Chapter 3 #3
I fuck her hard and deep, her flesh dragging at my hand as I slide back before plunging in again. And I keep working her swollen clit, which is sensitive as hell because it largely gets ignored in her service.
Moving down to that tender flesh at the apex of hip and thigh, I bite down once more, the blood pooling on my tongue, but my stoic Girl remains silent, when any other slave would be howling. She is fucking amazing, my Girl.
No. Not yours.
But fucking Christ, she always has been. She always will be.
God damn it.
“Give me your come, Giselle,” I tell her.
I don’t even realize I’ve said her name until she bites her lip, pretty white teeth sinking into that plush flesh. And as she shivers, her hips bucking as her cunt clamps around my fingers, I just lose my fucking shit.
I bend over her, and before I can stop myself, I’m kissing her.
Her lips are sweet and yielding as I press my tongue between them, and she’s still coming, her body shaking.
I want to eat her up, fucking swallow her whole.
I don’t even know what the hell I mean, exactly, just that my need for her is so goddamn overwhelming.
Control.
I pull back, but looking at her lovely face is no better.
She’s blinking up at me, wondering, I’m sure, what the hell is wrong with me.
She’s been doing this far too long not to know that my head is all kinds of fucked up right now.
She knows me too well, which is what’s always made her so dangerous.
I pull in a rattling breath and decide to get my shit together.
I slap her hard across the face, the curve of her cheek going pink instantly. It feels good, and the pink is so damn pretty on her I have to do it again, then again, until there’s a sort of frenzy about it, fucking with her, bringing her pain, humiliation. Fucking with myself.
She’s started to writhe a bit, and I press down on her abdomen with one hand. She twitches—it comes from deep inside her body—which tells me she’s still on the edge, ready to come again, despite the sheen of tears in her eyes. Or maybe because of it.
We all have this sick and twisted response to the extremities of pain, the extremities of degradation—all of us involved in this most extreme brand of kink, or we wouldn’t be here, Master and slave alike.
My hand is still buried inside her pussy, and I begin to pump again, angling to hit her g-spot.
It swells against my jabbing fingers, and she lets out one tiny whimper, which always feels like a victory with her, this silent Girl.
I pump harder, faster, my hand moving inside her in a punishing rhythm, trying to elicit another sound from her.
And as she clenches, I fuck her even harder.
“I take it back. You’re not to come again, Girl. You hold it. And no squirting on my hand, either, or there will be consequences.”
Yeah, back in command. Of her. Of myself. Even if I only half mean what I say.
I clamp my free hand over her mouth, my thumb and forefinger plugging her nose.
I’m fascinated by the sight of her eyes rolling back in her head, then let go just as she’s about to pass out.
She pulls in a sharp, gasping breath, and her body shudders as she squirts, bathing my hand in her sweet liquid.
“I said no,” I tell her from between clenched teeth.
The truth is, they’re clenched because this is so goddamn hot I can barely take it. I want to make her cry, scream, squirt some more—gallons, maybe. I want to make her come, and yet I can’t allow it, can I?
Her hazel eyes are glazed, brimming with tears, and she’s biting her lip again, maybe because she squirted when she was told not to, maybe from pain. I don’t know for sure. I keep my gaze on her face as I continue to pump, but it’s not enough.
Not fucking enough!
I kick her legs further apart with my knees, then jam one right between her thighs, using it to shove my hand deeper inside her. And fucking God, I need it to be my cock inside her, but no.
No.
Using my knee again to add thrust to my hand, I fuck her so hard, ramming into her over and over. I can see how difficult it is for her to hold back, but it’s what I need, to torture the fuck out of her.
Yes.
I pull my fingers from her tight pussy, fist my hand in her long hair and pull her to her feet as I get up.
She’s unsteady, and with my other hand I shove her around a bit, making sure she has no chance to regain her footing, holding her upright by my tight grip on her hair.
I drag her to the antique walnut sideboard and bend her over the edge, pinning her arms behind her back with one rough hand.
“Spread.”
She complies—of course she does—and I release her hair to grab a long-necked crystal decanter from the sideboard, kept empty for exactly this use. The weight of it feels good in my hand. The raised pattern cut into it will hurt her, I know, which is exactly why it’s there.
“Open for me, Girl,” I growl.
She does, pressing harder into the sideboard and spreading her legs wide.
I lean over her, whispering into her ear. “You think you can take it, Girl? You think you’ll like it? Or will it hurt too fucking much? Let’s find out, shall we?”
I thumb off the stopper and press the tip of the bottle to her hole, and she’s so damn wet it slides in easily. But I plan to give her a good, hard ride with it. I press in a little more, and she trembles. With pleasure, I’m certain. Have to change that, don’t I?
I press another inch, maybe, before I shove the whole thing inside her. And grin when she releases a little cry.
The complex pattern of raised lines and angles cut into the crystal has to hurt like a motherfucker.
It makes the sadist in me a little delirious.
But part of my satisfaction comes from knowing it makes her happy, too, to be so roughly used.
That’s what we sadists do, isn’t it? Or, the good ones, anyway.
It took me some time to learn that—that everything we do is to draw a response from the bottom or submissive or slave.
Yes, even a slave in this sort of setting, with their contracts and all.
They’ve handed themselves over to our whims completely, but still, we are here to serve them.
To serve their needs. And those who are good at this—and I’m not too humble to include myself in this—yeah, we do it for them.
We read them, dissect how their minds work.
With this one, I understand her kink needs, but the rest of her is a goddamn mystery.
But I need to shut my mind down and focus on the task at hand.
I start to fuck her with the decanter, and her legs are really shaking now, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. I’m still holding her arms behind her back in one meaty hand, and I dig my nails into her flesh wherever I can.
“Do not come, you hear me? Not today. Today you will serve me any way I see fit. And right now I see fit to fuck you until you bleed, Girl.”
Ah, fucking hell, that idea is too hot to take, and I release her wrists long enough to unzip and pull my cock and my balls out before I drag the crystal decanter from her pussy and shove my dick in instead.
“Mmm.”
Christ, was that really her? But I can’t seem to care.
All I know is that I’m inside her body, fucking her hard and fast, my balls slapping against her silky flesh with every rough stroke.
Need builds, my balls going tight, my taint tingling, and I take a fistful of her hair, pulling her upright until her smooth back is against my chest. With my other hand I reach around to pinch her nipple, and she bows into my hand, then back against my body, riding me, somehow, even in her total submission.
And Jesus fuck, I can’t take it, can’t fucking handle myself as I spurt into her, my jizz filling her up.
I have only the smallest shred of control left, just enough to clamp my palm over her nose and mouth as I feel her beginning to come, and her body goes limp as she passes out, still coming even as her legs go out from under her.
My orgasm is so fucking intense I nearly want to pass out myself.
But somehow I manage to catch her and lower us both to the floor.
Then I roll her over and stare into her face.
She’s good and out for several seconds before her lashes flutter and she looks up at me, those hazel eyes gleaming, damp with tears and too present, not lost in slavespace, as she should be.
And I feel like I’ve just been kicked in the goddamn chest.
This will never be enough. Nothing will be. I need her to know me. To belong to me. To me, and no one else. I pick her up, gentle as I would a baby lamb, and carry her to the velvet couch, knowing I’ve lost my bloody mind.