40. Liliana
I hear the footsteps, hear the lock click, but it all happens at once and I barely have time to react.
For what feels like forever, I’ve just laid here, barely moving, barely eating, barely functioning.
The light bursts in. I throw my hands up to shield my face from it but as my eyes adjust, I see him.
He’s stood, staring at me from the threshold like I’m some sort of apparition.
My heart reacts. It fully flips in my chest.
He’s back. He’s returned.
I know I shouldn’t feel joy at seeing him, that I shouldn’t have anything but hate in my heart for this man, but that’s the complete opposite to the swirl of emotions inside me.
I throw myself on my knees, arching my body over in that show of obedience he’s demanded from me too many times to count. A show that up until now I’ve refused to give him.
As he takes one loud step and then another, I can feel myself trembling but it’s not from fear. It’s not from panic. No, it’s from want. From need.
I’ve been so starved, so desolate, that now any show of human contact has me literally salivating.
His hand comes down, lightly touching my hair, and the gasp I let out is far too close to a moan.
“Have you missed me, pet?” he asks. His voice that usual gruff, condescending tone.
I nod quickly. “Yes, Master,” it’s all I can whisper because I’ve spent the entire week either in silence, or screaming, and my vocal cords don’t seem to want to cooperate anymore.
He lets out a grunt and I hear the ring of his belt as he undoes it.
My eyes look up, I connect with his and though there’s nothing but that deadly look in those dark irises, I know what he wants. I can feel it in my bones.
I crawl forward, closing the tiny distance between us, and I reach up, without the need for him to command me. Without the need for him to speak.
As I pull his cock out, I rub my thighs together, trying to hold back that need that’s there, that’s so achingly desperate.
He watches me without blinking. Like he’s half expecting me to take hold of his cock and bite it off.
I open my mouth, suck him in so greedily while I get to work.
The laugh that rumbles from his chest heats my face with shame. I’m a whore. I’m everything he wanted me to be.
“Maybe I should go away more often,” he taunts, taking hold of my head so roughly I feel a few of the fragile strands of my hair snap .
I look up, hold his gaze and, for a second, for that moment, as his cock is sliding down my throat, as I can feel the full girth of him almost suffocating the very life out of me, I silently plead, I beg, I try to convey with that one look alone, that I don’t want that. That I never want that. That I can’t bear the thought of more absence, more loneliness.
He growls, a sound as close to anger as it is to pleasure, and my skin erupts into goosebumps.
He starts rocking his hips, fucking my mouth like he’s trying to break my teeth and I relax my jaw as much as I can, ignoring the drool that’s running down my chin.
Oh, I know I could hurt him, I know that right now, for the first time, he’s not forcing this in any physical way, but the effect is the same.
He’s broken me.
He’s won.
I’m not that person he dragged down into the darkness. I’m not that defiant woman who would rather die than give in. Because I tried that, didn’t I? I tried that and I failed.
I’m his creature now. I’m entirely his pet.
I’ve lost my mind, lost all control over my body too, judging by the way my clit is throbbing like a little slut. The only thing stopping me from touching myself is the fact he hasn’t granted me permission, but my hands are itching to do it.
I want him. I need him.
My entire world has turned on its axis and this man is now my very epicentre.
I feel the tears sliding down my cheeks as that realisation hits.
I’ve submitted entirely.
He grabs the collar around my throat, constricting my airway that tiny bit more. I can see from the way his face is contorted that he’s going to come .
As he tightens his grip, I relax, I go limp, and he pours himself down my throat while I moan out like I’m the one getting pleasure, I’m the one finding my release.
He drags his cock back over my tongue, spreading that delicious saltiness and then he does it over my lips, leaving a smear of it there, like he’s marking me.
I stay still, on my knees, waiting for permission to move, though it’s taking all I have not to lunger at him and just take what I need.
“What a good pet you’ve become,” he remarks, smirking.
The old me would lash out, the old me would snap back. But I don’t, I stay where I am, desperately needing more, desperately holding out for something I can’t even articulate.
He brushes his thumb over my lips then holds it out a good few inches from my face. “Lick it clean.”
I slide my tongue out, I trace up from the knuckle, tasting the last of his semen, savouring it like it’s the finest caviar.
For a moment, he just watches me as if he too can’t believe this is real, and then he grunts.
“Master,” I gasp, pleading again for some unspoken gift.
His lips curl, he tilts his head. “You really are submitting?”
I nod quickly, so quickly my head spins, but I can see he’s still not convinced, that he believes I’m still that foolish idiot I was before. The one that believed that our world was one where men such as he were punished, where justice existed, and power can be overthrown.
And a voice whispers in my head how I can convince him, exactly what I need to do to show him I really am giving in entirely.
I shift back.
He arches a brow, clearly unimpressed that I’m now going off-piste, that I’m no longer following instructions.
I lay on my back, spreading my legs wide, giving him a full view of everything I’ve always previously tried to keep from him .
As my fingers stretch my labia open, he must be able to see how wet I am. He must. Surely, he must.
But he doesn’t move. He just stands, still as a statue, and I realise what else he wants, what he’s expecting now.
My stomach flutters, more shame covers my face and that old voice rears up in my head that if I do this, if I cross this line, I’ll never be able to look myself in the mirror.
But I have to do this.
I need to do this.
I want him to believe me.
I want him to tell me that I’ve been good, that he’s proud of me, that I’m his perfect pet now.
And more than that, I want him to let me out of this room, I want him to grant me his time, his attention, his everything.
I plunge my fingers into my pussy. Even I hear the squelch and the gasp I make is undeniable. I spread my arousal, covering my entire pussy with it, despite the fact that it was already drenched.
Master has almost always been cruel when he touches me, but I want to show him now how I’d do it, how I make myself come.
And I can see he’s watching, I can see he’s taking in every touch, every twist, every second that I massage my clit.
I throw my head back, moaning louder, and the sound helps, the sound normalises this.
I’m so wet I must be making a pool beneath me, but perhaps that helps my cause too, because I can hardly fake such a reaction, can I?
I rock my hips, I work myself up into a frenzy, under his piercing gaze.
And all the while he’s stood, motionless, still as a statue, as if I’m not putting on the very performance of my life.
When I come, I come hard. I come screaming like a thing possessed. My legs kick out. My body jerks with so much pent-up frustration, with so much desperation, too.
And then I slump down, I collapse onto the padded floor, panting, heaving, not daring to do anything now.
Master reaches down, picks me up, and I cling to his body as he does the one thing I’ve been dreaming of, and he carries me out.
I don’t know if this is the end, I don’t know if he’s simply going to feed me and then return me, but right now, he’s touching me, his skin is against mine and I need it so desperately.
I shut my eyes, I curl up into his body, not giving a damn where I am, where we’re going. What the rest of this day may involve.
We’re back in his wing of the house. The scene beyond the window is breathtaking.
A perfectly manicured lawn glistens with morning dew.
As Master puts me down on my feet, it takes a second for me to stop the shaking. Around us, are a handful of servants, all dressed in that same identical uniform, all keeping their eyes straight ahead.
I’m still naked, still wearing nothing except the collar but I don’t shy, I don’t even try to hide myself. I guess I learnt that lesson too, didn’t I?
Master dismisses them with the wave of his hand, and then he pours himself a drink, knocks it back and takes a seat on an antique couch that looks far more like a throne.
As he stares at me once more, I chew my lip. It feels like he wants something, like he expects something, I just don’t know what.
Part of me is furious that I can’t guess it, that I can’t give it to him without him asking. How fucking useless am I that I don’t know what it is?
As that feeling swamps my body, I sink to my knees, taking that same submissive pose he likes so much.
And again, I hear that amused chuckle .
“You have learnt, haven’t you, pet?”
I gulp, choosing to show my obedience simply with my silence.
He undoes his shirt, undoes his belt once more, and pulls his cock out.
“Crawl to me,” he orders. “Crawl to me and show your Master how much you enjoy his body.”
I scramble across the Persian rug, my hands and knees protesting at the movement, but my head telling me that nothing matters beyond Master’s pleasure right now. That if I had to cross a dessert like this, if I had to clamber over broken glass, barbed wire even to make him happy, then I would.
As I crawl into his lap he sits back, glaring at me like he’s expecting defiance.
I place my thighs either side, my hand taking hold of his cock to position him correctly and then I sink down, burying him to the hilt.
He’s taken my body so many times. He’s brutalised every inch of me. And yet right now, this, this moment feels the complete antithesis of that. Like I somehow have a modicum of control.
“Fuck.”
I don’t know who says it. I don’t know if it’s him or me, but it’s like an explosion goes off. I shut my eyes, I hold myself still for a moment because it feels like I might just come right this second and I don’t want that.
His breath sounds ragged, his body is so tense. I can see all the scars that cover his chest. Scars that I once despised as much as the rest of him.
It’s hard to do it with how I’m sat, but I lower my mouth, kissing his skin, worshipping his body while I try to get some sort of control over my own.
He grabs my hands, gripping them in one of his behind my back, forcing my body to right arch over and bear my breasts, and it renders me almost defenceless. He once more has total control over me, but that one action causes my brain to short circuit.
I stop thinking.
I stop caring.
It’s like he’s Pavlov’d me. I’m a dog salivating at the sound of a bell. And I need more. I have to have more.
I start raising my hips, I start riding him just as he wants. He groans, he grunts. He’s sat there like a king and I’m his whore, his perfect little slave. My existence is for one purpose, my every breath is only permitted if he allows it.
I stare back at him, no longer seeing a monster, but seeing my monster. Seeing my beginning and my ending. Seeing my reason for life. My reason for everything.
Does he know? Can he tell?
Perhaps he can, perhaps he can see the fundamental change in me, but he’s not changing one bit. He’s just the same ruthless man I’ve endured since the very beginning.
Only, I want him to change, I want him to smile at me, I want him to cup my face and show some sort of affection. Some love.
I moan out, a sound of sorrow, a sound of desperation. I’m so close to coming and yet I don’t feel like he’s there. Will he beat me if I come before he does? Or will he see that as another sign of my submission? That he hasn’t had to force me this time, that I’ve done it willingly.
His spare hand wraps around my waist. For a second, I’m convinced I’ve imagined it, but I can feel the way his fingers are digging into my skin, the way he’s leaving bruises. He’s as brutal with this as he is with everything else and yet my body rejoices all the same.
“Come, pet,” he orders.
“Come with me.” I say before I can think, before I can consider the consequences of such a request .
If he reacts in any way to that plea, it doesn’t show on his face, he simply stays there, letting me fuck him, letting me writhe and moan against his hard, unrelenting presence.
But when I come, when that euphoria hits me, I know it’s not just me, I can feel it, I can feel his cock pouring inside me, and what’s more I can hear the way he’s growling, the way he’s snarling as his hands dig even harder into me before he’s releasing his grip as if he too is exhausted from what we’ve just done.
As his hands release mine, I slump into his chest.
It’s a step too far.
I know that.
I know right now I should be retreating, not seeking more. He doesn’t give more. He doesn’t give at all. And yet I don’t want to lose this contact. I need it, I need his skin against mine, I need to hear his heartbeat, I need to smell his sweat as it mingles with mine.
I shut my eyes, pretending this is something different, pretending that we’re not Master and pet, captor and slave, but equals. That he wants me the way I want him, that he has actual feelings for me beyond the need to dominate and destroy.
His hand wraps around my back, sneaking up my spine and coming up to cup my neck in a vice like grip.
I don’t dare to move.
This feels too fragile.
This feels too precious.
I stay still, listening to his breathing, and it’s soft, calm, so different to the raging monster I know he truly is.
Perhaps I’m being stupid, reckless even, but I speak the words irrespective of what the consequences are, because I need to know. I need to understand.
“What did I do wrong?”
He frowns, reaching down to grab my chin and he forces me to meet that harsh gaze. “What? ”
“You locked me away. But I was being obedient. I was being good.”
His eyes flicker between mine, it’s like he’s trying to read the desperate expression on my face, but I can’t tell if it’s to taunt me or to savour it.
“It wasn’t a punishment,” he says so simply as if negating everything I’ve endured over the last God knows how long.
“Yes, it was.” I sob and suddenly all that emotion, all that pain and fear and every single moment of desperation explodes like a tsunami. Tears stream down my face. I’m a blubbering mess and Magnus looks almost shocked by my behaviour. “You locked me away, you threw me into that padded cell…”
He growls, his grip tightens around me and that sorrow turns to abject horror as I realise I’ve now pissed him off. Will he do it again? Lock me away again?
“I had to keep you safe,” he says.
“Safe?” I blink back, barely believing that word has even come from his lips. Why would he keep me safe? Why would he care what happens to me? He’s beaten me, branded me, tortured me and raped me, why the fuck would he care what happens to me now?
Has he not said enough times how I am to die, how he is going to break me piece by piece before finally ending my life? Or is that it, that he wants to be the one to do it, that he can’t stand the thought of another person, another man like Anthony breaking in here, beating him to it, killing me before he gets the chance to drag the knife across my throat?
And then another thought hits me, Magnus is the devil, the literal devil. If he thinks he needs to keep me safe, then that means there is something or someone out there more dangerous than him. And how the fuck can that be possible?
I start trembling, my entire body shudders almost uncontrollably and though I try to hide it, Magnus obviously notices .
With his hands he rubs them down my arms, creating friction, creating warmth.
It feels like another intimate gesture, another moment so far removed from the monster I’m entwined with.
“You are safe,” he says as if he understands my fear. As if he is someone I can trust and believe.
“But you’re going to kill me.” I blurt out.
His pupils dilate just a little, his jaw clenches. But he nods. “One day. A long time from now.”
I don’t know what to say to that. How to reply. He doesn’t sound regretful. He doesn’t sound sad. He just states it like it’s a fact.
My heart seems to lock up, my head tells me to stop being so damned stupid. That this is my captor, my abuser, my future murderer. I cannot trust him. I cannot care for him.
And yet I do. I know I do. I’m a fool. A stupid fool who deserves everything I get.
I stare back at him, silently begging him to say more, to say that I mean something, to say that I am more than just his toy now, more than what I was.
Only, he doesn’t. He just stares back, meeting my gaze as if daring me to challenge him further, and that silence lingers between us.
Minutes tick by and then he shifts enough to tell me that this moment too is over.
“I have work to do,” he says.
My heart sinks at those words, but I know there’s nothing I can do.
I’m an amusement, a pastime in this man’s busy schedule. He gets me out of my cage when he’s bored, and then he packs me away when he’s done with me .
“Please…” I whisper, then bite my lip so hard, cursing my stupidity. Haven’t I already been vulnerable enough? Do I really need to carve my entire heart out for this man?
“What?”
“Don’t lock me back there.” I know I sound pathetic. I know that’s what I am now, what he’s made me, but then he’s also responsible for this, too. He’s made me dependent on him. Surely, he should face the consequences? “I’ll do anything. I’ll be good. I’ll be obedient, I won’t make a sound.”
His lips quirk. He grabs my jaw again, turning my face so that I’m forced to meet that unnerving glare.
“You hate that room that much?”
I nod as much as he will allow.
He narrows his eyes, scrutinising my face like he expects to see some lie written there, but to my surprise he doesn’t react with the usual fury.
“Fine,” he murmurs. “But you need to wash. My come is leaking out of you and I won’t have you ruin all my furniture.”
I drop my eyes, feeling the insult as though I was a dirty dog shaking mud everywhere.
I force myself off him, force my body to let his go, but as he slides back out of me I still feel myself deflate. And then I stand there, unsure of what to do. It seems silly to sink back to my knees, but I don’t want to be disobedient.
His come is smeared down my thighs, I can feel it wet against the cold air, but I force myself to stand, to not squirm, to be still.
Magnus takes my wrist, pulls me along, walks me from the ornate room through to a long corridor and past more servants who do their best not to stare.
When we get to a bathroom, he pushes me into the shower, but he strips off and follows right after and again, I’m rendered speechless.