He starts again, his fingers making that odd motion, that strange sort of snapping thing inside me, against my g-spot. This time I focus on the pressure as it builds. He fucks me hard and fast with his hand, hard and hurting, except that it’s so good…excruciating, and I am screaming again, and oh God…
“Again,” he demands.
Once more he strokes and snaps at my g-spot, and I really am hurting now, but I can’t stop as I gush again, even more this time, and it’s like coming, yet it’s different and I am already addicted.
He doesn’t say a word as he starts again. The breath absolutely leaves my body as I scream as hard as I come, or whatever it is that’s happening to me. I crumple, panting, onto the floor.
With hard hands he yanks me back up onto my knees, drags me across the rug until I am kneeling in front of him, between his knees as he sits in a chair. He grabs the back of my long, red hair in a tight fist, pulling my face toward his, and instead of yelling as I expect, he pauses, looking at me, and I am lost in the blue of his eyes, in trying to memorize his every feature. Then, to my utter surprise, he kisses my cheek, my jawline, then my cheek again. He pulls back, his gaze on mine, burning suddenly, then shadowed, and whatever was going on with him is gone, and he is closed and harsh again. He pulls my hair so hard I nearly scream from that alone. I love having my hair pulled, but this is brutal. I love it—and him, for doing this to me—even more. For the pulling. For the kisses. For whatever I saw in his eyes.
“Squirt for me again,” he demands, his voice low and dangerous as he impales me once more with his lovely, punishing fingers.
I whimper as he fucks me savagely, and it is mere seconds before I gush all over his shoes, the beautiful rug, my own thighs. He doesn’t even pause this time before doing it again once more. And God, it feels better than anything ever has in my life, and I don’t think I can take it anymore.
Tears pool in my eyes, pour down my cheeks as he makes me do it over and over again. Over and over until my screams turn to guttural groans and whimpers. Finally I slip onto the wet floor, crying in earnest, unable to move. He sits quietly, watching me, I think. Then he gets up and moves away from me. I hear sounds I can’t identify at first, but which I come to recognize as ice tinkling in a crystal glass. He is to have a nice drink while watching me cry on the floor. Oh yes, he knows exactly what he’s doing.
The crying has mostly stopped, but I’m still hiccupping. Exhausted. He moves closer, until he’s bent over me. I don’t know what to expect, which is clearly the idea, of course, and I have to order myself not to flinch as he reaches for me. When he touches a finger to my lips, I know to open for him. He thrusts into my mouth and I suck, wishing it were his cock, knowing I may never be fortunate enough to service him, this man I want so badly, want so much to serve it’s like an ache in my stomach.
He slides his finger in, then out, slowly, sensually, and I lose myself in sucking him, sucking exactly as I would if I had his cock in my mouth, tasting my tears that are apparently still falling.
Oh yes…
His finger slips out, leaving me empty as his hand goes to my hair again and he yanks me to my feet.
The door opens. Blinking, I try to clear my vision, but everything is a blur of tears and whatever it was he just did to me.
Two women stand in the doorway. Both are as naked as I am except for the shining steel collars around their necks. They are a matched pair of tall brunettes, both shaved clean and with pierced nipples. Both wear a small brand of a fleur-de-lis over their left breasts I recognize as the house crest, which makes me shiver, but whether with desire or fear I don’t know.
“Intake,” he tells the girls. “You know what to do.”
“Yes, Master,” they answer in unison, like pretty little robots. Pretty little robots that I want to become.
I am so filled with envy I can hardly stand it. And in fact, I can hardly stand. But the matched brunette slaves take one arm each and half drag, half carry me down a series of narrow hallways until we reach what I think is the back of the big Victorian house. We go through a door into a small room.
Even in my dazed state I see that it’s spare, with nothing but a lovely, old-fashioned porcelain tub in the middle of the room, a pallet done up in white sheets on the hardwood floor in one corner and a bucket—a bucket!—in another.
They lay me down on the pallet, and the tears have started again. One of them holds out a bottle of water.
“Drink this,” she says. “All of it.”
I prop myself up on an elbow and drink half the bottle down. The water is cool. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was, how sore my throat is from screaming.
“Finish it,” the same girl says.
I nod, wipe my mouth with the back of my arm, take a few more sips, wipe my mouth again, then my eyes.
“What’s your name?” I ask the one closest.
“Girl,” they both answer, the robots again.
I shake my head. “Girl?”
“Just drink your water. This one too.” She pushes another bottle toward me. “You’ll know what to do with the bucket. Otherwise, rest. You’re going to need it. Someone will bring some food to you eventually.”
My head is spinning as they leave, shutting the lights off before they go. I am in complete darkness other than the very dim light coming through the heavy damask curtains over the single window. But there is also an enormous amount of relief at her words. Instructions. This I can do—give myself over to this place where I don’t have to make decisions. Where someone else will tell me even when to drink, when to eat. When to come.
This is exactly what I asked for, to such a degree I may never have asked if I’d known this were even possible. To be rendered so completely invisible, even as I am seen, touched, hurt. To experience those extremes of sensation, both pleasure and pain, in a way that makes it safe for me to
feel
, because I’m no good at doing that on my own. I never have been. No, it’s the restrictions and rules and expectations in being a slave that allow me to. It’s the only safety I have ever truly had. I’m shaking again, but it’s need coursing through my body—need and the relief making me go weak all over.
I cannot believe I get to do this. I cannot believe I have to do this. There is nothing I can do to get out of this.
I breathe a sigh and repeat those lovely, luscious words, whispering them quietly in the dark.
“There is nothing I can do to get out of this.”
I slept. I only know this because suddenly I am awakened by rough hands on me, pulling me upright, then shoving me down onto the mattress and flipping me onto my stomach. A big hand on the small of my back holds me down hard.
I hear a voice—a male voice. Him! He says, “Hold her still.”
Smaller female hands on my body: on the back of my head shoving my face into my white pallet, on my ankles, pulling my legs wide. I want to scream but I swallow it down. I’m sure he’ll give me more reason to scream if I only wait. And I do. Helplessly. I can hear them breathing in the still air. Waiting.
The waiting goes on for such a long time I begin to wonder if this is all he will do to me. And the longer it continues the more I have to struggle to hold still, until I’m shaking with the effort.
Finally one finger strokes down my spine, slowly, gently.
“Do you want this, Girl?” he asks me.
My last Master would often ask me the same thing, and the answer was always yes, because it was never enough with him. He could never play me hard enough, even when his beatings drew blood, leaving me bruised for weeks. He could never be quite strict enough—not in the harsh way I yearned for. And the answer is still yes, even in this frightening place. But I don’t know if am to answer at all, so I stay quiet. Shaking. I can barely feel the other girl’s hands on me any longer.
“It doesn’t matter, you know,” he says quietly.
His fingers impale me so quickly my teeth rattle, and the pain spears through my body like a knife, I am so sore from before. But it doesn’t matter, none of it does. Only the pain and the desire and his hand fucking me hard and fast. Harder as he adds fingers, filling me up. I am so wet, needing to come, but there is no relief—only this rapid fucking, his evil fingers so deep in my pussy I think he may have gone in up to his wrist.
When he spreads the cheeks of my ass and presses a finger into my anus I exhale, a long breath that is perhaps more a sighing gasp. He doesn’t wait for me to try to relax, which is impossible in any case, before he pushes the finger in, ramming it deep.
I cry out, but it doesn’t matter. God, how often will I be reminded of that? It doesn’t matter that he is hurting me, except that I crave it. Love it. Love him already in the way I do anyone who takes my power from me as his wicked hands fuck me harder, as he adds another finger to my ass, opens both fingers wide in order to fill my ass as much as my cunt.
I am burning. Need and fear and surrender washing over me in intoxicating waves. When his hand deep in my pussy stills and he thrusts viciously into my ass, I come, a sobbing cry on my lips, my body twisting in ecstasy, the girls holding me tight. And I need it. I need them to hold me down. To keep me safe in their grip so I won’t lose myself. Or so that I will. I don’t know anymore.
His hands slip from me before I’m done coming, leaving me not quite sated. Bereft. The girls let me go and they all leave the room. I hear the door close, the
snick
of the lock. Not that they need to lock me in. I am a good girl, mostly. But knowing I’m locked up in here really does something to my head.
Rolling onto my back on my pallet on the floor, I pull in one sharp breath after another. I whisper into the dark, “This is really happening.”
I stare up toward the ceiling, and maybe my eyes have adjusted, because I think I can make out the light fixture up there. But there is nothing else to discover in this room, other than what I will discover about myself.
I lie there for some time, thinking sleep will take me at any moment, but it eludes me. Instead my mind is filled with reflection. Memory.
“The Training House is where you need to be, Aimée. It will be good for you. I can never hope to achieve what I want for you if I keep you with me.”
“Please, Graham, Sir. Don’t let me go.”
I bury my face in his lap, kneeling on the floor in front of him in his cold London flat, tears running down my face.
He lifts my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “You have been with me for a year, pet. You know I never expected to keep you. I never expected to want to. But I must let you go
because
I want you for myself. Too much. I will not be so selfish with you when I can’t give you what you need. This is simply beyond my scope. My resources. You need to be under harsher hands. You need a Master who excels in mind fuck perhaps more than you require anything else. This is the only way you will be able to truly let go.”
I continue to cry but my tears do no good. His hand on my chin grips a bit harder.
“You yourself have asked me to send you someplace where you would be worked very hard. Relentlessly.”
“That was months ago,” I argue.
“You never stopped needing it,” he says quietly. He lets my face go and gets to his feet. “It’s all arranged. There is paperwork in my study. Go upstairs. Read it. Sign it if you will. But even if you decide not to go, you can’t stay here with me any longer. I’ve taught you everything I can and your time with me must be done. You know this is the right thing for you, Aimée.”
My heart shatters as he walks toward the door. But even as it does, I know he speaks the truth. I do want more—my body, my very being, yearns for the stark, brutal training in a way that has made me feel fragile lately, as if my skin has stretched too much to accommodate the need. I have to go.
A small pain forms in my stomach when I think of Master Graham, like a tiny knot made of barbed wire. I
did
love him, in my own way. I always love—at least a little bit—those who dominate me and do it well, but I’ve never spent that kind of concentrated time with any of the others. And now there is
him
. The new Master. I know already I’ll fall hard for him, as hard as he will work me.
Oh yes.
This is part of what I crave—to love my Masters so heedlessly, so completely, that it frees me to give myself permission to do these perverted, forbidden things. Dangerous things, as my poor, hurting cunt and ass can attest to. And I know it’s only beginning, that today has been nothing but a small taste of what is to come. And I rather love that I have absolutely no idea of what might happen to me. I’ve signed myself over, body and soul, like a pact with the Devil himself.
The thought makes me smile as I turn onto my side, curling into a ball.
I am in the Devil’s house. I am exactly where I want to be.
I curl my fingers into the sheets beneath me, the only thing I have to hold onto. And happier than I’ve been in a long time—maybe ever—I close my eyes and drift into sleep once more.
When the door bangs open and I’m startled awake, there is light coming through the curtains. I must have slept through the night. One of the brunette slaves comes in with a tray. She sets it on the floor beside me, but as I reach for the steaming cup of tea she smacks my hand away.
“Bucket first, then food.”
“Oh, I…” I don’t know what to say about the damn bucket, even though my bladder is full.
“You didn’t use it last night?” Her voice is harsh. “Get up. Pee. Now.”
“But how?”
She purses her lips, then goes to the bucket and demonstrates, squatting over the bucket, facing the wall, her hands braced there. Then she stands and turns to me. “You’ll get used to it. You’ll get used to everything. Well…maybe not everything.”
I straddle the bucket the way she’s shown me, but my body seizes up. “I don’t think I can.”