relationship. He'd had Shale and Troy give her eight switch marks. Always before, she'd thought of her seven previous relationships as a map of her failures. But Alice's words suggested they'd been necessary preparation for the most important relationship, the infinite, final one. She just had to have enough faith. One more leap. One more time.
After her refusal, her declaration that she only wanted him, Logan had pulled away from her. At her moan of protest, he gave her hair a reproving tug before moving to her legs. Bringing those machines to a halt, he withdrew the dildos slowly from her convulsing body. She moaned again, knowing if he touched her clit, she'd go into mindless, screaming orgasm for an hour. Instead, he raised the table to an upright position, undid the straps. She was woozy, too messed up to sit up on her own, but he slid his arms around her back, brought her up against him.
Had she screwed up? Should she have said Alice instead, invoking the safe word? Did it fit, if it was the truth inside the scene as well as out of it? With the dildos gone, she felt how slick she was, how needy for a different kind of penetration.
"Say it again," he demanded, and though she was afraid she would be punished for it, she did.
"Only you, Master. I only want you. In fantasy or reality."
Logan framed her blindfolded face in strong hands. "Good answer," he growled, right before he crushed his lips to hers.
It was like the first taste of food after starvation, every sense heightened, everything he'd denied her now given in one sweeping, overwhelming rush. If ever she could come from a kiss alone, this one would be it. In fact, she did, rubbing herself against him involuntarily. That bare touch of her clit against his body made her explode.
