14. Magnus
W hen I get back to the house, I’m more than wound up. I need an outlet, I need a way to vent, and luckily, I have just that down in the basement.
She screams as I drag her out. I’m not gentle. If she had any hair I’d be pulling her along by it. It’s almost a shame that I did shave her, but needs must, and taking such steps was necessary for the psychological effect, if nothing else.
She stares up at me as I plonk her down in the middle of my playroom, though it resembles more of a medieval dungeon with all the torture devices I have.
For a second, our eyes connect and I’d love to know what she’s thinking, what that determined little mind of hers is plotting. I know she still thinks she can beat me, I can see it in the defiant way she acts.
I hope that lasts.
And I want it to.
I want to keep fighting, to keep pushing, to truly indulge in every little fucked up thing I can think of before she finally cracks.
As I grab her right arm, she lashes out. One hard punch that hits me in my ribs. But it makes no difference. She’s strung up, stretched, spread eagled on rack, with every inch of her on perfect display. In truth, I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as a woman’s body when it’s displayed like this. No art in the world, no fine jewellery, nothing compares to the magnificence of a woman forced to comply.
I made an adjustment to the original design so that there’s a bracket to hold the head upright, and, as Liliana stares right back at me, I know it was a genius move.
Too many of my past toys have ducked their faces, dropped their gaze, drifted off when they’re exhausted or their shame has taken them.
Liliana will be permitted no such mercy.
No, I’ll get to witness every moment of her pain, of her ecstasy, of her emotions too, as she’s forced to watch what I do to her from the giant mirror on the opposite wall.
With my hands, I run them down both her thighs. Already I can feel the way she’s turning to softness and while I like the idea of her being pliable, I do wonder how much I’ll miss her strength when it’s finally gone.
With one firm push, I wedge the toy inside her.
She gasps, giving me a delicious hit of her shock before her face turns once more to stone.
She’s tough, I’ll give her that. Tough. Stubborn. Absolutely perfect .
A quick tap of the control makes the egg come to life. The ropes creak as her body responds, but it’s only a low vibration, enough to tease, not to satisfy.
Yesterday, she had the audacity to think she could deny me an orgasm.
Today, she’ll be learning that she isn’t permitted such a decision.
She’ll come when I decide. She’ll come as many times as I choose.
I’ll make her body submit over and over to her shame and eventually she will get the message that I am her master. I am her everything.
I move to stand behind her, marvelling at how well we fit, how our bodies seem made for one another. Destined for one another. With a raise of my hand and a sharp flick, I bring the leather whip down onto her back.
And she hisses.
Oh, how she hisses.
“I gave you orders, pet.” I say calmly. “I told you exactly how you were to greet me when I entered your cell. That you were to be ready for me, and yet, so far, you’ve not obeyed once.”
No, the little minx was curled up, half asleep when I walked in. Even when I’d cleared my throat and made my presence known, she’d made no attempt to move, no attempt to do as she was told.
Through the mirror, our eyes connect and I can see that defiance flashing in her brown irises. Did she really think I would let it slide? Did she really think my words were empty, that they meant nothing?
I bring the whip down again. I slice it across her skin and, as the flesh erupts into tiny welts, I flick the button, just for a moment to increase the tempo of the toy.
She moans. Not a sound of joy. A pleading, guttural sound that dies as quickly as it leaves her lips .
She’s got her jaw clenched so tightly. She’s gritting her teeth so hard I wonder if they’re not smashing. But she won’t deny me my chorus. No, she’ll sing for me. She’ll sing loud enough that the entire house all hears her.
I strut back to the far wall, the one where all my instruments hang in a neatly, organised display, and I pull off the gag from its hook. As I walk back up to her, I take a moment to enjoy the scene before me. To feel her breasts, to pinch her nipples and slap them hard enough that my hands leave a nice print behind.
It’s not easy to pry her mouth open. She fights, trying to thrash her head, but the bracket keeps her right where I want her and in the end, I pinch her nose, half suffocating her before she finally gasps her submission.
Two seconds is all it takes to shove the thing behind her teeth and then I fix the strap behind her head to ensure she can’t simply spit it back out. While an ordinary gag is designed to keep a mouth silent, to stifle the words and cries of a captive, this one does the exact opposite.
It prevents her from shutting her mouth. It prevents her from biting her tongue too. Every delicious breath she takes, every cry, every moan is amplified now and will become a battleground that she has to fight through.
And every noise I draw out will be a victory I claim.
When I look back at her, she keeps her gaze fixed ahead and I know what she’s staring at. That it’s her own image now haunting her.
So I return to my position, I raise the whip and once more bring it down on her back.
Only I’m met with silence. Still, she defies me.
I draw myself up, straighten my arm, and punish her further.
Over and over I strike. And eventually, my efforts are rewarded by a whimper. One tiny hint of pain.
“You will scream.” I snarl, feeling sweat covering my own brow. “You will scream, and you will cry, and you will beg. ”
With every lash I delve out, I hit that button, mixing the pain with the pleasure, fucking with her senses more. I can see the tears streaking down her face, dropping off her chin and onto her heaving breasts.
Perhaps I should clamp them. Bind them. Take this even further.
Only, she’s hanging off the ropes, and I know from the little food I permitted her to be given last night, that such action might be too much.
Slowly, I must go slowly.
Besides, I have all the time in the world to break my toy. I hit the button again, increasing the tempo and her entire body jerks like she’s been electrocuted. She lets out a whimper and I know from the desperate sound of it that I am making progress. That my ice-bitch is starting to melt.
“Lord Blake.”
I turn, snarling at the interruption. Did I not say I didn’t want to be disturbed? Did I not make myself abundantly clear?
The servant keeps his eyes on the floor, flinching as he murmurs the words, “We have a guest.”
“Fine,” I hiss.
I guess my plaything has been granted a reprieve, a moment’s rest.
I glance back at her as I reach the door and I can see the relief etched in her face. Maybe it’s because I’m a sadist, maybe it’s because I want to leave her as fucked up and depraved as I am, but I hit a different button. One that leaves the toy insides her pulsating. One that will keep taunting her, torturing her, getting her so close to coming but never allowing her that release.
Perhaps a few hours may be enough. Perhaps when I return, she’ll beg me to fuck her.
Either way, her cunt will be dripping with need.