Break Me (Enslaved #2)

19 EMMA

With the muzzle comes a new routine. Dax starts bringing me to his office almost every day, making me wear it as he works. I even get to stay there while he has women on his table, and he lets me comfort them with my touch as he waxes them, gives them enemas, piercings, tattoos, contraceptive implants, and tends to wounds and broken bones. He even asks me to assist sometimes, making me stand at his side and hand him various implements as he asks for them, and he teaches me how to clean new piercings and tattoos, so I can do it on my own while he retreats to his desk.

It’s scary how quickly I grow accustomed to both the muzzle and seeing the things Dax does to the unwilling women. With each passing day, it bothers me less and less. As I sink deeper into my new routine and lose track of the weeks, I realize that it rarely bothers me anymore. If anything, I find purpose in being in there with him, providing some comfort to the women in a situation where they wouldn’t be given any if it wasn’t for me. Without me there, they would only have pain and suffering, but I can ease that pain, and that seems to be more than enough for me.

Sometimes, I remember the world I came from, and disgust wells inside me for what I’m partaking in. But then I turn my attention to Dax, his magnetic power and compelling authority, and I remember why I’m here. To submit to him. With that thought at the front of my mind, the rest of the world and its many morals don’t matter as much.

The guilt, I can somehow handle. But what is much harder for me to cope with is the jealousy. It prickles in my skin whenever Dax aims his focus at another woman. I want to be the very center of his attention, and sometimes, I even find myself wanting to be the victim of the pain he delivers just to be the only one he sees.

But as I notice the way he actually sees the women on his table, the jealousy becomes easier to handle. Because Dax doesn’t see a person when he’s working. He sees a thing that he needs to perform a task on. His gaze is always detached, his expression impassive and uncaring. There’s no concern for the well-being of the women on his table—no effort to ease their pain or attempts to give them pleasure. It’s the complete opposite of when he lifts me onto the same table at the end of a day. His expression is full of life as he straps me down, and his eyes burn as he demands my full attention while he pulls out the plug in my ass—which he makes me wear more and more frequently—and replaces it with a narrow vibrator. Then he makes me come repeatedly as he fucks me with it while rubbing my clit.

“I can’t wait until you’re ready to take me down here,” he often says, but even as the dildos grow bigger over time, he doesn’t fuck me. It’s disappointing, to say the least, but I’m also grateful, knowing how big his cock is. I’m not even sure he could fit in my pussy, and getting him inside my ass would split me apart.

But he doesn’t let me go without the feeling of his cock. He’ll often let me suck him off until he comes in my mouth or over my face. One day, he even jerks off in front of me and comes in the water bowl he keeps for me in his office, then orders me to lap it all up.

Seeing the stark contrasts, I can handle the jealousy for the most part. But one day, when he’s shoving toys up a girl’s ass to train her like he does me, it becomes too much.

Gluing my eyes to the floor, I try to shut the scenario out, but her moans echo in the room. It doesn’t matter that she’s also whimpering “stop” and “no.” The jealousy itches with each unwilling moan. I want to cover my ears and hide my face, but I can’t disobey Dax. All I can do is sit there on my knees with my hands pressed to my thighs, growing more tense with each second.

“Are you jealous, my sweet sub?”

Dax’s voice makes me lift my head. He’s smirking, seeming amused, and it almost hurts as much as seeing him toy with another girl. So I shake my head.

A deep scowl knits his brows as he gets up from his stool and discards his gloves, attention honing on me as he approaches.

“Are you jealous?” he repeats in a stern voice as he crouches in front of me and grabs my jaw.

Lowering my eyes, I nod my head. Because there’s no way I can lie to him when he’s boring his command into me like that. If my mouth was free, I’d ask him if I could wait in the hall. He sometimes sends me out there to wait when doing something particularly severe that he doesn’t want me to witness. I kind of hate being out there, away from him, but anything is better than this gnawing feeling.

I feel him studying me closely for a moment before saying, “I like her struggle. It makes me hard. But it’s not her lips I imagine around my cock.” He slides his warm hand onto my thigh. “Do you know whose lips I want around my cock?”

My eyes dart up, wide and hopeful. I give a slight shake of my head.

“Let me show you.” Getting up, he holds a hand out to me, oddly gentlemanly for his brusque appearance.

I take it and let him lead me toward the table and the woman. I try to stop a couple of feet away, but he guides me straight up to the table, between the stirrups, and orders me to kneel.

“Take out my cock,” he says, pushing the stool away to stand in front of me.

I tentatively reach up to open his jeans and take out his massive length. It’s already rock-hard, and I have to remind myself of his words as I start stroking it. It might be the struggles of the woman on the table that did this, but it’s not her that he wants.

He removes the muzzle and sets it aside. “Take me in your mouth.”

The taste and the feeling are exquisite as I open my mouth wide and take him in. I eagerly suck and lick as I fall into the rhythm I’ve grown quite used to and more than comfortable with.

I barely notice the sound of latex snapping into place as he gets ready to proceed with the girl, but once a new moan rings into the room, I tense again. Not as much as before, but enough for Dax to notice.

Taking a step back, he pulls out of my mouth. “Would you prefer it if she didn’t like it at all?”

Unable to think about anything but the gnawing jealousy, I nod. And all I feel as he retrieves a leather-bound cane is relief.

The woman on the table doesn’t moan again from there on as Dax starts whipping her while continuing to work on her ass. However, her screaming grows a lot worse. Shrill and agonized. But I don’t care. I must have gotten used to it. Or maybe it’s that I’m too focused on pleasing Dax to consider the hell she’s going through. It doesn’t matter. Especially not when Dax comes in my mouth with a loud groan and asks me to lick up every last drop of his cum. Then he puts the muzzle back in place and lets me cuddle up against his legs while he finishes.

***

“Let’s go get you a warm bath,” Dax says as he tosses his gloves aside and helps me off the floor. “You did good today and deserve a reward.” He doesn’t cast a single glance at the woman in the chair as he guides me out of the room, but I do. The look on her face is utter defeat. Her eyes gleam with tears, her hairline is sticky with sweat, and her expression is empty—hollow. Her breasts and stomach are covered in swollen red welts, some of which are bleeding.

A strange mix of guilt, pity, and a twinge of fascination mix inside me. Those marks look painful, and I hate that I caused her all that pain, but most of all, I can’t help but wonder how I would feel if Dax did that to me. Would I be able to handle the pain for him? Would I feel proud for carrying his marks like that? And would he even do such a thing to me?

I want to ask Dax that last question, but he doesn’t remove the muzzle until he has washed my body in the hot water of the tub and is about to wash my hair. By then, I’m drifting in a peaceful world and have forgotten all about it.

I’m sleepy and relaxed when he herds me into the hall to take me back to my cell for the night.

He’s about to shut the door when he says, “I forgot the muzzle,” and goes back inside.

The door falls shut behind him, and quietness descends over the empty hallway. But it’s not completely silent as a sound like music drifts through the air. Singing, I think . The faint sound of a woman’s voice. But unlike all the other women here, she doesn’t sound desperate or like she’s in pain. She sounds calm. I’ve never heard or seen signs of any other women in this particular corridor before. It always seems quieter here, and I was under the impression that the cells here were unoccupied, but I must have been wrong.

Listening carefully, I take a couple of steps toward the sound that seems to come from one of the cells across the hall. She is singing. And not just singing like a regular person trying to pass the time or humming along to a song stuck in their head. This woman knows how to use her voice. The notes soar through the air with the ease of a bird born to sing.

“Let’s go,” Dax says, grabbing my arm as he comes back out.

I’m of half a mind to dig my heels in or jerk free and run toward the sound, but I want his praise more than I want the music, so I stay at his side.

But the curiosity keeps prickling, and I can’t hold my tongue when we get to my cell. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Who’s the woman in that cell close to the bathing room? The one who sang.”

He seems to think for a moment, then remembers. “Oh, the girl in cell one. I have no idea. Some little project of Dorin’s—the big guy with a scar across his face.” He draws a finger across his left cheek, and I shudder at the thought of the man I’ve seen with such a scar. He’s enormous. Even taller than Dax and just as brawny. And the look in his eyes isn’t just detached like Dax’s can be. It’s dead.

“What kind of project?” I ask, gulping.

“I don’t know. He won’t let anyone near her except the guards who bring her food and give her bathroom breaks.”

“Bathroom breaks?” I glance at the toilet and the sink in the corner of my cell.

“He keeps her in a padded cell. God knows why. He must have fucked her up good when he brought her in. Honestly, I’m starting to wonder why he hasn’t gotten rid of her yet. She’s been in there at least a week.”

“Why would he get rid of her?”

“The girls who go in the padded cells usually go there for a reason. If they don’t get better within a few days, it usually means they won’t recover. So either we sell them for a cheap price or get rid of them.”

“Get rid of them how?”

“Questioning time is over.” Dax pushes me onto the mattress and leans down to inspect the piercings like he does every day. “I think it’s time to close these up. It’s been ten weeks and they’re healing nicely.”

“Ten weeks,” I parrot with shock. “That means…” I can’t even finish the sentence. I had already been here for two weeks when I got the piercings. So that means three months. Three months within these barren walls. Without the sun. Without people who aren’t miserable or oppressive. Without music. Three months without color, life, and idle chatter.

“What’s that thought?” Dax asks, nudging my head toward him as I stare off into the distance.

“I’m just tired,” I say, forcing the shock away. But Dax reads me as always.

“You’ve been here for three months. Is that it?”

Swallowing hard, I nod. It takes me a moment to decide whether to expand, but I need to get it out, so I say, “I miss it out there. The little things. Like music. Company.”

“This is part of your training. No distractions to take your mind off what matters.” He lifts his brows to punctuate the importance of his next words. “Submitting to me.”

I swallow back the knot forming in my throat and force the memory of the sun and the sound of happy people away.

“Now, get some rest,” he says, pulling the blanket over me. “It’s been a long day.”