Chapter 13
Storm
Fuck, I’d never been close enough to an orgasm to warn him, but he’d worked me really-fucking-damned close to it. My asshole burned and clenched around the plug, and I was so damned full inside it felt like it was battling with the cincher for space inside me.
If we were going to go through this every day then he hadn’t been wrong about saying I’m not likely to miss anal.
I stood and looked around at his playroom. Good, sturdy equipment. Nothing extravagant, and I figured he’d made everything except the whiskey barrel, and he’d probably built the stand it was in.
It didn’t take me long to clean up, and it wasn’t going to be possible to forget the plug, the cincher, or the shoes.
I made my way down the stairs and across the house, where he was sitting on the sofa, looking at his phone.
“Bottom right cabinet of the wall unit has the dusting supplies. I assume you know what you’re doing, but I’ll watch and catch any problems before you do the entire house and have to redo your work.”
I eyed the cabinet and had to decide whether to squat to get to it, or just spread my legs, bend over, and give him a show.
I’m not body shy with someone I’m intimate with, so I opted for the easy way, especially considering the shoes. He had a long electrostatic microfiber wand, two handheld dusters in different sizes, and a stack of microfiber cloths in the cabinet.
“When you finish for the day, you’ll need to toss the heads and cloths in the dryer on cool for about ten minutes to get the dust off them. Every so often, they go in the washer, but the dryer does the job in between,” he told me while I was looking around, deciding where to start.
He didn’t have a lot of knick-knacks. The built-in unit was mostly books, and I hoped to hell he didn’t expect me to move them. I swiped every shelf and then went back with the rag to get the crevice between the shelves and the books.
The heels made every step deliberate, and I felt as if I was on display.
The plug shifted with every step and every reach, and the cincher kept my posture rigid whether I wanted it or not.
I was very aware of him watching, and it made even the simple act of lifting the wand to the top shelf feel especially…
not debased or demeaned, but it highlighted my new status as slave.
I love cleaning and just generally being pleasing to the man I’ve chosen to submit to, but the heels and cincher added to it and made my position even… louder.
I dusted a lamp on a table, then moved it to dust the table before replacing it.
I took three steps and stopped to look at a giant snapping turtle on another table.
It had to be two feet long, his scaled reptile neck holding his intimidating head high, mouth closed and eyes looking a little too lifelike.
“Long story,” he said. “Another time. We do have at least one of that size in the lake, though.”
I nodded, dusted it, then the table, and kept going. Bending at the waist to wipe the top of a large planter pulled at the cincher and repositioned the plug at the same time, and I gave a little yelp and had to grab the tree in the planter to keep my balance.
It took longer than it should have to do the entire house.
The constant awareness of the plug and the way the heels forced me to move so damned carefully made everything slower.
Every time I had to stretch or bend, the cincher forced my spine to conform to the damned steel spines holding it into an arch, and the combination of the heels and cincher majorly fucked with my body mechanics.
I was constantly adjusting my stance, trying to ease the pressure inside me without being obvious about it. He only had me change the way I was doing things a few times, but every time, his patient, gravelly voice sent a fresh pulse of heat through me that had nothing to do with dusting.
I know a lot of people hate dusting, but I truly enjoy making a room sparkle. I think clearing away the dulling layer gives me the same dopamine rush people get from clearing a board in a video game.
Though I admit, I was glad he doesn’t have louvered blinds because those are a huge pain in the ass to keep clean. I think he buys things with a thought toward dusting, because he has a lot of artwork, but the frames are simple to dust.
When I finished the last room, he told me, “Protocol when you finish is to put the heads and cloths in the dryer, keeping the cleanest cloth out, and then come get me so I can assess your work. After inspection, you get everything from the dryer, reassemble and fold, and stow everything away for the next time. No need for inspection today since I watched as you worked, so do the dryer, put everything away, and then meet me in the dungeon.”
He wanted orders to be acknowledged, so I said, “Yes, Sir.”
My feet and calves were burning by this time, but I walked as gracefully as I could out of the room, the plug shifting with every step.
I sat at the kitchen table and drank some ice water while the dryer did its job, but got back to it as soon as it finished.
The muscles around the plug were cramping with the stretch, and I was glad he wasn’t in the room to hear my gasp and whimper when I leaned down to put all the supplies back in the bottom living room cabinet.
I made my way back upstairs yet again, the heels clicking on the hardwood steps, my stomach tightening because I had no idea what would happen next.
On the one hand, if the high-protocol part of the day was over and he was about to get me out of the heels and cincher, and remove the fucking plug, it would be a huge relief… and yet, I’d also be a little disappointed.
On the other hand, if he was about to fuck me again, I was both excited and a little terrified, because I was still so damned raw inside from the morning session.
I looked in the dungeon and found him doing a handstand in the middle of the room, every-so-slowly pressing up and down, every arm and shoulder muscle rippling.
I stopped just inside the door, and he came down gracefully and stood.
“Grab the bar again, slave.”
My legs and feet were beyond exhausted, but I jumped and grabbed it, and then appreciated the stretch in my spine once I was hanging despite the strain of holding on.
He came in behind me a minute later and walked two slow circles around me before he crouched, unlocked the shoes, and removed them.
I squeezed my toes and curled my feet, the relief immediate.
“Bend your legs up, to the outside of your body. Knees out to the side of your torso, feet hanging down.”
I had to grip the bar tighter to manage it, and it was harder to breathe, folded in half with the cincher restricting so much of my torso.
It didn’t take me long to figure out this was to make it easier for him to grab the plug and work it out, twisting and pulling until it came free, and I couldn’t help the girly-girl yelp that came out. I hate sounding like a wounded female, but I couldn’t help it.
My hole clenched around nothing — throbbing, fatigued, sore and strangely empty — but I stayed bent, fighting for air. He patted the side of my hip and said, “Legs can dangle again.”
He started on the laces of the cincher, and he worked faster than before, loosening them in steady pulls until the pressure finally eased and I could breathe normally.
When the last lace came free, he peeled the cincher away from my skin and dropped it on a cart beside the shoes and plug.
And I just breathed, fully oxygenating my body and enjoying the freedom from those horrible stays or bones or whatever they’re called. My waist felt tender where they’d pressed in, and my skin was slightly damp and cool.
He stepped in close behind me and ran his fingers along what I figured were the marks from the cincher for a good thirty seconds before he finally said, “Permission to release.”
I dropped to my bare feet and turned to face him. My legs felt unsteady without the heels, but I managed to deal with it without needing to take a step for balance.
“Who am I?” he asked.
Ah, another signal that things had changed. I loved the way he structured this, to delineate when we were in high versus low protocol. “Magnum,” I told him with a smile.
He stepped back and scanned me from head to toe with an assessing look, then reached out and ran his thumb along the red line under my breasts, engraved into my skin by the top edge of the cincher.
“You saw where I got the shoes and plug. Cincher goes in the compartment above the shoes, but drape it over the bar, for now, with the lining facing up. Put everything else away and come to the office. You’re allowed to dress as you wish during low-protocol hours unless I want you naked.
Stop by your bedroom for clothes, run down to the kitchen to get me a glass of lemonade and whatever you want to drink, and meet me in the office. ”
I nodded, still catching my breath. Part of me was relieved to be free from the relentless squeezing pressure, the forced posture, and the plug I’d had to work around all morning.
But another part of me already missed it.
The cincher had been a constant, physical reminder of exactly where I stood with him. Without it, I felt… untethered.
I didn’t say any of that out loud. I just turned and headed for my room, completely flat-footed, and hyperaware of my nakedness when it hadn’t bothered me before.
I stepped into a royal blue cotton thong and topped it with leggings and a T-shirt, but I didn’t bother with a bra. I headed downstairs for the drinks, and he was already seated at the desk when I made it to the office, the computer going through the boot-up sequence from the USB.
“I figure we look harder for a second location,” I told him. “We have a list of corporations they use for their charities and businesses. Can you get back into the file at the electric company? We can do a search for those names. Can do the same with land records.”
He nodded. “Excellent idea. I want to look through the crypto trail more, too. We’ll do the land thing first.”
An hour later, we agreed the electric company was a dead end, and he stood and let me at the keyboard to research the land records. I appreciated that he realized I’d be better and faster at it than him without me having to point it out.
Also, I’d worried a little about the power dynamic getting us off track, but we worked nonstop without it being an issue.
Two hours later, I gave up on the property search and went downstairs to cut some fruit and cheese, and brought it back up with tea for both of us while he got started looking through the crypto again.
Forty minutes in, he found a medical purchase.
We compared the cost to what we could find on the company’s online store, and agreed it’d possibly been a handheld ultrasound, and neither of us spoke aloud about the haunting implications.
The fight organizers likely had a doctor on staff, and he’d need diagnostic tools.
What we couldn’t find, however, was a food vendor, and there had to be one, if not several.
They were feeding a lot of fighters, plus they’d have to serve gourmet food to the uber-rich guests.
If we could find a vendor, we should be able to figure out where it was being delivered, but after hours of searching, we came up empty.
“Decisions decisions,” Magnum said, leaning back in his chair, assessing me with his Dom gaze for the first time in hours. “I need some physical activity, but we can’t go for a run, and I need more than a swim. I have free weights out in the garage. What’s your preference for a workout?”
“I use weights some, but I’d rather stretch and move today. There are a few dance-things on YouTube I can do.”
He nodded. “Okay then, here’s the rest of the schedule you don’t know about yet — most days, the high-protocol session will begin in the evening and will end the following morning after your cleaning chores are finished and approved.
Today, after we work out and shower, you’ll go back into your slave-gear.
Most nights, you’ll sleep in a waist cincher without bones, and the regular one will go back on once you wake. ”
My stomach somersaulted at the casual way he laid it out, reminding me it’d already been decided and I was simply being informed that this would now be part of my daily routine.
The idea of being laced back into the cincher every single day sent a sharp pulse of heat between my legs, and I shifted in my chair to try to deal with my throbbing clit.
This man didn’t do anything halfway, and fuck me, it was completely working for me.
“Also, since we’re done working, I think I’d like you naked the rest of the day. If you need an exercise bra to work out, you can, but then it comes off.”
“Can I wear a shirt while I cook, Sir?” I asked, somehow managing to keep my voice steady.
When he nodded, I added, “The exercise bra is appreciated. I’ll need at least forty minutes for my workout, if that’s okay.”
“It is. When you finish, go ahead and get started on dinner. I’ll likely be about an hour and fifteen minutes. I’m kind of in the mood for Mexican, unless you have a better idea?”
I’d seen refried beans, and I knew he had all the spices I’d need, plus beef and cheese. “Mexican sounds great. I’ll see what I can throw together.”