Chapter 45
The Puppet Master
Jenna
Playing for Killian becomes part of my weekly routine.
It’s not planned like the weekly BDSM play with him; it always happens on a whim.
He’ll join us for dinner, ask what I’m working on, ask Ian about my technique, and discuss my performance on the pieces he’s already heard.
It’s heady sitting there, listening to them talk about my playing, praising and critiquing me, deciding which new exercises to add to my daily warm-up routine.
I don’t get a say in the conversations, and I don’t want one.
I just want to float in their control—be theirs.
Some nights after eating with Ian and me, Killian demands that I come upstairs and play for him, and some nights, he simply leaves with a reminder to use my arm weight, or whatever has been the focus of their conversation.
Other nights, they’ll talk about the pieces Killian is working on, discuss composition, or even talk about Ian’s trading.
Although I’m rarely part of the conversation, I feel like I belong.
Killian has even taken to rubbing my thigh absentmindedly or draping his arm over the back of my chair.
Still, he never hugs me or becomes purposefully affectionate, but the change is clear, giving me hope and making me flourish.
For the first time in my life, I feel like I can truly breathe.
I find myself smiling spontaneously at little things, laughing more, and even singing in the kitchen when I’m helping Ian cook dinner and he lets me pick the music.
My piano playing is also rapidly improving―by the day.
Having two teachers creates high expectations, but instead of weighing me down, it motivates me to work even harder.
I spend so much time at the beautiful Steinway in the music room that Ian often has to settle for playing at the upright piano in the living room.
I feel a little bad about it, but when I suggest that I take the upright, he always refuses and sends me back to the Steinway with a sharp command.
Even my creativity flows in new directions.
I’ve never been one to experiment much on the piano, but suddenly I find myself coming up with little pieces of melody, adding onto them, expanding, and composing, until I finally have a whole piece.
Feeling uncertain about the new endeavor, I only work on it when Ian is out or playing himself, and I’m especially careful not to play when I think Killian can hear, knowing he’d only mock me.
Alongside all my various piano projects, I keep working on “Die Moldau,” and Ian makes me practice with Killian on a weekly basis, polishing and perfecting the music.
“You two are going to win the competition,” he says one day, matter-of-factly, when we’ve played the whole piece in its entirety.
“Really?” I beam up at him, almost bouncing from the surge of excitement—the idea of a golden trophy. The idea of achieving it alongside Killian doesn’t even bother me; if anything, it feels like it’s just the way it’s supposed to be. I don’t have to beat him to get it; we’re in this together.
“Of course,” Killian says, as if it’s a dumb question. Then he smacks a kiss on top of my head and leaves.
Not the type to linger on praise and flattery when working at the piano, Ian waves me off the bench. “Time for a break. You’ll be playing again tonight.”
Getting up, I frown. “I thought I was going upstairs tonight—to play. I mean, not the piano.”
“You are,” he simply says, nudging me toward the door. “Go eat. There are leftovers in the fridge. Then come to the bedroom. Seven o’clock on the dot.”
Anticipation and nerves dance and twist inside me while I go eat and spend a while reading on the couch—or trying to. The words barely register, my mind too busy considering what is coming.
When I enter the bedroom, seven on the dot, Ian is rolling up the sleeves of his button up shirt, wearing an expression that’s all business.
I pause, gathering my hands in front of me, my breath already quickening. Ian always sends me upstairs at eight, but I have a feeling it’s already starting—that he’s doing something to me first.
“Strip―all your clothes―fold them neatly, and put them on the bed.”
With slow movements, I remove one item at a time and put it away in a neat pile. All the while, Ian just stands there, arms crossed over his wide chest, staring me down with cool authority.
Once all my clothes are neatly folded on the bed, Ian points at the floor. “On all fours and crawl to the bathroom.”
He follows hot on my heel, his looming power going to my head and stirring my submission as I crawl before him, into the bathroom.
“Stop,” he orders when I’m on the soft mat.
I halt, on all fours.
Stepping over me, facing my ass, he cages me in between his legs, pressing them into my waist so I can’t move back or forward—trapped. I strain to see what’s going on when he rummages with something, but I all I can see is the counter and his tall frame.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a thin voice when he smears a generous amount of lube onto my opening.
He doesn’t answer, just proceeds to spread my ass cheeks with one hand and press something against my rear opening. It’s thin and firm, easily sliding into my ass, a bigger part connecting with my cheeks.
I realize what it is just before the water starts flowing.
Killian has done this to me several times, but I never get used to the utter humiliation of having my bowels flushed.
And now, having Ian doing it adds a whole new layer of degradation.
Panting, I squirm to get free, but the lock of Ian’s legs is inescapable.
“No, no, no,” I start squealing, utterly overcome by the shock and the wrongness of the feeling of water flowing into my ass, filling my belly.
“Be still,” Ian orders, smacking my ass.
I slump in the grip of his legs, accepting defeat, shuddering from the loss of my dignity.
But when he continues, slipping the syringe into my ass a second time, I find that I don’t need my dignity.
With Ian, I don’t need anything—only his quiet, unwavering authority.
It crackles in the air, hot and demanding, chasing away my thoughts, taking over everything.
My fingers claw against the mat, my breath coming in sharp gusts as he empties the second syringe, and then a third, into my belly. When he’s done, I’m panting with the effort of holding the water in, groaning from the deep discomfort expanding my belly.
Unmerciful in his command, he steps aside and orders, “On your knees. Not a single drop spills from your ass or you’re getting a fourth syringe.”
With slow, careful motions, I reposition to sit back on my heels, facing him.
I gasp at the sight of him already having freed his cock, pumping it with firm motions.
I want to protest when he aims it at my head, but all I can do is focus on clenching my ass, holding the water inside.
I shut my eyes tight to avoid getting cum in them.
It takes me away from him, and the humiliation starts to coil tight and tense in my already aching stomach.
“Jenna, who do you belong to?” he asks in a tight voice that reveals he’s close to the edge.
“You,” I say, his words loosening the knots, leaving only the discomfort he has created—the pressing water.
“And…” he presses.
“And Killian.” The words bring me back on track, back into the fluffy submission where the humiliation doesn’t hurt—where it turns into a hot, swirling desire.
“Good. Now open your mouth and lean your head back. Taste my cum, so you remember who you also belong to when I send you upstairs.”
I drop my head back and let my mouth fall open, and just as I do, hot cum shoots onto my face, into my mouth, and down my neck and chest. I whimper and pant, overcome by Ian’s possessive claim, the sticky sensation and salty taste of cum, and the throbbing pain as I keep clenching my butt.
Ian makes quick work of drying my eyes, then lifts me by my arms and backs me up to lower me onto the open toilet.
“Good girl,” he croons. “You may swallow my cum. But don’t remove any on your face and chest. I want you to feel who you belong to—what you do to me—while you sit here and spill the water I pumped into you.”
Peeling my eyes open, I meet his deep stare, full of possession and affection. It melts me into a puddle, and when he leaves the room, I drift in a quiet space while letting my body spill the water Ian pumped into me.
He returns when I flush the toilet. Stark naked, he brings me into the shower and takes his time washing me, roaming his hands all over my body, soft and soothing.
When he takes me out and dries me off, my knees are weak, my mind clouded, and my whole body pliant, easily bent to his will.
I’ve never felt as cared for as I do in Ian’s capable hands.
He even dries my hair with the blow dryer and brushes it.
To finish, he grabs a sharpie and sinks to his haunches behind me to write on my back.
“What does it say?” I ask when he gets up.
He turns me by the upper arms and kisses my forehead. “That you’re ready.”
“For what?”
“You’ll see.” Taking me by the hand, he leads me out of the bathroom.
“What about clothes?” I ask as I walk beside him down the hall, feeling like a little girl being led along by the principal—nervous, yet very safe under his steady guidance.
“Not tonight.”
“Oh,” I simply say, unable to consider how I feel about going upstairs already undressed.
In the entryway, Ian grabs my arms again, and a serious expression descends over his face. “Killian is going to push you tonight. Do not fight it. He knows what he’s doing, and if anything goes wrong, I’m right here; I’ll be with you in seconds.”
The gravity in his voice has me swallowing hard even before my muddled brain can register the meaning of his words.
“Do you understand?” he presses.
I nod. “What is he going to do?”
“That’s not for me to reveal.” He leans down to kiss me. “Now be a good girl, go upstairs, and do whatever Killian says.”
Closing my eyes, I draw a steadying breath, then go to the stairs. I pause on the first step and turn to Ian, casting him an uncertain look.
“I’m right here,” he assures.
Pushing a long breath through rounded lips, I steel myself.
Then I nod and begin ascending the stairs.
It seems to take forever to reach the top, my legs slow, my mind the same.
I blink to sharpen my blurry focus when I step onto the landing and see Killian towering at the door to the music room, dressed in a crisp white shirt, charcoal dress pants, and black leather shoes.
Arms crossed over his chest, he watches me with uncompromising authority, a mirror image of the man I just left, only younger, less caring in his way of exerting his command.
While I wait under his scrutinizing gaze, I grow hyper-aware of my stark vulnerability—my nakedness, my already weakened coordination, and the hollow sensation from having my stomach flushed out.
I hug my arms over my chest, shrinking a little.
But it’s not just to hide. I want to become even smaller because there’s no room to stand up straight in Killian’s mighty presence—I don’t have the willpower to do so in my submissive state.
I want to fall to my knees, crash even deeper, and press my forehead to his shoes—let his dominance consume my whole being.
But when Killian steps aside and I see what’s waiting for me in the room, I freeze. Pressing my hands to my cheeks, I shake my head frantically. All Ian’s reassurances disappear with a sharp gust of air, icy chills cascading down my spine.
Killian grabs my arm. I expect him to force me forward, but he simply turns me around, inspecting me. I can hear the wicked smile in his voice when he sees my back and the words Ian scribbled there. “This ass is already nice and clean,” he reads, trailing a finger over the letters.
Gripping both my arms, he turns me to face him, and his authoritative expression brings me back toward that soft space despite the growing anxiety.
“Then we can get right to it,” he says, but instead of steering me on, he takes his time studying me, reading every nuance of anxiety and desire. “You’re gonna do as I say, aren’t you, Jenna?”
His words push all the right buttons, stirring that instinctive desire to do just that.
I nod. Of course, I want to say, but the memory of what happened the last time he put me on that bench snuffs out the words.
“What if…” I close my eyes and push a shuddery breath through rounded lips.
“What if the same thing happens as the last time?”
“It won’t.”
“How do you know?”
He leans close to my ear, his hot breath tickling the sensitive spot.
“Because you, little Jenna, are my new instrument. I’ve spent months learning how to master you.
I know exactly which buttons to push to make you balance on that fine line between panic and desire.
And that’s where you’ll be tonight. My little puppet on a string.
” He trails his knuckles over my cheek, down my neck, and my collarbone.
I shudder beneath his touch, sinking deeper, feeling my brain already shifting, growing pliant even at the thought of that horrible thing awaiting me.
The piano bench with the protruding phallus.