Chapter 5 #2
Yeah. That’s what I needed.
I slap her hard across the face, then lean down and take the soft flesh at the underside of one tit between my teeth, growling as I bite down savagely. She utters a small gasp, then I hear her drawing in a breath and holding it for a few moments before blowing it out.
Good Girl.
I bite again, my teeth sinking in right next to the last spot, tasting blood this time, which makes me giddy as fuck, and suddenly my head is right back in the game.
I start biting her all over: her ribcage, all over her tits, her collarbone, her throat, until she’s squirming the tiniest bit from the pain.
But good Girl that she is, I know she’s only doing it because she can’t hold still.
I’ve made her bleed in so many places. I can’t help the fucking rictus of a grin that takes over my face as I bite her again, then again, pausing only to lick at the blood on her pretty skin.
Pretty blood. Beautiful Girl.
Moving down her body, I bite into her thighs—first one, then the other—then I force her legs wide with my hands and lean down to bite at her labia, tugging the sweet flesh between my teeth.
And of course, when I shove three fingers into her cunt, she’s soaking wet, needy.
I begin to fuck her hard and fast, then I pull out of her and shove all three fingers roughly into her asshole.
She gasps, then goes loose all over. I fuck her ass even harder than I did her cunt, and gnaw on her inner thighs as I do it.
But she needs more.
I slide my fingers out of her and leave her there panting while I go to the armoire, which holds a selection of implements.
I take a moment to use an antibacterial wipe on my hands, searching the rather nice display of toys before making a decision.
Turning back to her, I bend down to place a black leather blindfold over her eyes, then I plug her mouth with a heavy, invasive-as-fuck rubber plug, fastening the halter around the back of her head.
I know she hates this feeling of sensory isolation.
“The better to fuck with your head, my dear,” I say very quietly. But she flinches, telling me she heard every word.
Going back to the armoire, I take a few different items and lay them out on a small table. Then, choosing a handful of small metal clothespin-like clips, I make a pile of them next to her on the bench.
“This is going to fucking burn like mad,” I tell her.
I grab a spray bottle of rubbing alcohol and spray down her bloodied skin, loving the sharp hiss she lets out as the harsh liquid hits all the scratches and marks I’ve made with my nails and teeth.
“It’s only good hygiene, though, ain’t it, pretty Girl?” I tell her as she pulls in a sharp breath.
I know it stings like mad. We both know “hygiene” is not why I’m doing it.
I admit I’m a bit pleased with myself.
But nowhere near enough to stop.
I pull up a chair and bend over her lovely, naked body. Her skin is covered in my teeth marks, and it makes me fucking dizzy with glee knowing I marked her in such a primal manner. That part of me literally got under her skin.
Yes.
But time to make more of those pretty marks.
I start pinching her brutalized flesh between rough fingers, gathering enough skin between finger and thumb to attach one of the wicked metal clamps.
And with each clamp, there’s that sharp intake of breath, and at one particularly deep bite, a hard shiver goes through her body when I pin the shiny bit of metal there.
I get into a rhythm with it: pinch the embattled skin, open the clamp with my other hand, slip it onto the flesh, let it close and wait for her response.
And she does respond each and every time, which pleases me no end.
After a while she’s shaking all over. I finally pause to look into her face, pull off the blindfold, and there’s a bit of panic in her eyes, along with a few pooled tears.
But I just grin down at her, my cock pulsing in a hard, rumbling beat I can feel all the way down in my balls.
Need to fuck her.
No.
Instead, I pick up a short dragon-tongue whip from my precious stash of implements laid out beside her, then pull out my dick.
I’m hard as fucking stone. And as I begin to lash her with the whip, I jack myself.
Each strike makes me harder, and when the welts begin to rise, I can barely hold myself back.
I sink into the rhythm: stroke of the whip, stroke my dick, surge of pleasure swarms me. I pause, take a breath, try not to come, then start again. Strike, stroke, breathe. She’s really crying now, and I like to believe it’s for my pleasure. And it is. She is for my pleasure.
Yes, Girl.
She’s panting behind the plug in her mouth, drool starting to pool on either side of her stretched lips, and that’s almost as hot to me as her tears. Still, it’s her crying I focus on as I yank my dick, harder, faster, keeping in time with the lash of the evil whip.
Her skin is crisscrossed with welts and she’s got a good dozen of the evil metal clamps pinching her skin, like silvery bits of jewelry. She has never looked more beautiful to me. And I can’t fucking hold back any longer.
I straddle her body, one leg on either side of the bench, and give her one final lash right across her gorgeous tits, then immediately lean in to pull the plug from her mouth.
She opens her lips to take in a gasping breath, and I shoot my jizz all over her face, into that pretty pink mouth as pleasure roars through me, as I throw back my head and howl.
Then I’m jamming my half-hard cock into her mouth, down her throat until she chokes out, withdrawing only when her eyes roll back and she goes limp.
Jesus God, she’s so fucking beautiful, I can barely take it.
I just stand there staring at her, watching as her lashes flutter.
I take a handkerchief from my back pocket and wipe her face off a bit, then sit on the bench and pull her into my lap.
One by one I remove the metal clamps, and she doesn’t even gasp at the pain as they come off.But she’s crying now, quiet little sobs, and her body is as limp as if she’s still passed out.
She’s like a doll in my lap. And the harder she cries, the more I feel.
I don’t mean to. I sure as fuck don’t want to. But there it is, God damn it.
I hold her a bit tighter; can’t help myself. And the tighter I hold her, the harder she cries.
I don’t understand. Or maybe I do.
My heart slams against my ribs, like a bloody jackhammer in there. And as good as I felt a few moments ago, I realize what I’m feeling now is panic.
I don’t like this. And I have no fucking idea what to do. For her. For me.
So I really wrap her up in my arms and hold onto her.
She leans her face into my neck, and I breathe her in; I can’t help it.
She smells of lemon blossoms and the iron scent of her blood and my own come.
A bit of rubbing alcohol, still, but I don’t mind it.
Because under that chemical scent, I smell her.
Giselle.
The woman I have loved for what feels like half my life.
Even after all these years, I still have no idea what this means for me. Or for her. But what, really, can it mean? It’s not as if we can just leave this place, her and me.
Can we?
No. It’ll be fucking Victor and Nevan all over again. Damon and Christopher and Aimée.
But what did Robert say to me about how things happen in this House?
Fuck.
I can’t seem to get my goddamn brain to work, to work out what the fuck I do now. So I sit there and hold her, pretending that I don’t love every single moment of it, the feel of her soft, sleek body in my arms. As if I’m just some guy with a girl in his lap. A girl, not a Girl. Not a slave.
A person.
She is, though. That’s the problem. She’s always been a person to me, even when I’m beating the hell out of her. Even in her years of silence. Even in her most sublime moments of perfect service.
Always Giselle to me.
I don’t know how long we sit like that, but it’s a long while.
She’s listless in my arms, her head leaning against my shoulder, and I can tell from the soft rhythm of her breathing that she’s nearly asleep.
My body’s grown stiff, and I have to move, finally.
I pick her up as I get to my feet and carry her to the big bed, lay her down on her back.
She goes down gracefully, as she does everything, as if her limbs are made of silk.
She watches me from under those long, long lashes. Waiting. Well fuck, so am I.
I take in a breath, lean over her, and stroke my hand over the welts, my fingers coming up wet with her blood.
I go to the bathroom and grab a towel, soak it in warm water, then get the first aid kit out and go back to clean her up.
She’s perfectly still as I sweep the damp cloth over her face, then her tortured flesh, as I clean the wounds with a gauze pad and some peroxide.
There’s a small, hissing breath from her as the chemical bubbles where she’s bled, but she calms herself immediately.
I take the tube of antibiotic ointment and apply it with my fingers.
She’s covered in my marks, and I fucking love it.
Ownership.
Yeah, it feels like that. But this Girl belongs to the House, and Master of the House at this moment or not, she’s sure as hell not mine.
I cover her with a soft throw blanket and go back into the other room, pacing, my mind running so fucking fast, burning with questions I can barely begin to form into words in my head.
It aches, my head. And I realize after a while my fingers do, too, from clenching them.
Fuck.
I want a drink. But no. Drinking at a time like this? This is how you get into real trouble.
It doesn’t make me want it any less.
It used to be that the kink itself numbed me out from the rest of the world. Gave me an escape. But now it is my entire damn world, and she’s a part of it. She’s the fucking center of it.
There is no escape. There’s only the way forward.
I have to stop avoiding it because it’s always going to be there, the way I feel for her.
I realize this moment is inevitable. Something of my own creation.
That every move I’ve made has brought us to this point.
And sitting around being fucking pissed at myself isn’t going to help.
I walk back into the bedroom with a bottle of water, open it and lace an arm under her, helping her to sit up so she can drink as I hold the bottle to her lips. She watches me as she drinks, her gleaming hazel gaze on mine as she swallows.
“Can you sit up by yourself?” I ask her, and she nods.
I arrange a few pillows behind her, then help her to scoot up so she can lean against them, then I sit on the bed next to her.
There’s something about the way she’s watching me that feels like expectation, of course.
But I can also just feel her. I don’t know if that makes sense, and I don’t fucking care.
But it’s far too soon for more conversation. I find myself reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear, and when have I ever done that in my entire goddamn life? It seems she’s too far gone to question it. Maybe I am, too. Not too deeply, at least.
“Go to sleep for a bit, eh?” I tell her. “I’ll be here.”
She closes her eyes like the good Girl she is, and in moments she’s asleep, her breathing deep and even. I get up and go to sit in a chair by the bed, and settle in to watch her sleep. A little fucking creepy, ain’t it? But I’m not going anywhere right now.
I wish I had something to do with my hands, but all there is is her and me and the afternoon light coming through a bit at the top of the curtains. I can make out her eyelashes resting on her cheekbones. Pure fucking poetry, this Girl.
This girl.
Giselle.