Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
RHYLEE
Master Jason drags me under the warm water, bringing another moan to my lips. It feels so good as it runs over my sore muscles. He takes a moment to rub my shoulders, bringing an awareness to his touch on my bare skin.
After a few moments, however, he turns me back to the crowd. I was correct. Some sit there, their hands jerking up and down on their stiff cocks. Others have a submissive serving them in various ways—males receiving blow jobs from both females and other males, other males and females lapping at their mistresses’ pussies. It’s practically an orgy in front of me.
The scent of sex hangs in the air, making my own pussy spasm. Try as I might, I find I can’t draw my eyes away from the scene. I long to bring my fingers lower, to give myself the release that’s been so cruelly denied me, but I know if I do so, Master Jason will make this ache far worse.
Soon, another scent, that of soap, reaches my nose. With methodical strokes, my master washes my body. Even when we spent the night together and showered the next day, he never cleaned me. There’s something so possessive, so primal, about the way he touches me, owns me.
I melt into him, remaining limp as he moves me about. Once he rinses me off, he bends me back over. This time, he angles the shower head so it pounds against my lower back, the water running over my upturned ass and across my lower lips. The sensation of flowing water trickling over my clit draws a needy moan from my lips.
His fingers are soon there, cleansing my most intimate parts. He starts by shoving his fingers deep inside my pussy, forcing me to cry out as my inner walls clamp around his digits. Pumping them in and out, he curls them deep inside me, pressing against that spot that makes my eyes cross.
My orgasm hovers as my body quivers beneath his ministrations. “Remember,” he growls, “your orgasms are mine. You are not allowed to come until I say so.”
“Yes, Master,” I cry out, my body screaming for release.
But he pulls out before I reach the point of no return. However, before I can so much as sigh in relief, those fingers are at my back entrance. Though we’ve done our fair share of anal play, I still tense in anticipation. Will it be just his fingers? Will it be a plug? Or, since we’re now married, will he take that bottom hole for the first time with his cock?
As if he can read my mind, he rocks in and out, stretching his fingers to widen my hole. “Do you know how badly I want to fuck you here? To take this tight little hole? Well, don’t worry, my pet. That won’t happen tonight. I have other plans for you.”
Pulling out, I listen as he lathers up some soap and cleanses his hands. Once he’s satisfied with our state of cleanliness, he stands me upright. Off to the side, a club submissive stands there waiting with a set of towels.
I go to pluck one from her grasp, but Master Jason stops me. “Oh, no you don’t. I know what you’re thinking, and no towel is going to conceal you. Not tonight.”
He leaves me standing there while he dries off before taking the other towel and running it over my body. Each touch burns like a brand, reminding me of just how needy I am. His touch shouldn’t feel so damned good; and yet I sway forward, desperate for more of it.
“Stay here. I’m going to get my costume ready.”
My nose wrinkles as I frown in thought. “Costume? I thought husband and wife were our costumes.”
His dark laugh sends skitters down my spine as he turns to the audience. “Make sure she doesn’t go anywhere, will ya?” They chuckle for a moment before turning their gaze fully on me.
There’s nowhere to go. No escape. And honestly, I wouldn't want it any other way.
After what feels like an eternity, he returns. A blood-red apron covers his nakedness and a mask with bars covers the lower half of his face. He looks ruthless, ferocious, drawing slick in between my thighs.
Tsking softly, he shakes his head. “I just cleaned you up, you dirty, dirty girl.” His admonishment only makes the arousal more prominent, until it’s practically dripping.
To break the tension, I look him up and down once more. “So, you’re a chef? But you’re already one in real life. How is this any different? I mean, you have a mask, but…”
Through the mask, I can see his lips curl up, revealing his teeth. He leans over, his breath stirring the damp hair at my temple. The name he whispers makes my blood run cold as my body heats up.
“You mean the cannibal from that movie?”
“One and the same.”
My body trembles as I graze my breasts. “Does this mean you’re going to eat me?”
“Oh yes, baby. I’m going to fucking eat you up until there’s nothing left.”
Leading me over to the massage table, I note the plastic on it. Granted, it’s probably for sanitary reasons, but it still drives a frisson of unease through my gut. Master Jason scoops me into his arms and lays me down.
“From this moment on, you’re my prep station and table. Inanimate objects do not move, they do not make a sound. I’ll allow you to breathe, but that’s it.” He notes the hesitancy in my gaze and grins. “I may be your husband now, but I’m going to degrade you like the dirty little cum slut you are.”
My body burns at his words, arousal firing up my brain until I can no longer think straight. Hovering over, he runs his fingers down my cheek, his soft touch belying the harsh words that make me burn.
“No matter what I do, you cannot move. Not so much as a twitch. To remind you of your place, I’ll anchor you down.”
I long to look over at him, to see what he has planned, but an object doesn’t move. Until he releases me, that’s all I am. There’s a sense of peace that flows through me at that thought. I can just be.
That is until I hear the snap of his gloves. There’s something so cold, so clinical about that sound. I long to shudder but hold myself rigid. The rubbery texture of the gloves drags across my skin as he skims his fingers down my stomach and onto my thighs.
Remaining limp, I allow him to spread me open as wide as the table will allow. Thick leather bands encircle my ankles as he buckles me down. Next, he does the same with my arms, pinning me to the plush table beneath.
Granted, I’ve been strapped down like this before, but not for this purpose. Holding my breath, I listen, straining to hear what he's doing next. His fingers brush my bottom hole, smearing lube against the puckered skin.
“This anal hook will keep you from moving about too much.”
The freezing stainless steel ball rests against my skin. God, but the anticipation drives me nearly feral with need. With agonizing slowness, he pushes it in, stretching me open until the heavy ball rests inside me. Once he attaches it to the table, he takes the gloves off with another terrifying snap.
“Now, then, you will observe I only cook with clean utensils and counter spaces.” I close my eyes, listening to his voice as I force myself to remain still. “I have received your requests and will now slice up the fruit for today’s snack.”
Slice? On me? My insides quiver as fear permeates the air. Though he never addresses me directly, I feel the pressure of his hand on my breastbone. Seconds tick by, and he doesn’t remove it until my breathing is back under control.
Master Jason would never harm me. I know this. I know this like I know my own body. Sinking down into the table, I turn my thoughts to the touch of his fingers as he lays the fruit out on my stomach.
Since being his sous chef, I’ve been working with him on my cutting technique. I don’t have to see him to know exactly what he’s doing. Right now, he’s probably holding the blade up to the light, checking for any nicks or scratches, anything that might impede his job.
This knife must have passed inspection because soon it rests against my skin next to the fruit. No one says a word. Even the music is quiet, so faint I almost can’t hear it over the sound of my pulse thudding in my ears.
What he’s doing, though kinky as fuck, is also dangerous. They know it, he knows it, and I know it. I’m grateful for their silence, allowing him the space to concentrate on what he’s about to do.
Dragging a piece of fruit across my skin, he holds it there, pausing for just a moment. Then he grabs the knife. He must be angling it down, because the tip grazes me, sending the sensation of the scratch into my brain, firing me up.
It doesn’t matter that I logically know he won’t harm me with it. It doesn’t matter that I know blood and food don't mix. All that matters is my body is on high alert, convinced he’s slicing into me.
I hold my breath as he lifts it from my skin; and unless I’m just going crazy, it feels as if everyone else does too.
The first slice. I know it’s coming. I feel the energy in his hand as he holds the fruit steady. From the scents wafting on the air, he has strawberries resting on my body. Not anything all that huge. One little mistake, one misjudgment, and he can cut right into me.
But honestly, it’s what I love about him, what sends exhilaration through my veins. If it were anyone else doing this to me, I wouldn’t trust them. But I’ve seen Master Jason work. I’ve watched him as his blade zipped through the air with practiced precision. He’s the only man I trust to wield such a dangerous weapon around me.
Yet, the very idea of being his cutting board makes me uneasy. It’s not that I doubt his skill. I doubt I’ll be able to stay still enough to keep his hand steady. There are so many factors that rest on me it makes me nearly queasy.
“Meatloaf” hovers on my tongue, and I know he’ll never shame me for using it. In fact, he’d be far angrier if I don’t use it when I need to. And so, I struggle within myself, debating how much I trust him versus how much I trust my body.
He gives me ample time before bringing the knife down, as if he senses my struggle. But as I remain silent, he makes the first cut. The sound of the knife going through the flesh of the strawberry rings out in my ears as loud as a thunder crack. Time stands still.
The knife grazes against my skin, but I don’t feel the searing pain I’m expecting. Letting go of my breath in a loud whoosh, I sag against the table, feeling almost faint. As I relax, he cuts far more vigorously, mirroring the techniques he uses in the kitchen.
Soon, wet, sticky juice drips down my side and onto the plastic. I can’t even count how many strawberries he’s cut so far. Every so often, he clears them from my body and moves them somewhere else, only to start all over again.
I lose all sense of time as I drift, unable to keep myself coherent. After a while, I’m vaguely aware of plastic being laid down on top of me. It covers me from just below my breasts to my neck.
“Now, I know many of you have asked me how to maintain such a magnificent cutting board. Normally, for wooden ones, I suggest oil and wax every two months. However, for omega cutting boards, a decent amount of cum should do the trick. I’ve laid plastic down, dividing off the upper part so you can see the difference between cum soaked and not.” His tone takes on a tinge of humor as he continues. “This will also allow you to eat fruit straight off of the table without fear of body fluids.”
Master Jason pays me no mind as his grunts fill the air. But then, why would he? I’m just an object, a piece of furniture for his use. His little cum slut. For some, that might be the most horrible thing in the world; however, for me, it’s a chance to shut everything down, to blank out my mind, and just feel.