Trust Me (Rough Love #3) (3 page)

Oh, hell. I was happy. I was just scared of losing him again, because it had happened too many times before. I kept his poetry in a special scrapbook, in the same closet where he kept the binoculars, and I clung to those heartfelt poems as evidence that everything was okay. He wrote the poems himself now. They were short and sweet, and wonderful.

I lowered the binoculars. The couple wasn’t there right now. I rested my head against the glass and wondered if anyone was spying on me, the worried looking girl whose brown hair and brown eyes matched her brown slave collar. I had to stop worrying. I had to stop expecting him to desert me. I’d asked him to trust me, and the flip side of that was that I had to trust him.

I went back to the guest room and hid the binoculars, took one last look at my appearance, and went into his room. He had a chair in there, a hard wooden chair where I was expected to wait for him at least ten minutes prior to his expected arrival.
Back straight, feet on the floor, hands in your lap. You’ll be there ten minutes before you expect me, not eight minutes, or five minutes.

The first few days I lived here, he’d taught me a hundred rules, a hundred expectations for my behavior when I was in our slave space—his bedroom and the dungeon beyond. There were rules about my hair (always down, never up), about my jewelry (nothing but stud earrings), about when I could look away from him (never, in the dungeon), about when I could talk (never, in the dungeon). Respectful talk in the bedroom was allowed, but it was at my own risk. If I annoyed him, I paid the price.

The respect spilled out of the bedroom into other areas of our life. Sometimes, at company dinners or events, I almost called him Sir. That was a no-no. I was careful what I said to him, unlike the times before, when I spoke more freely. The times before, meaning before slavery and ownership and the consuming control he exercised over me now. I’d wanted that control. I’d begged for it. I checked the collar to be sure the O-ring was at the front, and listened for the sound of him at the door.

He arrived within a few minutes of six o’clock and found me sitting as I was supposed to be, back straight, feet on the floor, hands in my lap. He strolled over to me as I drank him up with my eyes.
Master, please master me. Please punish me so we can start fresh again and I can do things right.

When he reached me, he clasped my neck and tilted my face up for a kiss. That kiss was for being where I was supposed to be, doing what I was supposed to be doing. It didn’t last.

He pulled away and turned his back on me, shrugged off his suit jacket and disappeared into the closet. He reappeared in a pair of jeans and nothing else, such a flawless specimen of enticing masculinity that I could have sobbed. His abs were flat and hard, and his jeans rode just below his hips to showcase perfect iliac furrows. I flushed as he crossed to me, all business.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir.”

“You understand why you’re being punished?”

“Yes, Sir. I’m being punished for not being more proactive in my business. For not…for not working harder at getting my art out into the world.”

He studied me a moment, with an intensity that made me squirm. “All it takes is inspiration. You of all people should know that.” He touched my cheek, a soft touch before the storm. “Maybe I can inspire you. Or at least light a fire under your ass. Hold out your arms.”

He pulled the manacles I’d made from his pocket. I let out a slow breath as he secured them around my wrists, closing each clasp with a click. I was sure he’d used the words “fire” and “ass” with intentional purpose. My ass, as they say, was grass, as was any other part of my body he thought suitable for punishment tonight.

“All right,” he said, taking my arm. “Come on.”

He led me through his closet to the dungeon room, an echoing, concrete-walled chamber of racks, benches, and polished furniture. Once inside, he nudged me toward the tall chests where he kept all his hurtiest equipment. I had to wait there while he moved about the dungeon turning on lamps and recessed spotlights to illuminate my shame.

When the frightening disciplinary space was awash in light, he returned and opened a drawer to take out a ball gag. He turned to me. No words necessary. I took my last few breaths of unimpeded air and opened my mouth. The ball was hard and black, and large enough to depress my tongue. He buckled it behind my head and turned back to the drawers. He pulled out a butt plug next, a glass one with a painfully wide base. I gave a little moan that wasn’t audible through the gag, not that any moan or groan would make him soften his plans.

“Go bend over the bench,” he ordered.

I obeyed, crawling onto the lower step and then folding myself over the raised center platform. My ass felt very vulnerable, as he meant it to. I knew that butt plug would hurt. Too soon, he was behind me, forcing me to spread my legs wider with a series of punishing slaps to my inner thighs. Once I was positioned to his liking, he parted my cheeks and shoved cold, slippery lube into my asshole. He wasn’t gentle, but I was grateful that he was being generous with the lube, considering the size of the plug.

After he finished preparing my ass, he spread my cheeks wide and held them open. I closed my eyes as I felt the hard tip of the toy against my hole. He worked it in and out, causing a little more pain each time. Even though he trained my ass with plugs and dildos, and even though he frequently fucked me there, it was still a struggle every time. I whined and pushed out as he nudged the widest part of the base against my ass. He had to stop and add more lube. I wanted to move, to squirm away, but I didn’t dare.

Surrender. It’s supposed to feel bad. This is a punishment.

I cried behind the gag as he started moving the plug in and out again, all the way to the widest part. The long, rough fingers of his other hand pressed into my skin as he held my cheeks open. Finally, with an aching stab of pain, he shoved the anal toy home. I clenched around the base, relieved that the acute pain was over, but there was still the discomfort of having a large, heavy bulb seated in my ass, and surely more anal torment to come.

He walked around the bench and I raised my eyes to look at him. If he wasn’t behind me, or on top of me, I was supposed to meet his gaze. I tried to swallow. The first bits of drool gathered at the corners of my lips but I wasn’t allowed to wipe it away.

“Does that hurt, bad girl?” he asked.

God, yes, it hurt to be bad. I nodded, trying to communicate how sad and sorry I was. He stood over me, my figure of authority, my owner.

“Fifty with the paddle to begin.”

My whole body cringed. He put a finger in my collar’s O-ring and dragged my torso down to rest right on the upper platform. He unhooked the manacles from their connecting chain and fixed one wrist to either side of the spanking bench so my arms were spread wide. Spread wide in every way, I thought ruefully, as I clenched on the plug inside me.

“Keep your fucking ass in the air,” he said, walking to stand behind me. He gave me some warm up spanks, pausing now and again to force me to arch my back. “And keep those legs spread, so I can paddle your thighs too.”

I dropped my head, wishing this was over rather than just beginning. The warm up spanks stopped, and I sensed rather than heard him pick up the paddle. This wasn’t playtime. It was punishment, and he went to town. He spanked one cheek at a time, avoiding the plug’s base. It wasn’t a big paddle, but the small, thick ones could be brutal. Each blow was hot, stinging fire, and I squealed behind the gag. I was supposed to stay still and I did my best, but I couldn’t control the trembling in my legs or the frantic movement of my feet.

“Ass out,” he scolded whenever I tried to cower in a self-protective way.

I lost count of the paddle strokes after the first dozen or so. I couldn’t keep up; I was just trying to hold it together. When my cheeks burned beyond bearing, he moved to the backs of my upper thighs, and it absolutely killed like hellfire.
Ow, ow, ow, ow…
I yanked at the manacles I’d so carefully crafted, and wiggled my ass back and forth to try to lessen the ratcheting pain.

“Be still,” he warned, spanking me harder as punishment.

I braced myself against the bench and cried behind the gag, knowing there would be no lessening, no stopping until he was done. At last, the sharp cracks of the paddle died out in the quiet dungeon. I went limp against the platform, and watched a stream of drool drip from the gag down to the floor beneath me.

“I know it hurts,” he said, squeezing my ass cheeks. “That’s the only way you’ll learn. That’s the only way you’ll do better.”

I moaned in agreement, wondering what would be next. It turned out to be a strap, a narrow, supple piece of leather he used on me a lot. Again, he punished my hurting bottom and then the sensitive skin at the apex of my thighs. I imagine he gave me fifty more. It felt like a thousand and I started bawling.

“Spread your legs wider,” he said, unmoved. “As wide as they’ll go.”

When I complied, he used the strap on my inner thighs. I screeched behind the gag, grateful now that he’d put it on me, because I didn’t think I would have been able to hold back the words screaming in my head.
Stop, stop. Oh my fucking God in heaven, stop torturing me.

By the time he put the strap away, my entire backside and upper legs were on fire. The butt plug was an afterthought. It still didn’t feel good, but it felt better than having my ass paddled and my inner thighs strapped until they burned. I prayed the punishment was over, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be that lucky.

I watched him as he came around to release my wrists, but he didn’t meet my gaze. Instead he chained my manacles back together and twisted the metal links in his fist. I was forced up off the bench and walked over to the ladder rack affixed to the wall. I felt the heavy plug in my ass with each step. He made me stand with my back against the rack while he attached my wrists high over my head. My breasts were forced forward and I had to stand on the balls of my feet.

I watched him cross to the chests of implements and return with a crop and a clear Lucite cane.
Oh shit, oh shit.
While my throbbing ass bumped against the rack’s bars, he flicked my breasts with the crop. I threw my head back for a moment, breaking eye contact, but there was no way to escape. The tip of the crop connected with my nipples over and over, sharp bites of pain on my most sensitive, delicate skin.
At least he’s not using clamps
, I thought miserably, but then I thought,
those will be next, when my nipples are already hurt.

I returned my gaze to his face because I was supposed to keep my attention on him in the dungeon, whether he was giving me agony or bliss. This was agony. His eyes were hard and intent. He didn’t miss a nipple once. When they felt painful enough to fall off, he put down the crop and picked up the cane. I glanced warily at the thin, whippy tool, then returned my eyes to his face.

I got five cane strokes against the fronts of my thighs, while I screamed and jerked and danced on my faltering toes. Every time he hit me, it felt like he was slicing me open. By the end of the cane strokes I was so frantic and clenched up that the plug felt huge in my ass again.

I caught his gaze and pleaded with my eyes.
Please, please, I’m sorry I failed you. I’ll do better. This hurts so much.
Tears streamed down my face. He stared at me, stern as ever. “I could be harder on you, you know,” he said. “I could tear you up, but I won’t, because I love you.”

That made me cry harder. He ran fingers through my tears, smearing them in with my drool. “Cry all you want,” he said gently. “I won’t let you get away.”

*

She was fucking
poetry.

Chere was poetry in my dungeon, fixed to my bondage rack. I sighed, then leaned down and kissed her cheek, tasting her tears.

“We’re not done yet,” I said, massaging her reddened nipples. “I’m going to fuck your ass now. Hard. I’m going to punish you with my cock.”

She gave me a sad, pleading look, but she knew I’d stick to my plan. I released her arms and took her over to the toy chests. I opened the drawer with all the nipple clamps and let her take a good look. Today, she was getting awful ones. I toyed with her nipples, enjoying her gasping and flinching. I took out a pair of heavy black clover clamps that would tug like hell when I bent her over and subjected her to a rough assfucking.

Bad slaves got punished. I’d warned her that the deadline was approaching, and she’d decided not to act. I was the kind of Master who punished every infraction, no matter how small, and her failure wasn’t a small thing.

“Stand up straight,” I said. “I’m not going to fight with you over these clamps. Keep your hands down and stick your tits out.”

She did, but she was still crying, still scared. Her chest quailed with her sobs, but that was the point of punishment, to use pain to teach her a lesson. I clamped the first nipple as she squealed behind the gag. The walls were soundproof, thank God. Gag or not, she was making a racket. I clamped the other nipple and let the chain fall down between her breasts. She stared at me as I did it. She was required to look at me, as a power thing, yes, but a safety thing too. I decided she was eighty percent done, but she had a little more hurt and humiliation to endure. I marched her over to the sawhorse and bent her over it, hooking the chain of her manacles to an attachment point on the floor.