Girl (7 page)

There is something of the performer in me as I imagine the expression on his face, and Gilby’s. As I think of how I must look, my body bucking and plunging onto the wooden club. The way the lips of my pussy must be plump and pink around the thick shaft, everything slick with my juices. I’m a little too in love with the idea, maybe, but I hear the Master’s quiet grunt of approval as he presses my face harder into the leather-covered table. Pleasure ripples through my system at this tacit approval, driving me on. But soon it seems like an impossible task to hold myself back from coming, and I am afraid. About to come.
Afraid
.

Gilby’s big hand grips my hip, stopping my motion, and he pulls the billy club from my body.

“Still,” the Master commands me.

I hear Gilby moving around as my heart thunders, my poor, abused, too-empty cunt aching. Wanting. It’s only a few moments before he returns. The Master releases my tortured nipple and takes a step back before Gilby shoves me down onto the table, then pulls me so my legs hang off the edge. Very quickly he binds me to the table with rope, the slick little knots holding my legs spread wide, bound to the table legs. He does the same to my arms, the ropes tight around my wrists. My legs are shaking, but the ropes and the table take care of my unsteadiness. The choke-chain helps in its own strange way too.

I love this about being restrained—it’s as if I am being held safely in the arms of the ropes or the chains or the cuffs. Or Saran Wrap or bondage tape, or whatever it is anyone binds me with. It calms me. I take in a breath, try to relax as I push it out, the way Master Graham taught me. It seems like a thousand years ago, even though it’s only been a little over a year since he began training me.

Is it terrible that I can barely think of him already? That his memory is fading in the wake of the unusual and extreme conditions of the Training House, and my fascination with the beautiful Master? As I wait for whatever the cruel Gilby will do to me next?

Cruel. And crude. Yet elegantly so, in this fantastical setting. Yes, elegantly crude. I can still hardly believe it’s all real.

But Gilby’s voice brings me back to the moment.

“My fat dick is going into your ass soon enough, little slut. Into that sweet pink hole. It’s waiting for me to fill it. To fuck you until you can’t help but scream, despite the fact that I’ve told you not to. Think about
that
, Girl.”

And I do, even though the Master grabs my face in both his hands and squats down to look into my eyes, which is mesmerizing and beautiful and nearly unbearable. It makes my throat hurt to swallow the sobs—sobs that build and swell simply because his gaze is locked on mine, because even in this state of heavy subspace and rawness, I see something just as raw in his blue eyes, and it makes my heart ache.

Gilby begins to cane me, and it fucking hurts. I can tell it’s Lucite or some other man-made material. I feel the welts coming right up on my skin, the sting unbelievably sharp. He goes at the tender flesh of my ass cheeks, down the backs of my thighs, my calves, which would make me dance in my bonds if there were any give to them. But there’s not. There is no escape from the pain.

There’s no escape.

The thought makes me smile through the pain—a pain so vicious I’m not sure I can stand it. Yet at the same time my brain is pumping out endorphins and dopamine and God knows what else—and all the more because the Master is there with me, holding me, looking into my eyes as it’s happening, which is some beautiful mind fuck in itself. I’m dizzy and my traitorous pussy is weeping with desire. And all I want is for Gilby to keep caning me, to fuck my ass, no matter how huge he might be. To tear me apart while the Master watches.

When the caning stops and I hear the faint
snick
of a zipper, I know it’s time.

There is no preamble. No warning. Just his thick fingers sliding into my cunt, then swiping the moisture back and onto my anus, pushing briefly inside. Then his huge hands part my ass cheeks and his condom-clad cock is at the entrance, the swollen head enormous against that small, pink pucker.

Oh God.

But God can’t help me now. No one can.

No one can help you.

My body goes loose and warm, and I tumble into those words.

Yes.

The Master smooths his palms over my cheeks, and his touch is unbelievably gentle, which only makes me expect something far worse. From him. From Gilby. But for several moments in which I feel as if time is suspended, nothing more happens. Just Gilby’s big cock resting against my ass, and the Master’s hands stroking my face in a way that makes me begin to cry again very softly.

Gilby pushes in, slowly at first, which surprises me, until he’s past that first tight ring of muscle. I do my breathing, but he’s so damn big I know ultimately it will be no use.

I cry a little more when the Master releases my face. If I blink I can see that he is still standing close by, which makes my heart soar. It’s Gilby fucking my ass, but it’s the Master’s presence that commands me. It’s the Master I am falling in love with.

“Oh, yeah,” Gilby mutters. “The little slut is tight as a virgin. I like it tight. It means it’ll hurt all the more. It means it’ll make you want to scream, slut. My fat cock will make you need to. Let’s take care of that.”

He clamps a hand over my mouth and shoves his huge cock into my ass, driving it in all at once. I make some rough noise deep in my throat as my insides burn, but it only makes him push deeper, harder, until it’s like a heavy drumbeat pounding my body from the inside out. He starts a jabbing, punishing stroke, and as soon he gets his rhythm, he begins caning my thighs again. There’s too much going on and I can’t process it all—pain and pain and the pleasure of being abused this way and the even greater pleasure in being watched by the Master, whom I worship already. The pleasure of having my ass fucked by the biggest cock I’ve ever felt in my life, and Jesus, I’m going to come, or maybe pass out, or maybe both.

His hand over my mouth is cutting off my air a bit, but I love it, my head light as he fucks me, as he hits my poor, tender flesh with the cane, creating welts upon welts. And God, I love being fucked this way, in my sore ass, sore inside and out. I’m overloading like mad, my head spinning, my cunt contracting, pleasure deep inside me, shimmering outward, like some arc of electricity, like light itself. I feel sensation shining through my body, as if I am translucent. As if I could light up the sky. And my orgasm is some screaming animal, loosed from its cage, as my ass tightens on his plunging flesh. I scream beneath his hand, then everything goes black.

When I come to, he’s untied me and I’m on my back on the table. My insides hurt. So does my skin. But my brain is floating, weak with pleasure and that strange, almost detached love I feel for anyone who plays me well, who can make me lose myself like this.

Blinking, I slowly realize a fire has been built in the hearth—I can hear its crackle, feel its heat. I dare to glance around, and see the Master’s wide back, and I realize there is nothing detached about the love I feel for him at this moment. Nothing.

Save me.

Punish me.

Love me.

I bite the inside of my lip hard, needing the pain to carry me away, but it doesn’t work.

Fuck.

The Master is on the phone. Gilby is nowhere in sight.

“Send the two Girls,” he says into his cell phone. “We’re done with her for the moment.”

For the moment? Does that mean there will be more later? I don’t think I can take more, but I want it anyway. I want it all, whatever he wants to give me. Gifts of pleasure. Gifts of pain. I am so selfish.

Lying on the table, I am luxuriating in the aftershocks of orgasm and pain and his presence in the room. I want to keep my eyes on his strong back, on the fabric of his linen dress shirt stretching over the hard muscle and broad shoulders, but I’m starting to dream a little. Or is it a memory?

I’ve never really had a boyfriend. Not really. My first “relationship” was with Mr. Merrick. After him, when I went to Paris, one of my roommates, a Belgian girl named Arianne, invited me to a kink club. She didn’t really understand what it was, but it didn’t matter. The moment we got there,
I
did. She left an hour later. I stayed and didn’t come home for two days. I played with some guy—I don’t even remember his name—but it was nothing. A flogging. Nothing, yet
everything
. After him was Madame Cerrine. I played with her for four months. She tied me up. Flogged me. Caned me. Fucked me with a strap-on. She used a violet wand on me, my first foray into electrical play, which I loved right away.

Her little apartment on the Left Bank is too warm in the summer, but a small breeze comes through the open window, caressing my naked skin as I kneel on the floor. She loves my being on my knees—I’ve hardly stood upright the entire time we’ve been together.

“Again, cherie,” she commands breathlessly.

Bending to do her bidding, I lick her slick cunt, one slow stroke up, then slowly down, pushing my tongue inside her, just the way she likes it. She grasps my hair, pressing my face harder into her fragrant sex, and I love it, love being forced.

I lick fervently, until she shatters, cries out, her pussy convulsing around my seeking tongue. I love the taste of come, male or female, but I swear hers always tastes like perfume smells. I look up, and as always, she looks perfectly put together, her blonde hair in its tight bun, her red Chanel lipstick not even smeared.

She smooths a palm over her perfect updo, then tells me, “Get my wooden paddle and I will give you your reward.”

I fetch it eagerly from its cupboard and bring it to her, my knees rubbing on the carpet. Sitting up, I present the paddle to her as if it’s a gift, and perhaps it is. My gift.

“Come here.”

I lie over her lap, my hands on the floor, my toes bracing my lower body. She is warm against me, her corset stiff in contrast to her soft lap.

“Count now, my darling,” she purrs, and hits me.

“Un!” I cry out in French as she has ordered me to do, the pain making me yell.

She hits me again, and this time I move into it, into the swing of the heavy wood. The impact rumbles through me, pleasure swarming me even as my ass stings. And as she paddles me, harder and harder, she pushes her clever fingers into me, making me come. I am coming and coming, screaming the count.

“Trois! Quatre! Cinq! Six! Sept! Huit! Neuf!” And finally, breathlessly, “Dix!”

She made me love her. They all do. But she wanted to own me, and I wanted to
experience.
She cried when I left her, but I had to go. And she is nothing now compared to the Master. No one is. My mysterious Master who ignores me for days, and sends me to be abused by someone else.

I wipe the tears as they slip onto my cheeks. All the damn crying! But I can’t help it. It’s one of my favorite and most loathed humiliations.

I hear footsteps, and I watch from the corner of my eye as he leaves the room—I can’t stand to really look. I am empty and filled at the same time. The Master touched me, watched as Gilby fucked me, beat me. I saw the excitement and what I could swear was some sort of adoration in his sapphire gaze. And this idea feeds me—that he is pleased with me. Wants me. But now he’s leaving me once more. I am not so foolish as to expect anything else from this gorgeous, alluring, utterly dominant man with a house full of beautiful slaves.

I want more, and it is a deep, rabid craving that cuts into my insides. But as I said, I’m selfish.

A few minutes later the sisters enter and one of them has gentle hands and the other’s are rough on me, even pinching me here and there and pulling on the chain around my neck. They help me down from the table, steadying me as my head rushes with my post-orgasmic haze, and with the punishment my body has received.

They take me into a bathroom, remove my chain collar and put me into a hot shower, both of them getting in with me and washing me quite thoroughly. I am beyond spent, and still their smooth little hands feel sensual on my skin—that and the warm water as it spills over my sore flesh. Then one of them rubs a bar of soap between my thighs, and it feels so good. She squats down and parts my ass cheeks, washing me there, and my clit begins to pulse once more. I am insatiable. Selfish, as I said. I should be happy with the working-over Gilby gave me, with the Master being a part of it, putting his hands on me. And I am.

But she is rubbing me with the soap again, ass and pussy, then she presses two well-soaped fingers into my ass and begins to pump and turn them, and I am somehow hanging on to the other sister’s neck, my head on her shoulder, my body shaking all over. And that sister pinches my nipples very hard, making me yelp then rock into her cruel hands. I spread my legs a little wider to steady myself as my hurting ass gets worked again. But my body is frankly loving it, needing it. I lower my head, not even caring which sister it is in front of me—the one who will talk to me or the silent one—and I nuzzle her plump breast, feel the nipple come up hard beneath my cheek. Turning my head, I take her succulent, swollen nipple into my mouth, and swirl my tongue over the distended tip. She moans quietly, which tells me this is probably the one who talks to me. And the other girl—the other
Girl
—is still silently working my ass like mad with her fingers. And with her other hand she invades my cunt, her fingers sinking in deep. I’m soaked again. I can never get enough. I want to come all over her hands. I want to give her my orgasm.

But no, this one I want all for myself.

I arch against her, grinding down onto her fingers, and she stops so suddenly I am rocked off my feet, and the other Girl catches me. She says, “Rinse her off.”