Subjection (26 page)

As a good slave, I should say yes, kiss his feet for the tidbit of information, smile like a fool and pretend to be happy. I should be grateful and not let him know that I know there’s far more to the project than what he just revealed to me.

“Where’s the rest of it?” I ask, instead.

“That’s it,” he lies. “You’re looking at it.”

I go quiet for a minute. He should have punished me for questioning him, but he gave me an out. He’ll let this go if I do, but I don’t want to let it go. I set the tablet back down on the desk and push it back at him.

“We both know that there’s far more than this, sir,” I say quietly, wishing he wasn’t standing close enough to hurt me. I’ve been hurt before, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been this interested in something.

He finally looks at me, shooting a glare at me like he’s trying to burn me with his eyes. I don’t back down.

“I’ve told you enough,” he replies, his voice restrained. I can see the way his shoulders tighten.

“You don’t tell me anything, master!” I contradict him like an idiot. “You don’t tell me anything about this big secret, you don’t tell me about half the work you do, you didn’t tell me where Bobby went or what your mother has to do with anything or why your image is so important! Your mother showed up out of nowhere and was really weird, and scary, and I saved your ass and I don’t even know what I saved it from! How am I supposed to work with you if you don’t tell me anything?”

He grabs me by the shoulders and pins me against the wall, his face hard and angry. “You don’t work
with
me. You work
for
me. You’re a slave, and don’t you dare forget that.”

“Then use me like a slave.”

He shakes me, once, and draws back his hand to hit me. At least, I think that’s what he’s going to do.

I close my eyes. Instead of feeling flesh striking flesh, I feel a hand cup behind my head and as I’m slammed against the wall again, my head is cushioned and I feel lips pressing against my own.

Chapter 23
Used

I’ve never understood the way that books and movies describe sudden kisses. They say that kisses happen “unexpectedly” or “out of nowhere,” but this one does really catch me by surprise. Maybe it shouldn’t have, because what else should I expect; I’m a sex slave, and I demanded that my master use me.

I’m in shock for all of a quarter of a second, wondering if my master really hit me hard enough to knock me out, and then I realize that’s not the case, and he’s actually kissing me, and
holy fuck
.

I waste no time before I start kissing him back, ignoring logical things like fear and common sense and focusing instead on the rough grip of his hand on the back of my head and the forceful, demanding pressure of his tongue as it invades my mouth. He’s hard and unrelenting, pressing his body up against mine, and I feel my cock starting to rise. It’s as hot as I ever imagined. And I’ve imagined it a
lot
of times.

Of course, it ends more quickly than my fantasies do, and he shoves himself away, staring at me with a mix of lust and horror. He doesn’t say anything, but the look says enough. I’ve see it enough times. The pity. The disgust. It’s the look that you give a washed-up whore who’s stupid enough to still have emotions left. It’s the look that you give a stupid boy who doesn’t have the common sense to know that his master would never dream of lowering himself by fucking such a washed-up whore, even if the washed-up whore is supposed to be a sex slave.

I feel rage and tears rising up where my hard-on used to be.

“You liked that,” he says, finally. He doesn’t sound happy about it.

“What did you think, master?” I snap, wishing it didn’t hurt that he’s looking at me like that. I wish he would have slapped me instead. “You know what you bought. A whore.”

“I didn’t think…” he stops, looking confused. “I was trying to scare you. Threaten you. You didn’t like it. Before, I mean. Bobby. Mr. Dean. You didn’t like what either of them did to you. I doubt you were enjoying yourself at that brothel, either. You don’t like people to touch you—you don’t even like when other people
look
at you for fuck’s sake.”

“I like it when
you
look at me, master,” I mumble, figuring I may as well come clean. He’s seen and felt enough of my “excitement” that I may as well. Shame be damned.

My master stands in front of me, glaring, for a few more minutes.

I wait for him to hit me, or yell at me, or walk away, or do something. He just stares into my eyes like I’m some kind of goddamned alien. At that moment, I don’t care that he’s my master and I’m being disrespectful, all I want is to get away from him. I turn to flee and he grabs me again, pinning me back against the wall and slamming his lips against mine again, longer this time, giving me enough time to fight back first before I give in and start kissing him back. I drop the tablet he shoved at me earlier, letting it hit the floor without a second thought, and my hands come up to clutch at his chest. I want to feel more of him, to prove that this is really happening.

He pulls away again, still pinning me to the wall like he’s afraid I’ll run away. His eyes are wide, but not disgusted this time. He seems pleased.

“You really liked it,” he says again, softly this time.

“Yes, master,” I whisper, afraid to move. I feel like speaking too loudly or moving might break the spell, and we’ll go back to not-touching.

“You have some sort of crush on me.”

I can’t tell if it’s a statement or a question. “You would have realized that if you had ever paid attention to me, master.”

“All I ever noticed was you being terrified of me,” he replies, not taking my bait. “That’s all the more I thought I needed to know.”

“I’m that, too, master.” I shrug. The two things aren’t mutually exclusive in my mind. I’m terrified of him
and
I have a crush on him. So what?

“You should be,” he says, less terrifying than any number of other things he’s said. He leans in and kisses me again, slower this time, until I feel myself starting to melt into him. I feel one of his hands move from my shoulder, where he has me pinned against the wall, and down my body. He doesn’t caress my skin so much as demand that it yield to him, laying claim to every inch as he moves down. He presses his hand between my legs, cupping against my cock and pressing in just the right places to make me whimper and want to beg for more. I settle on kissing him back.

He doesn’t pull away this time, he just migrates from my lips to my neck, biting hard enough that I know there will be a mark tomorrow. The thought appeals to me. My legs threaten to sag as he grinds against me, and I finally give in and clutch at his arms, steadying myself. I stare at the wall across from us, my vision blurring as the world shrinks to nothing but the dark shade of green paint on the wall and the way my master’s body feels pressed up against mine. Nothing else matters right now.

“I want to fuck you,” he growls in my ear.

It’s not sappy or romantic, but I’d never expect that from my master. I’d expect… this. I think I moan, I’m not really sure at this point.

He bites at my ear, the sharp pain focusing me for a minute and making me realize that I should probably say something.

“Please,” I reply, realizing that my eyes are closed and forcing them to open.

He pulls back a little, frowning at me. “Please what?”

“Please, master!” I correct myself instantly, horrified that I got so caught up as to forget. It’s sobering, but didn’t he just remind me a few minutes ago that I shouldn’t forget that I’m a slave? He scowls at me and shakes his head, worrying me even more.

“Sascha, I don’t care about
that
—please do what
to you
?” he clarifies. “Are you begging me to fuck you like I want to or to leave you alone? I can never fucking tell with you.”

“Oh,” I say, startled by his consideration. He has always been direct, though. “I, um, please fuck me, master?” In all my fantasies, I’m wantonly begging when I say this; right now, I kind of whimper it. Not exactly the mood I want to convey.

The hand on my cock presses harder, and I suddenly find myself gasping for breath.

“Is that a question?” he asks, half-rhetorically. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.

I shake my head, unable to speak. I want him so bad, but suddenly there’s not enough air to use to make words.

“Sascha, don’t try to be subtle. Neither one of us is any good at it,” he orders, looking me in the eyes. “Do you want to fuck or not?”

I fight the dryness in my mouth until words form. “Yes, master. I want you to fuck me. I do. I’ve wanted it for a long time.”

He holds me there for a few more seconds before releasing his grip.

“Go into my bedroom and wait for me.”

I nod, unable to tear my eyes away from him until I start walking. I go into his bedroom, standing next to the bed awkwardly. Do I dare to sit on it? No. I’m so shaken up that I don’t even have any idea if that would be okay, and I’m not quite sure what he wants from me, anyway. Actually, I have no idea why he ordered me to come in here while he stays out in the hallway or wherever he is. A part of me wonders if he just wants to make me more anxious, but I’m about to start hyperventilating, so his plan is probably going to backfire.

My questions are answered soon, as he comes in with two bottles of water.

“Strip,” he orders, casual and confident.

I move slowly, my hands and limbs not cooperating like I want them to. I’m scared, fuck it, I’m goddamned terrified, but I do want this. I think. I do want to do this, but I also want to run and hide, because everything is moving so fast, and what if I screw up, and what if I don’t please him? I have so many questions in my head, now that it’s actually happening, that I wish everything could just be as easy as it is in my fantasies. I can barely work the buttons on my shirt, although I’ve managed to get them all undone. Now to figure out how to take it off my body.

He comes up to me and rolls his eyes as he grabs the waistband of my pants and jerks me close.

“You always do take forever,” he growls in my ear, making me whimper.

The thing is, I can’t tell if it’s a good whimper or a bad whimper.

I don’t think about the sounds I’m making for much longer, though, because he’s unfastening my jeans with ease and jerking them down along with my boxers before I know what’s happening. The only other time he’s done this it was for punishment, and this feels so different that it seems like some sort of sacrilege to even compare them. The cool air and the fact that I’m nearly naked gets me turned on again, and I feel some of the anxiety starting to recede in the face of the excitement.

Once he’s shoved my pants down, he pushes me back onto the bed and I sit immediately, awed when he takes the pants from around my ankles and tosses them aside. He finishes by grabbing my shirt and yanking it off in one fluid movement. I’m speechless and hard. Could he really be as eager to get this started as I am? I didn’t know it was possible.

I yelp as I feel his hand encircle my cock, and my eyes fly up to meet his. He’s grinning, a predatory look that should be scary but is also so fucking sexy that I have to catch my breath. I want to say something, but I can’t speak. I settle for breathing, because if I don’t, I might pass out.

“Lie back,” he orders, stroking my cock.

I do, staring up at the ceiling and wondering if this is all some sort of strange dream. His hand feels so good, and his other hand is resting lightly on my leg, and all of a sudden I feel him shift positions and then my cock is in his mouth and I yelp again. It feels wonderful, being sucked like this, but it’s so wrong, so different than I ever expected. I start to sit up, horrified that he’s the one sucking my cock instead of the other way around. It feels amazing, but I’m supposed to be the slave, and he’s supposed to be the master, and everything is just too good to believe, so I guess I feel like I have at least try to fuck it up.

“Sir, you don’t have to—”

“I told you to lie back, and
I
will be deciding what I do with you.” His words are blunt and harsh, as usual, but the usual coldness is replaced by a sort of teasing tone. He’s still the one in control, here.

I lie back.

His lips wrap immediately around my cock again, and I try to push away the uncomfortable feeling. If anything, his insistence makes it better, because I know that this is what he wants, and I guess I shouldn’t protest. I do protest, a few moments later, when I feel him pull off of my cock. I whine and crane my neck to look at him, eager for him to continue.

“You are enjoying this, I assume?” he asks, that teasing tone still there.

“Mm hmm,” I manage, moaning and twisting my hips up in hopes of more. My wish is quickly granted.

He treats me to the most wonderful blowjob. I don’t know what I did to deserve this, because he always acts like I annoy him, but if that’s the case, I should start annoying him more. He does things with his mouth that I didn’t even learn during two years of slave training. When he lent me out, his boss went down on me, but it wasn’t like this. My master seems to do some sort of acrobatics with his tongue, and he’s putting pressure in just the right places, and sucking just enough, and he’s using his hands to stroke and touch around my cock and balls and ass and the more I think about it, the more I want him inside me.

He toys with me for a while, making me moan and squirm, and finally I feel myself starting to get close, wishing I could let go.

“Please, master,” I whimper, appalled by how pathetic and desperate I sound. Still, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

He pulls away, and it’s all I can do not to grab him by the hair and tug him back down. It’s really nice to not be hurt, though.

“I’m enjoying you,” he informs me, his voice all low and sultry and content.

If he was still going down on me, those words would have sent me over the edge, training or not.

“I can see that you’re enjoying me, too,” he continues. He presses his fingers against my ass. “Do you still want to fuck?”