6. To own is to… Retain
Chapter six
To own is to… Retain
I didn’t disobey again.
But it wasn’t the last time I saw the prod. Gemma runs the brush through my long, blonde hair, applying oils to make it shine. The white gown she brought me today is simple, but it’s beautiful. This is the most beautiful I’ve felt in…I don’t know how long. I can’t bring myself to be happy to be clothed again. Seems like an awful waste of time when every interaction with my Sirs leaves me crumpled on the floor. Flush creeps up my neck as I slam my eyes away from my reflection, shame battering through me. It was only a day ago when Sir….helped me feel better.
He’d made me come. Hard.
My head had gone light as my core clenched around him, whimpering until the waves of bliss had passed, and then I’d sheepishly asked him to do it again, ignoring the sense of disgust that followed. When Sir told me I’d learn to take pleasure in the pain, to accept it when it was given, I didn’t think that was possible, to feel good in a place like this, with a man like him .
I’m disgusting.
Even now, with my pale skin mostly free from bruises and color back into my filling cheeks. I’d come. I’d had sex, not been raped. Willingly. I can’t stop thinking about the next time I see those snake skinned boots, what I can do to please Sir enough to let me do it again.
“I wish you’d have eaten more,” Gemma whispers, making me eye the mostly uneaten oatmeal and fruit on her rolling cart.
“I’m nervous.”
She only nods, her preferred mode of communication. After weeks of being cared for by the older woman, I’d only learned a few things. Her name is Gemma, but I assume it’s not her real name. She was once like me, a girl owned by the House of Bloom, trained, used, and aged out to a more companion role, a whore who paid her fee on her back until she wasn’t as desired as the new girls. Judging by the bruises on her neck, even in old age, when my looks fade, there will be no relief—if I’m unlucky enough to make it that long.
When the lock sounds on the outside of the door, my pulse hiccups, and I all but knock Gemma down to scramble into my position on the floor. I’m halfway there when Sir’s voice cuts through the room. “Remain standing. I don’t want you to dirty the dress.”
I wiggle my cold toes. Even now, with the blankets I’m allowed, they never seem to warm. The tips are always an angry shade of red. “Yes, Sir.”
My core is already clenching in anticipation, my gut churning with dread.
“Come. He’s ready for you.”
I frown as I head toward Sir, toward the open door. My heartbeat notches up to a full sprint in just a few seconds. I cross the threshold for the very first time. More months have passed than I know how to track reliably. The door always loomed like a taunt, a beacon of despair and possibility, and I’ve…crossed it. Tears well in my eyes as I realize…I no longer want to. I don’t want whatever comes next. I want to stay with the House of Bloom. With Sir, at least seeing as home isn’t an option. God knows what going home would even look like anymore. My fear chokes me as I stare at my feet, at the changes in flooring as we walk. Distant cries of pain and pleasure come from the rooms as we pass.
“You may raise your head, but keep your eyes lowered. Do not, for any reason, address anyone I have not permitted you to.”
“Yes, Sir.”
I lift my head, taking in the expansive area. My lips part as they land on a girl, bloody and strapped to a wooden cross, a group of men all chatting casually around her limp form. My breath hiccups out of me, making Sir chuckle. “Perhaps now you’ll believe me when I tell you how good you’ve had it these past months with me, how blessed you are to be kept sweet and sold as a Lily.”
Sick pools in my gut as one man reaches out, putting his cigar out on her nipple. My flinch sends me knocking into Sir, which only makes my panic drum higher. My apology is on my lips before he regains his hold, giving me a steady hand. “ Easy . Those are carnation girls. She’ll learn to love it before her training is done.”
“Sir?” I whisper, keeping my voice soft as he unlocks a heavy door with a keypad beside it. What I see next almost makes me forget myself entirely.
“Yes?”
I stare dumbstruck at the girls walking around freely, all in a different state of dress. Not a single one of them pays me more than a glance, going about their lounging, petting, and napping.
“Your question before I lose my patience.”
Each one lowers her head in respect as we pass, and my tongue feels thick in my mouth. “I, uhm, am I going to the auction?”
"Not yet. The house Master will approve you, see if you’re worthy of the mark of Bloom.”
“What—“
“This meeting is important for us both . Do not embarrass me,” he cuts me off. I follow silently, taking in the beautiful, old money-style mansion I’ve been kept below for the past weeks, being sure not to look at anyone directly, not to vomit on the nice carpet. We climb the stairs for what feels like ages until we enter a hall opening to another lavish sitting room. Sir knocks on the door before hissing down at me. “Your position. ”
The white dress billows out around me as I drop. My knees hit the plush carpet; it feels amazing compared to the concrete they’re used to. When the door opens, the smell of rich patchouli fills the air, and intercom man makes a sound of approval. “You may leave us.”
Fear brackets me. I’ve never been taken without Sir around. Everything in my body screams to follow him as he retreats, but the man in front of me doesn’t give me the chance. His voice booms with the confidence of someone who rarely, if ever, is told no.
“Come, little Lily. Let’s ensure you’re worthy of the name.”
“Yes…” I hesitate, unsure of what honorific to use. My breath leaves me in rough pants as I get to my feet.
“You may call me Master until you are owned. Your anxiety is beautiful, although it’s an acquired taste, one I do not share. I’m an old man now; my years of scared, unwilling girls are behind me.” He laughs. “I cannot say the same for your Mistress.”
“Oh, Leo, she is beautiful. I must have her in my wing.”
"My love, we've spoken about this. We've already listed her for auction. I fear your hand is far too heavy for this one. Please, be gentle. She was trained to keep sweet.”
The woman’s laughter sends a chill down my spine as I drop back into position in the middle of the large room, my eyes firmly on my palms. Even then, I don’t miss the white baby grand in the far corner. My throat swells at the thought of playing, although I knew it would come eventually. I should be grateful it took this long.
“I fear I’ll never forgive you for this. Look at how blissfully afraid she is.”
My chest heaves with the struggle to keep my breathing quiet, but I can’t. God, I can’t.
I can’t play.
I can’t .
A dagger-like nail catches under my chin. I quickly avert my eyes from the drilling blue ones that endeavor to find mine. “Her manners are good. She’d better catch a good price, or I’ll divorce you for letting her go.”
“She’s a Lily, my love.”
“Oh, look at her eye!” she exclaims. Her nails dig into my skin as she tries to force my eyes to hers. “Look at me.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I gasp, tears welling in my eyes as I meet hers. She’s beautiful, with aged, sharp features.
“Yes, we have contacts for her at auction.”
Mistress seems appalled by the suggestion, taking it out on my chin, which she still holds hostage. “You cannot cover it! It makes her unique. I bet you could upcharge her, even.”
“It is unsettling, is it not?” Master replies, looking speculatively down at me from where he’s leaning against the armoire.
“What is it called? The defect in your eye.”
“Polycoria, Mistress.”
She stares at my bad eye, as if she’s trying to figure it out. I’m used to the curious, sometimes downright rude responses it gets from people. It took me ages to look at it myself. It’s odd, having two separate pupils in one eye.
“How does it happen?”
“I-I suffered a detached retina when I was younger.”
“Fascinating. My husband tells me you play. I’ve always loved the piano. Go take a seat on the bench.” She releases me with a slight push, making me tilt backward, almost toppling.
“I can’t—“
“What was that?” She snaps, the tension in the room wire thin as dread settles in my chest. I get mere seconds to regret my words before she reaches me, her long nails scraping my scalp as she knots her hand in my hair. “You are lucky my husband saw fit to sell you. If you were mine, I’d take flesh for disobeying me.” She sneers the words, and for a moment, she reminds me of Grandma, which is great at a time like this.
“I’m sorry, Mistress.”
She makes a disgusted sound, tossing me back again. “Don’t be sorry . Play . I don’t see why you bother with the soft girls. That breeds entitled fucking brats, not obedient sex slaves.”
Sex slave.
Those words settle in my gut like a blade each time I hear them. A tear slips down my cheek as I walk toward the piano, their eyes following me across the extravagant room. My breath is short and rapid as my fingers trace the ivory keys. My brain is panicking, waiting for the cut of a ruler against the faded scars on the backs of my hands, despite it being years since I felt that particular sting. Still, I hold my breath. I wait for the slash, for the cutting, hateful voice that always followed it, the air of disappointment. For the life of me, I can’t think of a single thing to play. My fear drowns everything out. When the Mistress' heels clank loudly against the marble floors, panic rears, making me slam out the first few notes. I’m rusty, but like riding a bike, the music…the terrible, ugly music comes back quickly. Tears stream down my cheeks as I play, that serrated blade sinking into my gut that housed it for so many years.
“Remove the bench, dear,” she orders Master, and his chuckle comes seconds before he urges me to stand. I don’t stop playing, my chest contracting around my lungs and heart like a vise, the open gash that makes me miss people who I’m unsure even miss me back festering.
I want to go home.
It’s thought with such jarring, aching sincerity, I worry I said it out loud, as Mistress undoes the back zipper of my dress, letting it expose me from behind as I slam away at the keys. Even now, I seethe at the mistakes I’m making, but neither of them seems to notice. It’s when those sharp nails urge my legs apart that I jolt. I’m shaking, spread and terrified. When no more sensation comes as I finish out the sonata, fading it into another, I risk a shaky breath. But I can feel her behind me…below me. Waiting.
My fingers mash loudly against the keys as a scream rips from my throat, her teeth cutting into my sex. She bites me, hard. I resist the urge to reach down and cup myself, knocking her head out of the way. I gasp as her tongue laps at the throbbing flesh. Quickly, I’m missing notes—not because it hurts, although it does, and I’m almost certain she drew blood, but because it feels… good . I moan as her tongue drives in and out of my sex before coming up to my clit. I switch to a simple song, giving myself less opportunity to fail. Für Elise fills the room as she sucks at my me, a deep heat building along taut lines from my belly to my core. That feeling Sir gave me barrels through me at breakneck speed. My fingers halt on the keys as everything inside me tightens. Then, she bites again, somehow harder. Pleasure and pain burst through me, making me cry out and buck in an attempt to pull away from her, which only serves to make her teeth dig in more, holding my labia hostage.
A choking sound leaves my throat when she releases me. My hand is shaky as I reach down, testing the damaged, bloody flesh. I sag against the piano, panting, my legs heavier than they were moments ago.
“Come to the bed, baby,” she coos. “Show me what you just learned.”
My head is light as I stumble toward where she has laid herself out. Her pencil skirt is hiked up around her slim hips, and her core is wet, dripping as I kneel between her legs. “Yes, Mistress.”
My core throbs and stings at the idea of tasting her, touching her like she did me despite my rampant fear—that, or maybe I’m just glad to be on the other side of the room from the piano. My first taste of her is hesitant, gentle. Mistress groans, wrenching her core up into my tongue, forcing more pressure. I watch her closely, her eyes fluttering with pleasure as she watches whatever Master does behind me. She seemed to like that, so I press my tongue harder, mimicking the way she lapped and swirled it around my clit.
“Yes, yes, baby. Good girl.”
My core gushes at the praise, catching me off guard, and more tears spring to my eyes as I suck her clit into my mouth, sucking on it gently as I flick it with my tongue. When Master hikes my dress up over my ass, making a sound of approval, and I’m floating in need. Need to pleasure Mistress, to feel the burning push of Master’s cock. To be called a good girl again. After years, a lifetime, of punishment, I’m starving, desperate for it. My nipples are oversensitive, my skin flushed as they rub against the lace top of my dress .
“Slow down, little Lily. You’ll make your Mistress come too fast. That never ends well for her girls.”
I back off with a heavy pant. My spit and her arousal make a bridge from my lips to her puffy, swollen core. I moan as Master enters me from behind, surprised when it goes in with a glide of pleasure. No burning or ripping, no pain. My own arousal drips down my thighs as I lay my head on Mistress’ thigh, languidly lapping at her sex as she moans and grinds into my tongue.
“Unbutton her shirt and play with her breasts,” Master orders as he thrusts into me.
I do, mimicking the way Sir showed me on mine. I pinch, knead, and roll her dark nipples, plunging my tongue in and out of her tangy core until I feel a rough patch on the inside. When I hit it, Mistress makes a sound that hurtles me toward the edge, Master still slamming his cock in and out of me at a surprising pace for a man of his age.
I play with that rough patch because I need to be a good girl. To please her.
The pleasure I’m given is second only to the praise I desire.
I’m wanton, doing all the little things Sirs like. I keep soft and sweet, but I’m being fucked like a whore. I suppose that’s what I am, a whore. Sir made me one, just like he promised.
“Now bite her, Lily.”
I bite down on her clit, not too hard, trying to find the line she crossed, trying to do it right for her.
A surprised yelp leaves me as fluid streams from Mistress, coating my face as I try to contain it all. My orgasm lifts me to heights I never knew possible as Master becomes jerky, his hot cum splattering my insides. We’re all panting when shame finds me again, branding and hot like an iron. Master pulls out of me, letting me find my appropriate position. I stare at my slick inner thighs.
“I’ll give you whatever you want. Let me keep her, you bastard,” Mistress gasps from the bed.
He chuckles. “Best I can give you is a return clause with her next owner.”
A return clause, like a t-shirt that didn’t fit right .
“Then I pray she fucks up badly enough to be sent back.”
My emotions are numb and my brain fuzzy as they go about righting themselves and discussing me. My tears have dried, but I can’t seem to swallow past the lump in my throat. I stay like that until I’m directed to sit at a table in the room's corner. Mistress is terrifying again as she stalks toward me, slinking through the rich room like a wraith. “You may face me.”
I do, reluctantly, swallowing past the bile edging my throat.
“Make the House of Bloom proud, little Lily.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
I mean it. My God, what is wrong with me?
My face and thighs are still sticky as a man I hadn’t noticed discusses moving my tattoo from the back of my hand, citing something about scar tissue. They decide just above my wrist. I barely feel the needle when it hits, barely feel the brand as they etch it into my soul.