30. To own is to…. Wound
Chapter thirty
To own is to…. Wound
Jokes on You by Charlotte Lawrence
M y heart pounds in my ears in a sickening, whooshing sound as I’m guided onto the yacht, the smell of saltwater this time a very physical thing. I make a conscious effort to block out the sight of the murky, foreboding water that surrounds us. As much as the idea of being touched makes me want to shed my skin, I want to please the man at my back, to show him I’m capable of all the things I was trained to do. I can be useful to him. His hand firmly grips the back of my serpent collar. The gesture would’ve seemed attentive, possessive, endearing if it wasn’t wrought with tension. My collar itself is beautiful, resembling a serpent slithering around my neck, the trail resting just under my collarbone, the head stopping just above the valley of my breasts. It’s a stunning, heavy dark gold to match my dress, my hair left to fall in waves down my back. I freeze as the boat rocks, stepping back into Master. He simply tightens his hand, making the collar press against my flesh in warning.
I scan the crowd on the lower deck, searching for the man I’m meant to seduce. The plan is simple, really: get his attention. Once I have it, offer myself as a gift from my master. I fuck him. Nothing in this world is free. He knows that. My master needs proof that the man’s house had a hand in the ambush that killed his father. Although it won’t take any explanations for the man to know what’s needed of him. Everyone knows, which is exactly why it’s a risk for him to be here, why he can’t openly approach the man. Any single person here could tell Tyet, and they’d quickly close their ranks, which means killing off everyone and deleting anything that could get Sir what he needs.
I’ve gleaned enough from our time together that this is important to him, the most important thing to him. It’s more than enough to make me steel my gut to its churning and my mind away from the crashing waves as the boat undocks, pulling away from the marina.
I’m not in the water.
I repeat it like a mantra until Master's lips grace my neck. “Would a drink help to calm your nerves?”
Nothing, absolutely nothing, would help, but I nod anyway. At least I get a drink before I spread my legs. “Please, Sir.”
He calls to a server before pulling us toward the huge, L-shaped couch, settling me into his lap. I press myself tighter into him, hyperaware of the way his nose buries in my hair, inhaling me. His arms cage me against him, my entire body responding in kind. I melt . “Are you scared, little pet?”
My breath shudders. “Terrified.”
The wide splatter-shaped table is inky black, lit from underneath with warm lights as a server lays down the drinks. Master makes a disapproving sound when I reach for mine, making me still my hand, placing it back on my lap. He picks up whatever he ordered for me, taking a drink before gripping my chin, angling my head up as he lets the liquor run from his mouth into mine. Even here, anxiety burrowing through my bones and sick churning in my gut, my body readies for him. My core pulses and slickens, but the drink is gone too quickly, the moment fizzled away and sucked out to sea.
Soon enough, I’m up, joining the other bodies writhing together on the first deck. Alcohol makes my head feel lighter, but it does nothing for the anxiety. I stay in the middle, gasping when I’m pushed or shoved even slightly. Everyone here is dressed like they’re going to the red carpet. It makes no sense for a yacht. Even with my upbringing, this is a level of wealth I can’t even fathom. My cheeks flush as a woman grips my hips, swaying them in tune with hers. Master’s eyes are rapturous as he watches me, only paying half a mind to the conversations around him. Soon enough, I feel it again, that pulsing, throbbing need . The party drags on, the shoreline distant, and now and then, the smell of saltwater makes the panic rise in my chest.
Stuart appears from the shadows like Nosferatu, leaning down to whisper something in Sir’s ear. Not literally; he’d just walked over from the bar, but he might as well have for how malevolent the man always looks. Sir raises the rest of his drink to me in an offering. I go to him willingly. Not because I want it, but because I want to be close to him. I extract myself from the other writhing bodies, walking over to him, sweat slicking my hairline. He wastes no time resting the drink on my lips, all but forcing me to swallow it, like we both know if I’m sober, I’ll fuck this up. It’s not a reassuring thought.
His fingers drift possessively over my collar as he works his jaw. His free arm locks me against him so hard, it borders on painful. “Keep your eyes on me. He’s been watching you. Upper deck. You touch nobody but him, and he doesn’t kiss you. Dance for another song or two. Let him come to you. He will. Understand?”
The dread that’s been looming over me all evening settles heavily on my shoulders. The laughing and music batter my eardrums; it’s too loud, too pressing as I flash Master a wide smile I don’t feel. “Yes, Master.”
I don’t miss the hungry eyes surrounding us, and neither does he. The moment I leave his lap, he’s approached again by several men.
“Is that the infamous Lily from last season’s auctions?”
“I see you’ve finally loosened your reins.”
So much for a low profile at the party.
I peek over my shoulder as he watches me, his quiet anger lingering, ready. If I didn’t know better, I’d call it jealousy, but that’s likely wishful thinking. I’m here, after all, going to fuck a man he needs something from. It doesn’t take long to clock him, or for him to clock me , pushing through the other men and women dancing and grinding as I swallow past the sick stuck in my throat.
“Careful. Wouldn’t want that master of yours to see you straying too far. He’s been watching you like a hawk.”
I smile, letting my hair fall in my face as I move past him. “But so were you.” My eyes graze over a couple fucking on the upper deck, the man loudly mewling as he grinds down on another man’s cock, searching for that heat so hard, as if I will it into existence.
For a long time, I was confused how so many seemed to recognize me, why I was so highly sought after. According to Stuart, if he can be trusted, me falling to the ground and sobbing during the auction party made quite the impression, varying from the damsel in distress effect to men wanting to put me down like a defective model.
The man who follows me keeps a safe distance, just like Master said he would. Approaching me straight away would look bad. Most of the people here don’t run nearly that high in their circle, but those who do make this dangerous. The more I dance, the more he watches, no longer pretending not to. I’m panting, my stomach cramping by the time I get up enough courage to drift toward the bow of the boat, not only my fear of the water making each step grueling, but the man . No amount of coddling and forgetting could erase the harsh and brutal way I was taken before Master, when the lines of pain and pleasure didn’t blur but veered violently. There was no one watching, easing off when it got too much. There was blood and screaming, and it didn’t matter how much of either; they weren’t stopping.
His eyes dart over the railing, and I can feel Sir’s like a hot iron as the man follows me. I don’t hazard a look back at my master. The hungry way the man is looking at me is enough to tell me I’ve already won, but my stomach feels sick.
You want this.
I can remember my trainer’s touch, how good it felt when he wanted it to, how hard I begged for it. Even when I didn’t want it, it didn’t matter; I begged for that feeling. I assure myself I’ll fall back into that place, but it’s a lie. Already, my core has dried. Everything has changed. I’ve changed, fundamentally. I’m different.
I’m his.
The salty wind blows my hair around my face as I stare out at the ocean.
“Chloe!” Renee screams somewhere out in the distance, but she’s not there. I’m not in the water, and I want this.
“Neither my boss nor I am stupid.”
I pause, spinning to look at him, only to find the man close. Very close. Panic strikes me like a bolt, making my heart frenzied in my chest. I don’t know what to do, my mind going back to Master’s other pets, the ones he left at Andres’ party.
Would he leave me here?
“You have any idea how quickly he’d kill me if he even knew I allowed that man on the boat? Let alone followed you back here. It’s all but signing a contract with the man.”
“But you did let him on the boat, and you’re here.” I reach out, testing the smooth material of his dress shirt underneath my palm.
When I go to remove my hand, he grabs my wrist. It doesn’t hurt yet, but my breath leaves me all at once. “Then we might as well make it worth my while.”
I take a step back, but he follows me, leaning in as he nibbles at my neck. “What is this going to cost me?” He laughs. “Aside from my life.”
I try to laugh with him, but it sounds all wrong. Before he can take a step back to rethink anything, I lift my hands to the back of his head, burying my fingers in his slicked-back hair. He’s handsome, really, in a gruff, street-hardened way, exactly the kind of man who used to make me blush when I passed them. A man like my master, but without the funds to build a sprawling Victorian estate nestled in the hills. A man who could never make me his dog.
He’s not the man who killed for me.
The man I killed for.
The man who made me forget I wanted to go home.
His hand snakes up my skirt like the serpent on my collarbone, posited and ready to strike, and strike he did. His fingers prod and tug at my lace underwear until it rips, chafing my skin as he pulls it away, bringing it to his nose and inhaling. The moan that leaves his mouth settles in my gut like expired tuna as he shoves my underwear into his pocket.
His hands tug and pinch at my skin, like he’s expecting it to come off, before my knees meet the floor of the yacht with a hollow thud. My hands splay out to brace myself on his thighs as he jerks his weeping cock out, smacking the hard length across my cheek. I’ve heard of mushroom stamps before, in jokes. I never thought anyone actually did it. My thighs press together as I wiggle, trying to force any sensation where none is as he shoves his cock into my mouth. Where Master’s is thick, his is like a pencil, long but thin, assaulting my uvula and making me gag violently. I retch, trying to shove him away, when he jerks my head back, his palm making my scalp sting. “Don’t fucking puke,” he orders, fucking my mouth—no, fucking my throat .
I'm going on four hours of sleep, six vomits, two alcoholic beverages, a metric ton of trauma and anxiety, and little to no food.
Of course, I was going to puke.
I try to stop him, crying out, my nails digging into his flesh as he shoves his Stretch Armstrong cock down my throat again. The result is immediate. Vomit gushes around his length, spewing as he quickly withdraws, leaving me choking on my sick as he complains about his pants and shoes. I’m still coughing when he jerks me to my feet, cursing me. My dress dances across my skin in rough, jerky movements as he grips my collar, holding me hostage by it. “Hard to believe you’re a Bloom girl.”
It feels wrong .
The looming panic overhead shoots down into my chest like beams, only I'm not being abducted. His vomit-covered cock is jerking against my dry cunt like a broken probe. I gasp, my hands flying out to try to shove him away, but he’s a brick wall. I’m useless against him as he spins me around. When my stomach hits the railing, my eyes gape. Nothing but the pounding music and the dark expanse of the ocean greet me. Everything I hate piles together to make something so abhorrent, my sobs leave me in choked pleas.
Like before, no amount of begging makes a bit of difference. His cock worms its way inside like a well-endowed maggot, and like the rotted host my body has become, it slickens as I cry. My body relents, giving him everything, and he uses it, thrusting into me with wild abandon.
“Mast—"
His hand clasps over my mouth. “Shut up.”
My breath comes through his sweaty palm as he shoves into me, my hands gripping the railing until I can’t stand the feel of him—the sight of the ocean, the taste of the saltwater, or her screams in the distance. I slam the sharp heel of my shoe back, connecting with the fleshy part of his foot. Even through his shoe, I can tell it hurt. He makes an error sound, but his hands are off me, and soon enough, his cock is gone as I spin to face him, my chest heaving.
“I’m sorry,” I yelp. God knows why. I didn’t mean to say anything at all. The moment his eyes turn to me, I can tell my apology means nothing. He’s pissed, and there’s no one in sight to stop whatever is coming. His hands brace my chest and shove . Like crying out in a nightmare, my scream is utterly voiceless.
Until I hit the frigid water.
And there she is, underneath the turbulent depths, pulling me under.