Girl (12 page)

“Connection,” I whisper. Or perhaps the word doesn’t even come out.

This is the one thing I have been missing my entire life. And the truth hits me like a brick to the chest. I feel for several long moments as if I might actually have a heart attack. As if my heart really could burst from my chest, splattering the walls with emotion. So, so strange, I don’t even know what to do with it.

Love. The real thing. I never knew.

I’m crying again—yet again!—but he does nothing more than dip his head and lick up one of my tears. And I focus then on the exquisite pleasure surging through me as desire builds, spirals, and I imagine it like a long, satin ribbon, twisting and looping through my pussy, wrapping around his balls, threading through the heavy steel barbell in the head of his cock, twisting tightly across my clit until I know I
must
come. Must. Come. Must…

“Ah, God!”

My body bucks, out of control, and the only thing holding me down is his fine, fine flesh, one strong hand on my wrists, the other digging into my hip. He is fucking me so hard I know I will be bruised, inside and out.

Yes.

He plunges into me, one rough, piercing jab after another, and the beauty of his face is a fierce thing to behold as he begins a low, threatening growl that turns into a howl that turns into voiceless panting, teeth bared as he looks into my eyes. And I’m coming again with him. I can’t help myself. His beautiful face is making me come, his harsh cries, his pleasure transferring into my system as if it were my own times a thousand.

I know I’m not making sense.

He falls onto me, and I inhale, taking in the scent of his come and my own. Our sweat mingled. The faint trace of shampoo in his dark hair. I have never felt happier in my life.

I have never felt happy in my life.

My stomach twists, but he is here—right here—holding me down. Keeping me safe.

Yes. It’s all right.

I want to twine my hands behind his neck once more, to feel the reassuring warmth of him letting me. But I can’t do it. Instead I raise my chin and hope for him to kiss me. And when he does it feels like a benediction. Permission to
feel
. Because he has made me feel this.

I don’t know what will happen to me now. But for this one moment, I can simply be.

Morning sun finds its way through the heavy brocade drapes in Master Damon’s room. I wake in the softness of his big bed and have to blink in confusion.

In his bed.

Then I remember last night. How he fucked me on the floor, then pulled me up onto the bed and spanked me until I screamed, then fucked me again before we had dinner brought to us on a silver tray by the calm Robert.

It occurs to me if I don’t turn my head to see if he is here, this can still be real. I ball my hands into fists, wanting to fight the urge to find out.

Do it. Don’t do it.

“What are you concentrating on so hard, lovely Aimée?”

Biting my lip, I open my eyes, let my lashes flutter while I take in the fact that I am truly here, that this is happening.

“Aimée. Tell me.”

Blinking up at him, I whisper, “I wasn’t sure…if this all existed. I thought it was simply one of my pretty dreams.”

He laughs. “Are your sore ass and your sore little cunt pretty too? Yes, your cunt is perhaps the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. And you know I love the marks on your ass—my own handprints. Unfair question.”

I smile then. “Master Damon, you are the master of unfair questions, Sir. Or so I’ve been led to believe, given my brief time in your schoolroom.”

His smile widens. His teeth are so sharp and white. Makes me itch to be bitten. Again.

“Well said. Now, shall we have breakfast? I find I’m hungry.”

“As you wish, Sir.”

“Ah, in that case…”

He pulls me with him as he sits up, dragging me across his lap, and I feel his erection pressing into my belly. If I squirm a bit I can press my mound against his muscled thigh.

He smacks my exposed ass, one wickedly hard slap.

I bite my lip, focus on keeping quiet.

“Are you trying to be a good girl for me? Yes? Well, today you will be good for me by moaning and screaming without holding back. I want to hear it. All your sighs of pleasure. All your cries of distress. You give those sounds
to me
. Understood?”

I smile only because I am certain he can’t see me. “Yes, Sir.”

He shifts my body until most of my torso rests on the bed, on the sheets that are the finest Egyptian cotton soaked with our sweat and come. I breathe in, then exhale, my lungs emptying in a loud bark that burns my throat as he bites my ass with his evil teeth.

“Ah, fucking God!”

“Not I,” he says. “The Devil might be closer.”

“Yes, Master Damon,” I answer through teeth gritted in pain.

“Say it to me,” he commands.

“You are closer to the Devil,” I tell him obediently, smiling.

“And how do you finish that sentence?”

I can hear the humor in his tone.

“You are closer to the Devil, Master Damon, Sir.” I’m careful to cover all bases, even though I know he will bite me again, or worse.

Oh yes, he might do something worse.

I am luxuriating in that idea.

“Better,” he says.

But he bites into my poor flesh anyway, then over and over again, layering teeth marks upon teeth marks until I can smell the blood seeping from my skin. I want him to make me bleed. Anything and everything, as I’ve thought to myself, as I’ve told him. I want him to kiss the blood from my wounded flesh, and he does, kissing and licking, luring me into the lovely heights of subspace, where the world is all sweet sensation and the brain chemicals I’m addicted to. But in a flash everything changes as he spreads my thighs and starts the hard stroking motion inside my cunt that made me squirt over and over that first day.

I try to prepare myself for that sense of abject helplessness I felt the first time—only eight days ago, but it feels like a month—but now it’s tempered by the connection I know I felt with him last night, that seems so apparent even this morning.

My body goes loose inside as I give myself over to it.

“Good girl, Aimée,” he murmurs, and I can hear the sharp lust in his voice, feel it in his swelling cock. “Not that resisting would be of any help to you.”

I let out the smallest laugh, and he pauses to press a thumb into the most tender pressure point in my groin.

“Oh!”

“Let me hear it. Did you forget so easily?”

He presses harder, that evil thumb, until I’m panting and squirming, unable to stop myself from trying to escape from the pain. But he stops me with the hand he has inside me, using all his fingers to fill me up. I hold still, hold my breath.

“No, Aimée. Are you going to be bad, suddenly? No, I don’t think so.”

He starts the hard stroking against my g-spot once more, and I know better than to fight it. He strokes and strokes, harder, faster, then his hand pumps up and down, fast and cruel, hurting me, although I love it. And I’m squirting all over the place, soaking his hand and the bed and my naked thighs as I scream. He begins again, and it takes only seconds before it happens once more, and this time my calves get wet, my ankles.

“Again,” he says, as if I could possibly argue.

My head is spinning, light, as he forces me to squirt again, then twice more before I collapse onto the bed. He turns me over with rough hands, straddles my face and tells me, “Suck me.”

I open my obedient, greedy mouth, my body buzzing with sensation, my mind misty but full of need. Full of wonder that I am allowed to take him into my mouth. He shoves his cock down my throat, choking me, and my eyes tear up. I try to breathe through my nose, but he’s fucking my face so hard there’s no time to breathe. The steel piercing hits the back of my throat and I fight not to gag too hard, glad my stomach is empty. He snakes a hand around the back of my head, grasping my hair in a punishing fist, holding my head up off the bed while he keeps ramming his lovely cock down my throat. My face is full of tears and snot and I can’t pull any air into my lungs, but I
want
this. I want to please him. I want to swallow his flesh whole. To take all of him into my mouth, down my throat, into my body any way I can.

He arches above me—I can feel it rather than see through my tear-glazed eyes—and he cries out, plunging into me, and I taste his hot come as it shoots down the back of my throat.

Yes.
And now some small part of him is mine.
In
me. Belonging to me, and no one else.

He draws his softening cock out, smacks my lips with it, then my cheek. Then he’s using his hand to slap my face, making my cheeks sting, making me feel like
his
.

“Where are you, Aimée?” he demands.

“Right here, Master Damon. Sir.”

He grabs my face in a crushing grip, forcing me to focus on his face, on his blazing blue eyes. I see so much in there, something I don’t know how to describe. Something is happening here that feels…different. With him. For me. And so, it comes as no surprise somehow that he keeps me in his rooms and all to himself for the next two weeks.

It’s a Sunday, which I only know because I’ve come to realize the weekly bells I hear in the distance are church bells. Fifteen days I’ve been in the Master’s chambers, taken out only to be exercised in his private gym next to his suite. Sometimes it’s Robert who takes me, and sometimes it’s one of the brunette slave girls, who now cast me resentful looks, and even the one who talks remains silent. But I am too giddy to care.

Although…when I am left alone, I still find myself wondering about the beautiful, bad Christopher. What must he be doing now? Is he as resentful as the Girls that I am monopolizing the Master’s time? Does he think of me? And is any of this some sort of mind fuck for him, the way it is for me that I am thinking of anyone but my Master?

My beloved Master. He works me mercilessly, still, which I need. Crave. He has instructed me to wake him with his cock in my mouth, which I do happily every morning. And just as happily I give him massages, serve him meals on my knees. He has taken to using leather, laced arm binders to hold my arms tightly behind my back, placing a piece of toast or a small berry between my teeth and making me feed him, which thrills me, makes me wet for him. Everything makes me wet for him. Everything makes me love him.

We’ve talked more. All the time. He’s asked me so many questions about my past, but I’ve managed to mostly find a way around answering when it comes to my horrible father, my lovely, dead mother. We talk instead about my time in Paris, the trouble I got into at school, which amuses him. He never truly laughs, but tiny creases appear around his eyes when he smiles, or chuckles a little. So sexy I can barely stand it.

The sex and the kink are so intertwined now I can hardly remember how I’ve ever done it any other way. Not that he allows me to come all the time. Often it’s only the squirting, which is still sort of like coming, and yet it’s not. He loves to do that, and to leave me needing to come so acutely sometimes my stomach actually aches with the need. But I cherish it, that sign of his absolute authority over me, even when it wakes me in the middle of the night.

And the nights… I am always collared now, and I sleep chained to his headboard most nights, yet there is enough slack that I can move around, and he keeps me close enough that he can touch me. He does touch me. Before I am allowed to sleep. At three in the morning. Some days he must attend to the House or other duties, and he leaves me chained for hours at a time. I love those quiet moments alone too, when I’m left to meditate on the soft cotton sheets, on the weight of my chains, on the scent of him left lingering in the room like some ghost of his presence. When I allow my thoughts to dwell for brief moments on Christopher. But even in those moments I understand he is nothing but fantasy material, and what is real is the Master, what is happening now between us, what I feel for him.

When my Master returns to me he is always more aggressive than ever, and those are often the times he really hurts me. I am covered in his marks, from the cane, the metal claws he uses to scratch my flesh, the whip, which makes me swoon in some lovely and awful way. I have teeth marks on my breasts, on the insides of my thighs, in my armpits, which he delights in torturing. He has hung me in complicated torture rope work from the ceiling, the knots carefully placed to make me scream in dizzying pain. I love the helplessness in being suspended, the sensation of being decorated in his rope. But I love the chains even more. The cold steel. The primeval clank and rattle. I love it all. I love him. And as he suggested—as I knew would happen—the love has only grown, until it’s like a balloon overfilled with air, needing to burst. Until it’s like the building pressure just behind my g-spot before he makes me gush all over him.

I have swallowed those fearful moments in which I’m uncertain how this will end. The pain and my deep submission help me do this. I have little else to hang on to.

He’s been away all day, and I know to expect some harsh treatment when he returns. I’ve been in my chains for only a few hours. One of the sullen Girls took me for exercise, then bathed me in the Master’s bath. She wouldn’t even look at me, and her hands on me were cruel, but I find it hard to mind. I have not, after all, been asked to stay permanently. If only they knew that I’m as tortured by seeing them and their proud House brands as they appear to be seeing me kept in his rooms.

I’m dreaming in my chains when he is suddenly on me—I’ve failed to hear him come into the room—and he unfastens my leather cuffs from the chain and yanks me off the bed with one fist around the cuffs. I stumble to my feet, and he catches me just before I fall. He loves doing this sort of manhandling with me, keeping me literally off balance. And it does the job beautifully, my head sinking down and down into subspace. Into confusion. He yanks me around by my long hair, kicks my legs apart, then again until they are spread as wide as they can go, and I can barely keep my balance.