9. To own is to… Master
Chapter nine
To own is to… Master
C hloe
The drive to the plane is odd and silent, no trace at first of the handsome man who bought me as I’m ushered into a private cabin. My nerves shot to hell as my tears run freely. No amount of wiping or blinking seems to clear them. The gruff man named Stuart makes another deep-throated sound of disapproval as he rummages through the drawers in the room. “Calm yourself. Your master isn’t fond of whimpering.”
“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry.”
“Here, dress in this.”
I accept the simple black dress he hands me, watching as the free-flowing, lily-adorned dress dances across my pebbled flesh. When he opens the door to the private room, my eyes dart to the main cabin, glimpsing the man— my master . His silver-brushed auburn hair is skillfully tossed. He’s typing away at the laptop resting on the table, reading glasses balanced low on his nose. He’s…achingly handsome. From what little I remember of last night, some of the most violent men are. My body is free from outward wounds, but the pain medication I was given this morning has worn off, leaving me at the mercy of my aches. Every step feels like my core is being ripped open, my bottom throbbing with each pump of my heart. I was in a disgustingly sorry state when I woke up this afternoon, only to be hastily washed and groomed before I was made to say my goodbyes to Master and Mistress. Or—is that the proper thing to call them now?
My mind is spinning far too quickly to make any good use of the lavish room I’m left in, so I opt to dress quickly and scurry back to my spot on the bed. For the first time in almost a year, I have access to items of comfort. I avoid them like the plague; I don’t know his rules or his punishments. So, I ignore the bottle of water on the small dresser, despite being sure it's for me. When the minutes bleed into hours, I fight sleep, resisting the urge to even lie down, knowing that the moment I do, my say in the matter will be voided.
When the plane lands, my master is long gone by the time Stuart removes me from the private quarters. My legs feel like jelly underneath me as I exit the plane, expecting an airport, maybe a chance to notify someone, alert TSA, but would I? Given the chance, could I even? It doesn’t matter, I suppose, because what greets me is a small hanger and a sprawling countryside estate nestled against a vast wood line. My steps falter on the way to the waiting town car, desperately trying to take everything in. It’s the first time I’ve been outside without a bag over my head in so long. It's surprisingly devastating to be faced with so many illusions of options. I could run for the tree line, but I won't. I could try to beat Stuart to the car, but something tells me he’d just kill me. Which isn’t an entirely terrible option, but still, that lingering… stupid hope that maybe this could be nice…
He could be nice.
He bought you as a sex slave, Chloe. He’s not nice.
“Come.”
I flinch before hurrying toward the town car, ignoring the way my body screams in protest as I slide in. The press of the leather seat against my battered core is nearly unbearable.
“You will be expected to obey to the best of your ability while you’re adjusting to the new rules. You will address him as Master or Sir at all times. At social events, ‘Sir’ will not be used. You may call me Sir or Stuart, whatever you wish. Your master keeps his staff limited inside his estate. You will probably have very few interactions with them. You are not to leave your room without permission or escort until you are told otherwise. Most of your training will be very similar here. He alone will handle your acclimation. This position is nicer than the one you are used to, but know that it can and will change if you are not well-behaved. Do you have questions that aren’t stupid?”
As he drives, I stare at the back of his head while the winding, solitary road weaves around the natural landscape, almost as though it was purposefully made in its gut-churning, twisty way to minimize any impact on it.
“Is he kind?” I whisper, desperate to find any relief from the anxiety battering me, driving words from my mouth when normally none would come.
“ That is a stupid question. It does not matter how kind or unkind he is or is not to you. Your purpose remains the same: to serve him, make yourself worth the fifty million dollars he dropped on you.”
My chest flutters at the number, knowing there’s nothing I could do to make that an even adjacently worthy use of the obscene fortune. Even at the height of my brief career as a concert pianist, I wasn’t worth that. “Yes, Sir.”
A gasp leaves my throat when his dark blue eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror before I slam them back to my lap. “Stop crying.”
It doesn’t work like that. I don’t have the switch; I can’t just turn it off.
My chin wobbles, my fear bracketing in as we approach a massive, Victorian style estate. The early morning sun casts the dark black and brown exterior in rich golden hues. It looks like the type of house that the Cullens would’ve loved several centuries ago, managing to be both a relic and boasting all the modern luxuries you could imagine. It’s polished and groomed, giving the appearance of being finely aged without being anything close. My fingers run across my palm, trying anything to calm the torrent of emotions swirling in my chest, the smell of saltwater tickling my nose despite there not being an ocean in sight.
By the time we’re stopped and Stuart wrenches my door open, making it clear my presence here is a great annoyance to him, I’ve managed to stop crying, although my tears remain just under the surface, ready to spill over at a moment's notice. My bare feet pad along the paved circle drive. A massive black fountain displaying enormous snakes sits proudly at the center. The cool air is a far cry from the bitter winter of where we were hours ago. Somehow, I’d convinced myself that I wasn’t that far away from home. There’s no denying it now. That thought alone settles in my gut like a lead weight as we pass the threshold of what proves to be a lavish display of Victorian design. The grand entrance sports a wide staircase, everything dipped in dark, rich colors. My upbringing was far from modest, and even I feel sorely out of place here. It’s almost gaudy in the way it looks like a perfect set for a period movie. The modern elements blend seamlessly with the old. It’s stunning, the stained glass casting rainbows through the masculine darkness. Perhaps his wife designed it, if he has one.
“Don’t lag. You can take in the estate when your master is not waiting for you.”
I hurry behind him up the large stairs, leading to another two before we reach the landing he wants. My body is trembling with pain by the time we come to a stop in front of thick wooden doors. Stuart's knuckles rap against them in a cadence that matches my heart hammering in my chest.
“Come in.”
The doors open to a large office, ceiling-to-floor bookcases wedged between even grander windows on the back wall. Sitting proudly in front of it is a dark mahogany desk inlaid with rich emerald green. My master doesn’t bother looking up from the paperwork he's pouring over, his suit jacket discarded haphazardly over the sitting area in front of a roaring fire. My body jolts as Stuart pinches the tender skin on the back of my arm roughly, motioning with his head to the desk.
Oh God, right.
I scramble to the front of his desk, wincing at the loud sound of my knees hitting the wooden floor as I drop into my waiting position. My small chest heaves under the modest neckline of the dress, my skin prickling as his attention turns to me for a moment.
Stuart comes to stand beside me, nodding at me with approval. “Good. ”
My head snaps up. Even so, I don’t look him in the eyes. A stupid smile sits on my face despite my insides slowly being eroded by my anxiety. How embarrassing to be that swayed by a simple word. The older man halts for a moment, surprise quickly traded for a frown.
Master simply waves him off, plunging the room into silence, only the sound of my heavy breathing and the rustling papers filling the thick, miasma-like air. My bladder is well past overfull, making me squirm as the minutes tick by. I’ve counted and recounted the grooves in the panel of hardwood in front of me a thousand times over. My feet and legs are long gone to sleep underneath me as the wood bites into my knees. Eventually, the shadows in the room change as the morning sun rises fully into the sky. I can’t be sure how much time has passed, only that the clanking of the keyboard and scrambling of pen on paper lulled me into some sort of state close to sleep. The fire on the other side of the room is making me comfortably warm for the first time in ages.
It’s only then that Master moves, rolling back from his desk with a heavy sigh. “Stand.”
My legs are fully numb underneath me, and my sudden movement only serves to remind me of the critical level my bladder is reaching as I stand, fighting to keep my fidgeting to a minimum. Not even caressing the raised flesh on the back of my hand seems to relieve the pressure in my bloated belly.
“I’m sure you are tired, so your training will start after we’ve both had some rest.” His voice is like honey, deep and smooth. It reminds me of a chord played on the bass side of the piano. The sound of a drawer opening and closing comes seconds before the hint of his scent hits me in full force, like sage and oak. “You are never to remove your collar. Do you understand?”
My chest flutters. “Yes, Master.”
“You are never to let another handle your collar. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Lift your head.”
I do, my eyes settling on a pair of tight lips, stubble decorating what I’m sure is normally a clean-shaven face. The collar itself is simple, a rose gold chain with a hoop at the center. I breathe past the sense of dread as he adjusts it on my neck.
“You will have many collars—some for parties, play, daytime collars if you are permitted to leave the estate with me. This is a downtime collar; it must be worn at all times. Even in the shower, in bed. You are always to be marked.”
My eyes leave his lips, the way they move and the uncomfortable way that makes me feel. Instead, my gaze drops to the white ink lily tattooed on the back of my wrist, another physical reminder I’ll never be Chloe again.
“Look at me.”
My chin wobbles as I obey, staring at his nose as he takes me in, hoping the eye drops I was given earlier helped with the redness in my bad eye. I don’t need 20/20 vision to appreciate how beautiful he is.
Master tilts his head, making his wavy hair fall into his forehead as he appraises every inch of my face. My cheeks heat under his perusal as I shift on my feet again. “You have issues with your vision.”
“I, uhm, yes, I’m mostly blind in my left eye.”
“That’s why you’re wearing a contact?”
I shift again, stumbling over my words. What if he thinks my eye is ugly? Off-putting. “No, Master. Master—uhm, my previous Master at the House of Bloom thought my eye was unsettling. I was told to keep this contact in to hide it. It was not my intention to deceive—"
“Enough. Let me see.”
I lift my head higher, flinching as his warm hands gently grip my chin, angling my head. When he reaches towards my eye, I shrink back, turning my face away. “I can do it—"
My lips part as his grip on my chin tightens, a warning in his voice. “You will never pull away from me. Now, be still.”
“Yes, Sir,” I breathe out.
My eyes water as I fight to keep them open as he carefully removes the contact, discarding it somewhere behind him. My nails dig into my palm as he keeps me there, shifting and uncomfortable as I try to blink water from my eyes. The contact had done a great job of masking most of the light blaring from the back windows. Now? It burns like hell.
“You keep shifting. Why?” He asks as he drops my chin but remains towering over me, regarding my eye briefly before moving on to the rest of me. His white dress shirt is molded to his muscular form. Flush crawls up my neck, God knows why. I was stripped of any modesty at the House of Bloom, left to urinate on myself, but this isn’t there. This isn’t a bare-bones cement room; this isn’t Sir and his friends. There’s no cattle prod. And I’m embarrassed , the same way I was embarrassed when I’d use the bathroom at the dental office, always running the water so nobody could hear.
“I asked you a question.”
I shake my head, just a little. “Nerves. I’m sorry, Master.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat before moving away, heading toward the built-in bar in the room's corner. “Very well then.”
I watch him with no small amount of apprehension, my thighs pressed tightly together, wondering if I piss myself, he won’t want to rape me. He opens a tarnished, amber-colored jar, taking the matching measuring cup hanging off the side and digging it in. With a long, slender finger, he levels the rice in the cup, regarding it with stoney precision before walking back over to me.
I flinch as he kneels in front of me, spilling the small cup of rice on the floor at my feet. “Kneel.”
“What?”
“Do not ask what . If you are confused about an instruction, you may say as much.”
“I-I’m confused, Master.”
He sighs as he goes back to his seat at the desk. “You are being punished. You will kneel on the rice until I am finished.”
I nod, my stomach churning. “Yes, Sir. W-what have I done?” I ask quietly before quickly adding. “So I don’t disappoint you again.”
“ Good dogs do not go around wagging their tails for other masters,” he offers as he refocuses on the work at his desk.
Dogs? I’m being punished for…smiling at Stuart?
“I’m sorry, Master.” I stare at the scattered rice on the floor, a glimpse of him at the party, the women with the collars flooding my mind. As he types, I lift my head, sneaking a peek at him from under my lashes. How hadn’t I remembered? My lips part as I think of the way he stroked his cock for me, how I wantonly came, how I savored the flavor of him in my mouth. My cheeks heat further as I refocus on the rice. Each second that passes, the dry grains seem to wiggle their way deeper into my skin. He pays me no attention as I focus on being as still as possible. My aching, overfull bladder offers an unexpected distraction from the rice. I’m grateful. I can’t imagine the ways he might strive to make this more uncomfortable if he noticed the tears working their way down my cheeks. Out of the punishments I’m used to, this is nothing. Still, something feels different about it, more calculated than the prod or a violent fuck.
My entire body aches. Exhaustion has long since wormed its way into my bones. Time passes… slowly . Sometimes, Master gets up to do something out of my line of sight. I do my best not to let my attention wander. The sun is no longer shining directly in the windows by the time the pressure in my bladder and the bite of the rice makes me nauseous. His work shows no sign of slowing, despite it being afternoon. Eventually, discomfort wins out against my embarrassment.
“Master?”
“Yes, dog?”
I swallow hard. “I-I need to use the bathroom . Please .”
If I can even make it.
“I know. Perhaps next time, you’ll be honest about your needs. I will tolerate no half-truths or secrets from you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.” The words leave me in a whimper as I tighten my legs, a tiny leak escaping me.
A knock comes at the door, breaking my concentration.
“Come in.”
“Your afternoon coffee. Would you like me to bring your lunch as well?” A woman asks from behind me, her footsteps light on the wooden floor.
“Only coffee for now, thank you. Please leave the tray. I will help myself. ”
She pauses for a second before clearing off a miniature section of a now-cluttered desk and quickly leaving. My fists clench the fabric of my dress, hiking it up to above mid-thigh, trying to keep my breathing deep as he grabs the coffee cup and the heated thermos, walking over to me with lethal, measured steps.
“Pour this for me.”
I grit my teeth, irritation flooding me for a fleeting second. He's being mean . I’d rather he just hit me and let me use the bathroom at this point. “Yes, Master.”
I hiss in pain as I shift to grab the thermos, taking care to pour it into the cup for him. The trickle of the coffee seems to be the final straw, the smell a tease, making my mouth water despite being in agony. I wait until he's seated again to speak. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think I can hold it anymore.”
He peeks up at me, taking a long drink of coffee. “Some things can’t be helped.”
“I will have an accident, Sir,” I whisper, despite knowing, even if he let me up now, it wouldn’t make a difference.
“That’s unfortunate.”
I nod, tears welling in my eyes as I steel myself, focusing on the needle pricks of the rice. Even so, I only hold out for another minute or two before the warmth of my pee puddles underneath me. The smell of urine fills the luxurious room. I sniffle, choking back the sound of my stupid tears. My fisted hands shake in my lap as I sit, kneeling in my urine. The black dress, the only article of clothing I have, is now soiled. Humiliation burns hot, making my chest feel tight.
“Oh, please, Chloe, that’s disgusting.”
I sob, staring in horror at the soiled piano bench underneath me, my ruined dress and tights. “I’m sorry, Grandma.”
“If you see fit to behave like a damn animal, then you can sit like one. Finish the set.”
“Please, can I go clean up?”
Her voice is like a whip of disapproval and anger. “No, you play in your soiled clothes. This is your fault. If you don't like it, then perhaps maybe next time, you’ll remember to use the bathroom before we start.”
The keys blur behind the wall of my tears, my pee dripping into my dress shoes. “It was an accident.”
“Six is far too old for accidents, Chloe.”
The urine lessened the bite of the rice a bit, but it stings.
I kneel, haunting memories consuming my thoughts, but my tears run dry. By the time Master stands, I’m lost somewhere else, an unfortunate place I often visit these days. It’s not a happy place, perhaps not even happier , but it’s different, so I suppose that’s why I cling to it.
He pats his thigh twice, holding his hand out to me. I regard it carefully, my brows knitting together until he repeats the gesture, patting his thigh again. “This means come .”
My hand trembles as I slip it into his, whether from the pain or my renewed nerves, I’m not sure. His hand is warm and gentle. It seems to eclipse mine entirely. My knees, back, and well, everything ache as he helps me to my feet, only serving to bring more attention to the puddle of urine I’d been sitting in, soiling the hardwood.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” I whisper as he leads me away from the puddle, his large hand still eclipsing mine. It does a strange thing deep inside my belly.
“What for?” He responds as we enter the hall, heading down it a bit.
“The floor.”
He sighs, which seems to be a preferred mode of communication for him, before pulling me into a large bathroom. I cringe as his deft fingers peel the soiled dress off me, careful to keep the urine-soaked spots away from my face. “Apologize for the dishonesty, not for wetting yourself.”
Everything hurts.
Everything.
I’m again covered in my urine, and there’s surely rice embedded in my shins and knees, but standing here bare to the most handsome man I’ve ever seen does something sickening to me. A man who paid fifty million dollars for me as he fills the large, two-person tub up to the brim, rummaging through the bathroom closet for dark jars of thick, minty-smelling liquid before methodically drizzling it into the bath water.
He doesn’t speak, simply glances over his shoulder before hooking a finger through the loop of my collar and guiding me into the slowly filling tub. I hiss as the hot, foamy water meets my battered core, my still aching ass, but I don't complain. Soaking in a hot bath seems divine. He seems unmoved by all the things the other men loved about my body, my breasts heaving but ignored as he gently plucks the rice from my skin. Even though it's all soaked through with urine, he doesn’t seem to mind, but not in the way my teacher seemed to get off on it.
Then, he bathes me.
Slowly, methodically, and I feel my soul shatter all over again.