10. Hailey
It’s not an option four kind of night. But it’s the only option. Option three collared a sub and has been removed from all lists. My favorite, option one, is nowhere to be found. Option two’s dot stays black too.
I can’t wait any longer. It is technically tomorrow already. It’s going to be a long morning, and I hate sleeping during the day, but desperate times. They lead to these desperate measures.
“Open wide.” My petite concierge holds the black ball gag in front of my face. When I comply, she presses the rubber ball between my wide lips and fastens the strap around my head.
The stretch and jaw pain suck, but it makes my muteness that much easier.
“Ready for the blindfold?” I nod, and the room goes dark. “Remember, you won’t be able to say your safe word.” She slides a silk square in my hand to use as a signal. “Do you still want to continue?”
It would make sense for her to ask that question before the gag and blindfold. When I asked, after my first experience with number four, she told me that people always said yes without the loss of their eyesight and ability to speak. Then they’d freak after donning them or sometimes make it until mid-session before passing out from fright.
I nod once more. “Very well. Option four will enter in one minute.”
Memories of the first time I accepted the total vulnerability of the gag, blindfold, and bondage bench flood me. I’d thought my heart was going to disintegrate. My nerves are still with me, but they are tempered by experience.
Right now, they’re also muffled by the noise in my brain.
The door opens, and option four’s heavy footfalls announce his presence. To my right, the heavy clank of his toy bag meets the ground. Then his hands are on me. Meaty hands knead my ass and spread me wide.
“Fuck yes. I’ve missed this creamy skin and your tight pink center.”
His finger presses into said center without a precursor. It’s an uncomfortable invasion. It’s what I’ve submitted to. It’s what I deserve. It’s what I want…usually. But this feels different. Or maybe I feel different.
My mind refuses to blank. It’s not even opening to my body, keying into the experience. No, I’m still filled with intellect. That scares me more than a ball gag and the dry fingers in my pussy.
“It’s been too long. Your body takes my marks?—”
“…so beautifully. The best of them all,” I mock him. He can’t make out my words, but he knows my tone and that I interrupted him.
It can’t be helped. I’m in a piss-poor mood. My favorite kink partner isn’t available. This guy says the same shit every time as if the script is tattooed on his arm. But really, I’m so fucking pissed that I’m intrigued by Arlo Becker Judge. My body has reacted to him in a way that’s completely off base, that even the guy with his fingers inside me can’t manage.
Those digits dig deeper, wallowing around my vagina as though in search of my cervix. I scream against the gag, not because it hurts, but because I can. It feels good to let a little of the madness out.
“That’s right, sugar. Remember who’s in charge here.”
I laugh.
It’s maniacal. It’s unhinged. I’m a glutton for punishment.
Still, I laugh. He’s not in charge. No matter what he does, I’m in charge.
“You need me to remind you, huh?” His thick voice is edged with authority. It drips with lust. His fingers and heat leave my body.
I’m not playing along like usual. I’m not a good girl. I’m not even a bad girl. I’m the girl who can’t be tamed. No matter how many try. Too many have asked to collar me. They’re never allowed to touch me again.
This rough tumble is my drug.
Option one is an aberration. A nice steak and a bottle of aged wine. A delicacy I’ve indulged in, not enough lately, and at the same time, too much.
As expected, option four skips the floggers and goes straight for the cane. It sounds different as it flies through the air. I can’t tell if it’s the stinging reed or the thudding tohiti.
Either way. It is retribution. It is pain. It is release. I’m desperate for it.
The thin reed connects with the meatiest part of my right ass cheek. Its burn shoots me forward. My hips ram into the bench. The bands at my wrists and ankles dig into my skin. Air hisses from my lungs but meets the rubber ball in my mouth. Saliva dribbles down my chin, and my throat bloats with excess air.
Before I can remember how to breathe through my nose, he lances another blow in the same spot. Then brands me with a matching pair on my other cheek.
“Bet you’ll be a good girl now.” His hand rubs over my bottom, stoking the pain instead of soothing it.
Tears seep from behind my mask. My hands are fists. The bench is forgotten. All that matters is my rage. I’m alive with it. I want to rip from my bonds, chain this man to the St. Andrew’s Cross, and whip him until he sobs.
My eyes open wide, though I still see nothing.
I’ve never had this reaction to a scene. They’ve always transported me and comforted me in that strange way. Even the usual flogging and caning.
“Fuck you,” I slobber and mumble.
“Not yet? Huh. Had a bad day, sugar?” His hand runs up and down my spine. “Relax and let me help.”
Then I realize I’m fully tense. Every muscle and every brain cell is working overtime, and that’s never been the case in this room.
“You usually love this. Can’t get enough.” His fingers soothe my arms, massaging the strain from them. Or trying to. “The harder the better for you, usually.”
Because I am in charge. Because I am untouchable.
Even more so than Mr. Judge.
Usually.
Sure, people touch my skin, but they can’t graze my heart or even my interest.
But this fucking man, not the one now rubbing my thighs, but fucking Arlo Judge has me twisted.
Forget that he’s my patient. That’s bad enough, but this is worse. So much worse. He is the kind of guy who would give his whole heart to someone. He is the kind of guy who deserves their whole heart in return.
Despite whatever horrible thing that happened to him, he’s trying, truly trying to move forward with his life.
And I’m in-fucking-capable of giving my heart away. It’s not that I want to give my heart to Arlo Judge. I hardly know the man. It’s that I’ll never be available to a man like that. I’ve known this for far too long. Hell, I’ve strived for it, and now, for the first time, I’m questioning that goal.
The cane comes hard and fast, smacking against my thighs in four quick strikes. I bellow against the gag, not because it hurts. Because my go-to for scratching this itch is not working.
Any comfort I usually have in submitting, in the pain, in the severing of my mind from reality is lost. Every smack of my flesh only amplifies my worries, my anger, my deep-rooted sorrow.
He rears back once more. I hear the grunt of his extension and release the silk, unable to take any more.
“Sugar?” The strap and the gag go taut, and then fall from my mouth.
“Aria,” seeps from my lips.
He’s quiet for several seconds. “Never thought I’d see the day that you safe out.”
I don’t respond. My head sags. The tsunami rises inside me, pressing against my eyes. I clamp my sore mouth closed.
He walks away and quietly collects his things, and then retreats to the door. “I hope you get whatever is that’s going on with you sorted. I’d like to see you around after you do.”
Once more, I don’t speak. He’s used to it. The first word I ever said to the man is my safe word.
Finally, the door closes. My gates open. I’m flooded with hot tears and ragged sobs. So much that I feel as though I’m drowning. Wheezes wrench in and out of my chest. The bands hold me tight, giving me the oddest sense of comfort.
Things are changing. I’m somehow different than I was just a few weeks ago. It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced and that’s saying something.
Today my release is not found in orgasms or pain. It is found in tears.