Torment Me (Rough Love Part One) (25 page)

And maybe, just maybe, W would respect me more, and start to admire me, and fall in love with me...

No, no, no, no, no.

That was the big complex thing I thought about the most as I stared out the window at the vast city around me. If I stopped escorting, what would happen with me and W? I had to talk to Henry before I started making any plans. My contract forbade me from contacting former clients for one year from termination of service, but Henry was a human being, and maybe W was a special case. He’d paid Henry a lot of money, way more than a typical client, so W might be able to talk Henry into releasing me from my contract so we could still see each other.

But that was assuming W would want to see me outside the agency, that he would want to keep dating me outside our neat, clean, no-strings-attached escort relationship. As I made these plans, and dreamed and schemed, some small voice in my head kept pleading,
but Chere, he’s never even told you his name...

I went to meet him at the Carlyle Hotel exactly one week after we’d shared the burger at the Mandarin Oriental. I put on my favorite black dress, made myself pretty because I owed him, and I wanted to make him happy. He met me at the door and he didn’t look happy. He was in one of his moods.

“I want you to wear this,” he said, holding out a leather eye mask like the one I’d originally worn.

Nooo...
I’d waited all week to see him, to look at his beautiful gold-blond hair and his muscles, and his scrutinizing eyes. I’d waited all week to drool over his body and experience his delicious violence. I was rested and energized and I wanted to
see
him, but he put the mask on me anyway, fastening it extra tight.

The ball gag came next, pressed against my lips. This time I did say no, and I stuck out my tongue and tried to back away from him. That earned me a slap, which rattled me enough for him to overcome my resistance and strap it on.

This wasn’t how I’d wanted this session to go, but I knew if I hung in there, I’d be rewarded with orgasms and poetry.
Please let me survive whatever he has planned.

I felt his hands on my jaw, and then he wrapped something around my neck. At first I thought it was his belt and I started to panic, but then I realized it was a collar. He buckled it in the back and then yanked at the front of it. I stumbled and moaned behind the gag. A slave collar? That was something new. His mood, his voice, his hands, all of it felt new. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see his expression, and I couldn’t ask how he was feeling.

I heard his pants unzip, detected the rustle of clothing coming off, and then I felt his hands under my dress. He pushed me back on the bed and lifted my skirt.
Please, please, kiss me there.

But he didn’t. He took off my panties with an irritated sound—they were so beautiful, those panties—and tugged apart my thighs.
Now, please, now, go down on me, you magical pervert.

But no. I felt some sort of leather band or cuff circle each of my upper thighs. He buckled each side with a tiny clink. New, so new. I didn’t understand all this equipment.

“Give me your hands,” he said.

He put cuffs on my wrists too, and then attached each hand to the cuffs on my legs.

“Stand up,” he said, hauling me to my feet.

I tugged at the cuffs, trying to find my balance, but my hands and arms were bound for the moment. I couldn’t move them more than one or two inches from my side. If he pulled me off balance, I’d go flying. If he hurt me, I’d have no way to stop him.

I felt him yank at the front of my dress, over each of my breasts. For some reason, I imagined he was going to put clamps on me over the fabric. Then he pulled tighter. I heard the whisper-soft sound of scissors cutting fabric.

Shit. I squirmed and moaned, but he grabbed my face and told me to be still. He yanked on my bra next, and
snip snip snip
. He released the fabric and I felt cool air on my nipple. He did the other side next, cutting a hole through my clothes to expose the tip of my breast. Part of me hated him for ruining my beautiful dress but part of me was fascinated by this objectification. I wondered what I looked like, standing there with my stiff tits peeking from the fabric.

I knew what I felt like. I felt vulnerable and scared, and so excited. When I shivered, he twisted a handful of my hair.

“I know,” he said. “I know this makes you horny. You’ll get my cock, I promise. I’m not sure you’ll like where I put it, though.”

I whined, but it wasn’t a real whine, because it felt kind of fun to be this scared. I heard the soft metallic sound of nipple clamps clinking together.
Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit.
Even when I was turned on, the clamps were torturous.

“Don’t move,” he warned me. “Don’t you dare struggle or back away from me.”

He applied the first clamp, and my whole body tensed at the searing pain. I huffed out breaths and tried not to move. As I stood there, I felt him tinkering with the front of the collar. The chain connecting the nipple clamps was lifted from my skin, and I realized he was threading it through some ring on the collar, probably the same ring he kept yanking to remind me it was there.

“Please, no,” I said through the gag. It sounded like
aww aww
. I could picture the sadistic smile on his face as he clamped my other nipple. Ow.
Shit.
My fingers dug into my thighs as I tried to process the pain. I didn’t dare try to pull away, in case I fell down. And of course, every time I moved my neck, the chain made the clamps pull tighter.

“Please,” I said again.
Aww.
I squirmed and then squealed at the resulting agony in my nipples. I could hear his chuckle through the curse words in my brain.

“You’re a helpless little piece of shit, aren’t you?” I felt his hands on my waist, and heard the scissors again. “You know why I’m cutting up your pretty dress, Chere? Because I can. Because you can’t do anything to stop me.” He cut away the bottom half, up to my waist. When he finished pulling the skirt off, he thrust rough fingers into my pussy. “Right now, I can do anything in the world to you, and you don’t have a say. It’s called slavery. It’s called being my pretty set of holes.”

I went up on my toes, angling my hips, trying to get him to touch my clit. I was so wet and horny, a fact he was happy to exploit.

“You want it bad, don’t you? You want some cock.”

“I want
your
cock,” I said through the gag. Of course the words were unintelligible, just a garbled series of moans. My nipples were killing me, but I arched to touch him wherever I could.

“No, you’re my toy. My sex slave,” he said, slapping my ass. “You’re here to please me, not the other way around. Let’s take that gag off and put you to work.”

I was shoved to my knees. When I pitched forward—
ow, my nipples!
—he caught me by the hair and righted me. He removed the gag but not the clamps or blindfold.

“I want to see you,” I cried.

“Shut the fuck up. You don’t get to see me right now. Nothing I show you is real anyway.” He slapped my cheek. “Open your fucking mouth.”

He drove into my throat until he choked me, and then he stayed there while I coughed and struggled to get away. I couldn’t use my hands to support myself, or seek any leverage. I was powerless, controlled by his palms on either side of my head.

“Just suck me,” he said. “Don’t be all dramatic.”

I tried. I really tried. I drew air through my nose and tried not to throw up as he banged the back of my throat again and again.
He gave you an apartment
, I told myself.
You owe him.
But that just made me feel like a whore.

Not a whore. His slave. I felt his hand tug at the collar, circling it, reminding me of my place. The blowjob got easier after that.
Be a pretty hole, Chere.
Yes, for now I’d be his pretty hole. For the orgasms. For the poetry.

He finished with deep, urgent growls of satisfaction, coming partly in my mouth but partly on my lips, so I had to lick it away.

“Don’t say anything,” he said, letting go of my face. “Don’t say a fucking thing. Sit back on your heels and wait until I’m ready to fuck you again. You’re getting it in the ass next.”

My whole body clenched, imagining him taking my ass in this heightened mood, with all the gear, the blindfold, the collar, the cuffs. At least he took off the clamps. My nipples throbbed as the blood returned, but I couldn’t rub them or soothe them in any way. All I could do was sit there and stroke my thighs with my fingers. If my hands were free, I would have masturbated to orgasm seventeen times in a row without stopping. The fact that I couldn’t touch my clit made me agonizingly aware of how turned on I was. I wondered what he’d do if I started humping the bed, or the floor. I was too scared of him to find out.

I listened as he moved about the room. He poured himself a drink, but I didn’t know what it was. Maybe he’d kiss me and let me taste it on his tongue. I wanted him to kiss me so badly. Somehow I doubted the assfucking would include kissing, but with W, you never knew.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe fifteen. He didn’t need that long to be ready again, although it felt like an eternity to me. I knew he always,
always
lasted longer the second time, which was a very unfortunate situation for my ass.

There was no warning when it was time to go again. I felt his approach, and wobbled to my feet when he pulled me up. He held the front of the collar to pull me closer. His warmth enfolded me. His bristly cheek pressed against mine.

“Are you ready to bend over and give me your ass, slave girl?”

“Yes, Master,” I said, although I’d never, ever really be ready.

“Do you love it when I take you in the ass?”

“Yes, I love it, Master.” I sounded like I was telling the truth. I think I
was
telling the truth.

I was turned around and bent over the bed. My hands scrabbled against my thighs as my tender nipples scratched across the comforter. I’m sure it was some very expensive, luxury three-thousand thread count, but it felt like sandpaper against my sensitized skin.

I felt his hand on my cheek, and then the gag. Damn it. I opened up for the hard plastic ball because I didn’t have a choice to refuse it.

“It’s for your own good,” he chided when I whimpered. “You’ll be able to cry and groan as much as you want with the gag on. But no screaming. Good slaves don’t scream.”

Shit. Oh shit.
He was only trying to scare me, wasn’t he?

“Spread your legs,” he said, once the ball gag was buckled. He apparently wasn’t happy with my good faith effort to spread them since he yanked them wider, so wide apart that they ached from the stretch. He circled one ankle with rope and fixed it to the bed, then tied my other ankle. I was already moaning in fear, and he hadn’t touched me yet. I was so trapped, and so open.

“You don’t get to close your legs until I’m done with you, so stop squirming. You’re not going anywhere.” He put a hand on the small of my back and slapped the insides of my thighs with sharp, stinging blows. He paused, and then, oh Jesus, he started using that evil stinging whip instead of his hands.

Whack.
Oh, the burn.

Whack.
Oh, fuck.

Whack.
Baby Jesus!

Whack!
Oh my God, no…

When the insides of my thighs were alive with stripes of agony, he moved to the backs of my thighs, and it felt ten times worse.

I didn’t scream, no. I couldn’t catch my breath to scream. I panted and trembled and arched against his hand holding me down. I jerked my arms at my sides, and made frantic sobbing sounds in my throat. He moved to my ass, flicking it with blows, one on top of the other. I clenched my ass cheeks, helpless to escape the fiery pain.

“I want to lock you in a dungeon,” he said in a low, dire voice. He paused, and drew the whip up and down my drenched pussy lips. “A real one, not one of those pansy BDSM dungeons. I’d tie you down a thousand different ways and do every hurting thing I could think of to you before I let you go. I’d keep your legs held open with a spreader bar twenty-four hours a day, so I could hurt your pussy and your asshole whenever I felt like it. I’d train you to want it, to beg and plead for sexual pain.”

I shook my head, even though I could absolutely see myself begging. I’d be begging right now, if I weren’t wearing the gag, begging for him to put down the whip and invade my body. I wanted him to take me, to press deep inside me. I didn’t care how much it hurt.

“Please,” I said behind the gag. “Please.”

I wiggled my ass, offering myself for his use. I felt completely submissive, completely needful of him. The collar impeded my breathing just enough to remind me it was there, and that I was his slave.

When I heard the condom, and the cap from the lube, I didn’t brace to resist him. I was scared and I knew it would hurt, but I was ready to be hurt. I
wanted
to be hurt.

When he took my bound hips and jammed the head of his cock against my sphincter, I was drifting in fantasies of his “real” dungeon, and all the things he might do to me there. I wondered if he had a dungeon somewhere, wherever he lived. I wanted to be in it, experiencing all those scary things he’d said.

His cock pressed into my asshole while I pictured dark walls and racks and bars for torture. I fisted my hands against the stretching, cresting pain of his entry. I knew it would subside in a moment, if I could relax.
Relax, relax.

He wasn’t gentle. Thank God for the lube, so when he started fucking my ass in a firm, steady rhythm, I was able to bear it without too much panic. His repetitive thrusting shoved me forward against the bed, and pain mixed with pleasure as my clit rode the sheets.
Yes, yes, yes.
I squeezed around his cock, seeking my own pleasure in his dominance.

My thighs were killing me, not just because of the whip marks, but from being bound open. I thought of a twenty-four hour spreader bar and shuddered. My asshole hurt with a vivid, blissful kind of pain, with roughness and overstimulation. I whimpered behind the gag and arched my back, tugging at the cuffs that held my arms at my sides.