With the rope blistering her wrists, she gave up trying to get away. There was no point in trying. There was nowhere else to go. No room to move. She laid spread-eagle on the floor for her master to see the wetness that was already parting her folds.
The silk loosened around her eyes. Blinking away the fog, Abigail adjusted to the opaque light in the room. She let out a sigh and laid back on the floor, drained from her failed attempts.
Her eyes stared at the ceiling.
Holy shit.
Her eyes widened in fear.
Spikes.
Iron spikes stared down at her like shark teeth hungry to devour her. Her eyes moved everywhere in the room, frantically looking for her master to save her. She found him in the corner next to a pulley. With strong arms and a sinister grin, he pulled the stick back just as her eyes focused on the spikes again.
She closed them rapidly and screamed, tried her best to get away. Her wrists and ankles burned with the firmness of the ropes. She thought the moisture coating her body was due to the spikes puncturing holes of blood. For a moment she thought she’d died, and somewhere in her fright, she found the strength to open her eyes.
The spikes had lowered just enough for the sharp points to kiss the first layer of her skin but if she moved just a tiny bit, if she moved any which way, they’d cut right through her skin. This wasn’t so bad. She just had to make sure not to move, not to breathe too heavily. If she laid still as a stone and measured her breathing, she’d be fine.
Master Trice placed a Slave Driver in between her legs. He angled the dildo to her entrance and lowered himself to whisper into his slave’s ear.
“You wanted to come so badly, whore. Today I am making it my mission to make you come. You’re going to spend the whole night coming and I expect to hear you all the way from my bedroom. When I wake up tomorrow, I am going to fuck your wet cunt and you better come for me.”
He stood, pressed a button and the dildo drove into her. As her hips rose, the spikes dug deeper into her thighs. Her stomach. Her breasts. Her throat.
Abigail needed release and so she didn’t feel anything but pleasure.
After the third orgasm, she was spent. She stopped counting the rest. Tears flowed from her eyes. The stimulation of her G-spot so soon after orgasm was too painful. It was too sensitive. She tried to get away from the vibrating stick but couldn’t.
“I can’t. No more. Please,” she cried to no one. Master Trice had left the room long ago. She had been too enthralled chasing her orgasms to notice.
As the buzzing continued, her moans turned to whines. Her cries turned to screams. It was the only sound that was heard in the penthouse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Preston stretched the sleep out of his muscles. He sat on the mattress as he let out a morning yawn. His feet were planted on the marble floor. His elbows rested on his upper thighs. He combed his waves back and leaned forward, looking at the empty space before him. The panoramic view he’d become accustomed to had disappeared.
It’d been difficult to fall asleep without his slave by his side. With the blanket of the night, he was able to bear it. He could pretend she was there even though she wasn’t like monsters under a bed. Not now when the sun poked his finger, taunting the uninhabited space in the bedroom.
He missed the sight of her plump lips. How they slightly parted and how her tongue would unconsciously hydrate them. It was almost as if her mouth was always ready to take him. It pleased him to wake to that scenery.
Now it was gone.
Monday through Thursday he slept mostly on his desk with pencils as pillows and blueprints as blankets.
For two days and two nights out of the week he allowed himself to be Master Trice. He found a better place for his ties. He found a better use for his X-ACTO knives and rulers. He utilized the floor as a bed for his slave and now it was naked.
He stood up. A wave of vertigo tried to knock him off balance but failed. His body was too strong to be whipped away by lightheadedness.
He went to the bathroom and took a warm shower. As per the outside temperature, the current temperature in the apartment, and his body temperature, his smart shower turned the water to the degree most suitable for him.
The device was given to him by a famous Japanese online gamer who Preston had built a house for in the form of Pikachu. Knowing there were people out there with crazier kinks made him feel a tad better.
What an eclectic world this was.
Determined to make today a marvelous day, Preston made his way down the hall to welcome the new day inside his slave. He placed his ear on the door. The only sound came from the buzzing of the Slave Driver.
It had been roughly seven hours since he bound his slave and manipulated her body with post-orgasm torture. It was a brutal act he’d done out of spite. Nevertheless, she needed to be disciplined. Calling him by his name had been a blunt move on her part. How the fuck did she even know it?
Of course, Mother.
To this day the woman couldn’t stop talking about Abigail, putting her on a higher pedestal than Jesus. Mrs. Trice had never and would never meet her, so Preston didn’t understand what the fuss with a fictional person was about. If he held no respect for his mother, he would tell her he’d picked up Abigail in SoHo and paid her for a night of pleasure. That’s a whore, not someone who should be worshipped.
Preston inserted the key into the keyhole and opened the door with a soft push. As he pulled the cage up, his slave whimpered, raising her stomach off the floor as if to go with the spikes. He unplugged the vibrator and undid the restraints on her ankles but kept her wrists secured. The image before him drew all the blood from his body to settle in his cock.
Abigail laid comatose. Her full thighs quivered on their own as her eyes opened to the sound of his steps. Her lips were full and flushed. Her hair stuck to her damped cheeks. The spikes had dug into most of her stomach, forming crimson deltas on her body. Her skin was dotted with red streams that looked more like watercolor than anything else. Her pussy was large and swollen and pink.
Preston refused to feel any guilt.
Abigail shouldn’t have spoken to him like she did yesterday. She shouldn’t have spent the night moving and arching her back in ecstasy. If she didn’t like what he did then why had she come? Why was there a pool of pleasure under her ass? Why had she yet to use her safeword?
This was her fault. Not his.
Her doing. Not his.
Preston tucked away the smidgen of whatever it was he told himself he wasn’t feeling and hid it in a place deep inside him. Somewhere he’d never search again.
Bending down on all fours, he raised her hips with a grip on her ass and brought her pussy to his lips. He licked along her wet folds. It wasn’t his intention to make her come. Preston hoped some lubrication would alleviate the ache inside her. But it was the first time he’d tasted her, and he couldn’t stop himself from thrusting his tongue inside her opening.
She tasted like freedom and tears and submission and blood. It was the most intoxicating drink he’d ever had. One he was sure to be addicted to.
She tried to get away, but his hold grew stronger. He licked his way up her stomach, smearing his chin with her blood. He caressed her flushed lips. They tasted like blood and sweat and sin and heaven. They tasted right and wrong much like their relationship.
“Please,” she whispered against his lips.
“Was this not what you wanted? To come so loud I’d hear you from my penthouse. I’m only fulfilling your fantasy.”
“You’re cruel, Master,” she said, nuzzling her nose into the length of his neck.
It tickled.
Goosebumps erupted throughout his body. It was like a domino effect, starting on his widow’s peak and collapsing to his toes. He turned his face and kissed her forehead.
A smile formed on his lips as he said, “That’s the greatest compliment anyone has ever given me.”
Her wrists tied, made it easy for Pre
ston to grab her ankles and flip her around. Now her front was to the floor, her ass perched for him to take.
“You are going to look at that camera—” he pointed at the corner, “—and you’re going to answer this question.” He aligned his erection to her slippery entrance and asked, “What’s your purpose in life, whore?”
“To be abused by you. Only you.”
He devoured her words, digesting each letter into his heart. Preston closed his eyes and gave a heavy groan that shook both their bodies. With a vicious push, he thrust deep inside her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sunday morning arrived and Abigail woke with a startling bang on the bedroom door followed by a whispered curse.
She sat up on the floor and looked at the neatly made bed next to hers. The fact she was able to see it clearly told her it was morning. By the way the sun hugged her shoulders she guessed late morning or early afternoon.
“Shit.”
Hurriedly, she removed the comforter from her body and opened the door, following the cautious footsteps of her master.
She winced with every step and every abrasive chafe of the blister that decorated her clitoral hood. She doubted her body would ever orgasm again after the assault it’d been put through yesterday.
Abigail placed the discomfort aside. Right now, she had other things to focus on like where her master went to Sunday mornings that he couldn’t grace her with a proper goodbye?
When she found him in the kitchen and read the time on the stove, her heart deflated in a sea of anguish.
12:01 pm.
If only she’d woken up a minute earlier. She would’ve been able to beg him to stay and he would’ve stayed. After all, dominants always listened to their submissive’s requests.
Now her master was leaving, again, and she couldn’t do anything about it because it was officially Sunday afternoon. Their arrangement vanished like ashes in the wind, carried to the ocean, never to be found again. After her little outburst Thursday or Friday, she wasn’t going to be a hypocrite and ask him to stay.
Why did she have to sleep like a log? She never slept this late, but he’d put her body through such strenuous activities that she’d slept for more than eight hours, giving him enough time to leave without her knowledge to oversee whatever errand he had to run.
Her eyes widen at a possibility.
Was he religious? Did he go to church every Sunday to confess and repent the sins he’d committed on Friday and Saturday?
Last Sunday she’d spent hours contemplating his whereabouts just as she did today. She’d created fictional scenarios in her head, combining stories she’d read with her own endeavors.
She imagined Preston sitting in his massive office with a spectacular view as he sketched an even more spectacular and exclusive design for the richest man in the European Union.
She saw Master Trice in his club, flogging another submissive, one with years of experience. Lauren, perhaps?
Abigail wondered what she looked like, making a failed attempt at imaging her. She knew nothing of the woman. The possibilities were truly endless. When one had too many choices it was impossible to decide on one.
Did she have big or small breasts? Was she blonde or brunette? Was she petite or tall like her master—their master?
She hated the caveat.
It was petty to be jealous of another woman—another woman she hadn’t met and was expected to have sex with. She hoped Lauren was nice and not as jealous as she was of her.
Unaware of her presence, Preston took a sip of coffee and turned to the elevators. She enjoyed the view. Enjoyed watching him when he didn’t know he was being watched. It made her feel powerful to watch his mannerisms, study them like rats in a laboratory, and hypothesize his next move.
“Go back to bed, Abigail.” She rolled her eyes.
“You’re leaving,” she said, her voice trembling with anger and nostalgia.
He kept walking as if she hadn’t uttered a single word. To be ignored by a person who was beginning to mean more, gutted her. In the split of a second, she took that emotion in before it sank into the sea of woe that was her heart.
Was that what Preston was to her—someone who meant more?
Was it love she felt? Surely not.
She wouldn’t know what love was even if she held it in her womb for nine months, gave birth to it, and nursed it for eighteen years.
She wasn’t with Preston because she desired a boyfriend, much less love. If she wanted that she would’ve signed up for one of those crappy-cupid websites. Instead, she searched books, websites, clubs, and the streets of New York City for a master for many, many years. And it’d taken her to a place she now referred to as heaven on earth. A place where she found her true identity, if merely for the fact it was taken from her when she was dominated.
Abigail never had a desire for love. She’d never cared enough for a person to want more unless more meant ruthless actions, hurtful words, and cruel beatings. That kind of more she always wanted, and until recently, no one was ever able to offer it.
Everything a sane woman didn’t want she found in Master Trice. In most books she’d read, the heroine always tried to change the male protagonist. Even as he told her from the very start he wouldn’t change, yet she tried and by the end of the story, he always did. The heroine molded the man, turning him into a fairytale Prince Charming—into a total phony.
Abigail didn’t have to do that to Preston “Master” Trice because he was perfect in her eyes, a little standoffish and too serious at times, nevertheless, perfect.
She might not know love, but she knew gratitude, and she was grateful to him for giving her what she most desired. Not only sexually but mentally, as well. He made her feel normal and unashamed.
“Where are you going?” she asked as he waited for the elevator.
“Doesn’t matter. Do as you’re told.”
“I don’t have to. It’s past twelve. I don’t have to listen to your commands.” She raised her chin defiantly.
He nodded sagely. “You’re right. Suffice to say, it won’t erase my memory of your disobedience. I thought you’d gathered such facts yesterday.” His eyes went to her pussy.
His punishment hadn’t been about the club as much as the disrespect she’d given him and maybe, just maybe a pinch of alpha-male jealousy.
Abigail resisted the urge to cover herself. “Take me with you.”
Preston wasn’t wearing his usual office attire, trading slacks for dark jeans. His traditional crisp dress shirt was no more, instead, a quarter sleeve shirt covered his muscular biceps. His suit jacket was gone too, replaced with cargo over his shoulders. She wanted to tear his clothes, piece by piece as she praised him with dollar bills.
This only meant one thing.
“I know where you’re going. Take me with you.” Licking her dry lips, she stepped forward. “Please.” She felt the need to add the last word. It was the cherry on top, completing the sentence.
Abigail shifted from side to side at Preston’s silence.
He gave her a stern look that prompted her full attention. “If I take you with me, you must follow my every word. I don’t want any ‘it’s Sunday afternoon, not Sunday morning’ bullshit.”
“Deal.”
“I’m serious, Abigail. You will respect me in front of others. You will do as you’re told because I swear to God if you don’t...” His words lingering in the air with threat and promise.
“I’ll listen to whatever you say. I swear.”
“Get ready and get the papers I left for you on the kitchen island.” He looked at his wrist. “You have three minutes. If you’re not here when the doors open, I’m leaving without you.”
Abigail wasted no time.
She rushed to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and washed her face. On her way back to the main room, she rapidly stopped by the kitchen to gather everything Preston had left for her. In the foyer, she dressed in the same clothes she’d worn to work—floral pen
cil-skirt and long-sleeved white blouse. As she slipped on her coat, the elevator yawned.
The plug inside her didn’t sting as it did Friday evening, so Abigail bit her tongue until she swallowed blood.
“Elevators,” Preston said out of nowhere.
“Huh?”
“What is it about elevators that scares you?”
“I don’t like to be trapped in a small space for more than necessary. I get sweaty. See?” She gathered her hair in a ponytail and showed him the dampness on the back of her neck.
She expected him to choke her and that’s exactly what she needed to focus on something other than the ride. Instead, Preston ran his thumb over the moist skin. It elicited shivers from her body. And then he kissed her temple. It was a gesture she had equated with malice but the one he gave her was different.
“We’ll be down soon.”
The gesture became her new source of pain until Preston surged into New York traffic with a hidden smile on his face.
Abigail didn’t have to look at the streets of the city to know what she would find: busy streets, crowded sidewalks, obnoxious tourists. Instead, she focused her attention to the envelope on her lap.
“You need this by today, right?” He nodded. She knew it’d take them a minimum of an hour to get to his club, so she pulled a pen from her purse and opened the envelope.
Whore,
It pleases me to hear you’ve enjoyed your first week with me, and that you’re following my commands by being bluntly honest with your words in writing.
Because of that, I’ll reward you by allowing you to call me by my name outside of our arrangement (which you’ve already done without my consent).
That being said, when I pick you up from wherever I do, and it is Friday evening you are to refer to me as Master Trice. You refused to do so on Friday when I picked you up from work. Friday morning, I let it go because as you said, it was, after all, “Thursday” to you.
What is this, you asked? This is a piece of paper. It’s made out of wood pulp. I’d tell you all the details, but it’ll take most of the paper. However, you can always Google “How is paper made?”
Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1) Page 14
