Girl (6 page)

I sigh, and the sigh turns into a moan of deep yearning, my body on fire. I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend he is here with me—the driver. But no, it’s the Master, with his finely made hands. His clever, hurting hands. And they are inside me, pumping hard, the pressure building, and oh God, I can’t hold it back!

I bolt upright as the door opens and Robert steps in. He comes toward me quietly, and I am so ashamed of having worked myself up, nearly to orgasm, that I kneel up for him, head bowed, hands behind my back. The loose choke-chain collar is like a weighted sacrament around my neck. It redeems me—a little, at least.

“Very nice,” he says as he pulls my arms farther back, clipping the carabiner onto the cuffs once more, and I realize how sore my shoulders are from being in that position, but I’m hardly going to complain. Then he snaps the leash on, pulls me to my feet and takes me down a narrow flight of stairs.

My head is reeling as I refocus on what is happening. The Master is giving me to someone else. He worked me, and then he was done with me. I feel a little desperate, suddenly. The Master’s beating wasn’t too bad—I’ve had much worse—and I’m a bit of a pain slut so my body can handle it. But there’s something else going on with me. Why should I care that he’s giving me to another man to work tonight? I’m getting more play, which is usually exactly what I want. Being given to another as if I’m merely a
thing
is one of my thrills, and I just nearly got off imagining this very scenario. But I didn’t want to leave
him
. To be banished for the whole night, and who knows how much longer. It’s him I really want to fuck me. But it’s impossible, and I’m so worked up the driver will do. Anyone would, at this point, which is, of course, part of their wicked plan.
His
wicked plan. And it’s as if he’s inside my head, as if he knows exactly how it will all work on me. And oh God, does he know! Exactly.

I’ve just met this man. He is my Master, yes, for the duration of my contract. I don’t need to like him or be attracted to him, not at this level of the kink game. At this point my desires are considered only so they can be used against me, or to please those Masters and Mistresses who play with me. But I
am
attracted. Ridiculously. And the shadows in his eyes only make him more intriguing. Perhaps that’s the problem.

It
will
be a problem, because he will probably always be denied me.

Fuck
.

If this were the normal world—and it’s far, far from normal—I would flirt with him, try to gain his attention, do what I could to get him to talk to me. Do what I could to get him into my bed. I’m good at that in the vanilla world. I can have almost anyone I want, male or female, and that’s not ego talking—it’s simply the truth. But none of these things make any difference here. Which is one of the attractions.

It doesn’t matter what you do now.

I comfort myself with this thought, the same idea of having absolutely no control that goes through my mind a dozen times a day. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. It’s not supposed to. The only problem is that, for some inexplicable reason, it
does
. This is a brand of mind fuck I wasn’t prepared for.

The stairs are bare wood, hard beneath my feet, and I can feel the temperature dropping as we go down and step into a narrow hallway. It’s dimly lit, and at the edge of my vision I can see the framed artwork decorating the walls. We pass several closed doors on either side, and as we move past one I hear a muffled scream. But I hardly have time to think about it before we turn into one of the rooms and the door shuts behind us.

It’s a simple room in terms of the lushness of the house upstairs. Bare wood floors, although they are gorgeously polished. The furnishings down here are still Victorian in style—a dark green velvet sofa flanked by two large brown leather chairs with high backs, an ottoman in front of each. But this is the Training House, so of course there is a long table against one wall covered in brown leather or vinyl, a spanking bench to one side, upholstered to match. A spreader bar hung with leather cuffs dangles from the ceiling, and there is an open armoire holding floggers, paddles, lengths of chain, other implements. I don’t have time to make it all out before someone comes in behind us—the Master’s driver, I imagine from the heavy, masculine footsteps.

“I just got the message. How very nice.”

He has a harsh Cockney accent, which seems incredibly sinister for reasons I can’t explain to myself.

The driver moves past us, and as he settles into one of the wing chairs, I can see he’s a large man—tall and beefy. He looks as much like a bodyguard as he does anyone’s driver. He probably is. He’s wearing a dark blue suit that makes me think of a Mafia hit man. And of course, me being me, this makes me weak with both fear and desire. He’s handsome in a sort of raw way—a square jaw, a cruel line of a mouth, brown stubble on his nearly shaved head. His hands are enormous.

“She’s down here until morning with you, Gilby. Do let her sleep a bit, but chained and on the floor.”

The big man smiles. “Master Damon’s standard orders down here. I’ll see that she’s taken care of.”

Robert takes the handle of my leash and presses it between my lips, and I know to take it in my teeth. He walks from the room and shuts the door behind him, and I am left with the Master’s driver. Gilby. And although I feel certain the Master will use me more roughly than anyone else in his household, this man’s size intimidates me. The fact that I have no idea what he’ll want to do to me intimidates me. And we are in the basement of the house, with no one to see. Just this stranger and I, and another stranger screaming down the hall. What a madhouse this is. What kind of man would work at a place like this?

I am restless, wondering, beginning to overanalyze everything, knowing I will never have the answers I seek. I am not supposed to know anything, to be able to really guess. That’s all part of it. I know that. It’s one of the things I must learn to give myself over to, but that’s the hard part for me, no matter how badly I want it. I make an effort to center myself, to sink
into
the situation, rather than disassociate from it, which is the natural reaction for any human being. But we are not just “anyone,” those of us who sign the slave contracts. Who agree to live in the madhouse.

For a long time—seemingly forever, but it must go on for fifteen minutes—Gilby leaves me standing in front of him, simply watching me. Crossing one ankle over his knee, he taps his fingers on the arm of the leather chair, but I know better than to glance at his hand. I’ve passed these tests before. And failed just as many. I keep my gaze trained on the floor, but apparently that’s not good enough.

“What are you staring at, Girl?” he growls. “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s impolite? Especially in the Master’s house. Bad Girl.”

He gets to his feet, a wall of a man in front of me, and my stomach drops. I have three seconds to be scared out of my mind before he scoops me up and sits me on the edge of the padded table, where he removes my cuffs. My poor shoulders and arms are still aching, and my mouth is feeling the strain of holding the leash between my teeth, but that is not my main concern. No, it’s him, this enormous man with the wicked expression and unknown desires. He places his beefy hands on my shoulders, and I pull in a gasping breath. But to my utter surprise, he begins to massage my arms, my shoulders, my hands—a lovely, deep massage that makes my sore muscles sigh in pleasure, which I don’t dare do myself. It’s unsettling, this little moment of kindness. I don’t know what to do with it. I look up to him in gratitude. Catching his gaze, I see right away that this was a mistake, and the slap comes hard and fast, the leash flying from my mouth. My cheek burns, and my gaze goes to my lap.

“Damn right, Girl,” he says. “You don’t look at me, you don’t talk to me, unless I tell you to. And no matter what I do to you, there’s no screaming, hear me? Not a peep out of you, not even a moan of pleasure.” He gathers both my breasts in his hands and squeezes hard. “There will be pleasure, if only because you’re such a little pain slut, I can tell. And you’ll like it when I fuck your ass. You’ll like it and you’ll want to scream, little slut.”

Je t’aime, ma petite
, my mind madly translates.

He leans in closer, until his breath is warm on my cheek. He whispers, “I have a huge cock. No lie. No bragging. It’ll make you want to scream when I work it into your dainty little ass.”

Oh yes. Just like my fantasy upstairs in my room.

I want to squirm on the table, his words making me shiver in lustful anticipation. In anticipation of being stretched until I tear, maybe. In anticipation of showing him how much I can take. I shouldn’t be so proud, but I am. I also know this place will work the pride right out of me.

His hand darts out and he grabs my right breast in a painful grip, using it to pull me down onto the table, then his rough, hurting hands are on my waist, turning me over onto my stomach, then pulling me up onto hands and knees. By the time my ass is raised in the air I am wet with wanting and ready to sob.

His hand goes back to my breast and he pinches the nipple so hard I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. He is a beast of a man—I’ve never met anyone of his size and strength—and this doesn’t bode well for my poor ass.

Yes, please.

My mind is emptying out, the analytical side gone, completely shut down. And I’m grateful for it. Grateful to him.

“You love it, don’t you, little slut?” he asks.

I want to answer that I do. But his hand slips between my thighs and finds my cunt slick with need.

“Ah, yes. You fucking love it.”

Pinching my clit, he pulls on it, elongating it, and pleasure whispers over my skin, my pussy clenching. Empty. Unconsciously, I arch my hips and he pulls his hand back.

He clucks his tongue. “You really should not have done that, slut.” He shoves my cheek down onto the table, and I breathe in the leather along with my fear. “Stay.”

My mind is tumbling into that dark place I go sometimes. A place where everything sort of fades away, even the fear and pleasure of the moment, because I’m too scared to even begin to imagine what is about to happen. But I don’t have long to wait, suspended in the emptiness that has become my mind. I can feel the heat of his big body at my side, then his hands prying my pussy lips apart, holding them wide. Something solid presses against my waiting hole, and I don’t know what it is, except that it’s big. Automatically, I widen my thighs.

“Good slut,” he murmurs as he begins to work the solid thing into me.

And God, it really is huge, whatever it is—big and smooth and I think it’s made of wood. I’m soaking wet and growing wetter by the moment, but it’s too big for me, I’m sure of it.

I start to cry a little, trying to swallow the tears down, squeezing my eyes shut tight. I hate to fail.

He shoves harder, and it feels like my insides are burning, the tissues stretching impossibly. And it’s a huge turn-on, pleasure and pain and even the tears. Maybe more so
because
of the tears. Yes—I know it’s true. I love the tears as much as the Master does.

“Come on. You can take it. Don’t make him pull out the lube or you’ll pay for it later, Girl.”

I open my eyes to find the Master sitting in a chair across from me, his legs crossed, his hands steepled, his dark blue eyes glittering, a cruel smile on his exquisite mouth. And it is as if my body, my mind, explode in pleasure. I’m so overcome I nearly speak to beg him to stay.

I inhale, try to let my body go loose as I exhale, then do it again. And Gilby works the damn object—whatever it is—into my dripping cunt. With his other hand he grips my hip and begins to rock me onto it, back and forth, slowly at first, then as my body becomes accustomed to the thing, harder, faster, until he really is fucking me with this enormous makeshift dildo as the Master watches, and this is probably the hottest moment of my life. Until the Master gets up and approaches me, and my pussy weeps with desire.

He grabs my jaw in his strong hand, hard enough to hurt, forces my mouth open and presses three fingers inside.

“Suck, Girl,” he demands.

I do it greedily, savoring his fingers, licking the tips, sucking hard, sliding my mouth up and down until my jaw aches with the effort. Until I’m crying again, the tears washing over my cheeks, over his hand. He is fucking my mouth as Gilby fucks my aching, hungry cunt with the rigid object, and I no longer even care what it is.

Soon I need to come so badly, so badly, but I don’t have permission. More tears.

“Good slut,” Gilby says, the roughness of desire low in his throat. “You fucking hold it back. You don’t get to come while I’m in your little cunt. Maybe when I’m in your ass. If you please me enough. You’d better hope you can take it. That you can fuck me with your tight ass the way you’re fucking this billy club with your tight cunt.”

My head comes up, the Master’s fingers slipping from my mouth, and I know right away what I’ve done. He shoves my face back down onto the table, slamming my cheek into the leather surface. He slaps my cheek hard, one burning strike before he reaches under me and takes one nipple in his fingers and twists it until I have to bite back a scream. Yet at the same time my sore, battered pussy opens more for the club, and I
want
it. I am grateful for it.

“Didn’t know it was a billy club?” Gilby asks with a small chuckle. “But you like it, little slut. You fucking love it. Now fuck it real good for Gilby. Show your Master how much you like it.”

His hands on me go still, and I begin to move my hips, working my pussy down onto the wooden shaft, sliding up, then down again. I try to take as much as I can into me, biting back my climax as the Master leans over me, his hold on my poor nipple tight and hurting while his other hand crushes my cheek to the table, controlling me utterly. And I breathe him in, and oh God, I almost come then, but I don’t. I am reveling in knowing I’m doing what I’m told. That I am a good Girl.