Chapter 16
Magnum
She was sound asleep when I woke, curled on her side with a hand tucked under her cheek. Beautiful. The picture of innocence.
Behind her, the heels were on top of the column, and damn, I love seeing them up there when I wake, reminded she’ll go back into them soon. Also, that the woman in my bed has agreed to be my slave. Such a rush.
My dick was granite hard, and I didn’t give her time to ease into the day.
I rolled her onto her back and shoved her thighs apart.
She made a small, startled sound as I settled over her, and I took one of her nipples between my teeth, biting down just hard enough to make her gasp.
I watched her face while I sucked and nibbled, learning exactly how much pressure it took to make her scent spike with heat instead of descending into acrid pain.
When her hips started to shift restlessly beneath me and her scent went thick and needy, I decided she was wet enough. No need to check.
I pushed up with my arms, lined up, and drove into her fiery-hot, swollen little cunt with a vicious thrust.
Her mouth opened on a silent cry, the pain clearly written across her face, and I fucking loved it.
She was raw from the night before, her ass still stretched around that fat plug I’d crammed in her tight little hole, and the way her body fought to simultaneously expel me and take me made my cock throb like a second fucking heartbeat.
I didn’t go slow. I fucked her with short, fast strokes, watching every flinch that crossed her face while she made a string of helpless, desperate sounds.
I reached between us and massaged her clit until she started clenching around me, right on the edge. The second I felt those first flutters, I pulled my hand away.
“You don’t have permission,” I told her, voice low with warning.
Her eyes flew wide open, and the frustrated, desperate scent that poured off her went straight to my head. And balls.
I fucked her harder, chasing my own climax while she hovered and fought the release she wasn’t allowed.
Knowing how close she was, watching her fight it with a pleading, pained expression made me blow harder than I had in months.
I buried myself deep and came with a low groan, grinding into her while I came into the condom, and my little slave clenched tight around me, whimpering with need.
Right on the edge without permission to tip over.
I stayed inside her, cock still twitching, soaking in her reactions to being denied. I breathed in and parsed the scents — the thick thread of her frustration, her dismay, the sharp edge of anger, and over everything else was the heady scent of her raw, overwhelming need.
Denial is such a fucking power rush, I wanted to fuck her all over again — but she wasn’t up for that, so I pulled out and dealt with the damned condom.
“Permission to leave the bed and use the toilet, my needy little denied fuckdoll.”
I’d started using ‘my’ when I referred to her, and I recognized the danger in it.
I was growing way too attached to this woman who’d be leaving once the threat was handled.
This investigative reporter who’d agreed not to share what she learned while here, but only because she didn’t have other options for taking the fight ring down.
We were making the most of our time while she was trapped here.
That was it, and I should probably stop thinking of her as mine.
I helped her out of bed, and she moved carefully, still shaky, and I followed her into the bathroom. Slaves don’t get privacy.
I didn’t stare, though. I stepped into the shower, turned it on, and adjusted the temperature. When she stood, I stepped out to remove the cincher and then walked her into the shower — and ordered her to kneel before me under the water.
I had her wash my cock and balls first, her hands slick with soap, working carefully around the base.
Then I turned her around, bent her over, and washed her cunt myself, taking my time, making sure she felt every stroke of my fingers, washing between her folds and all around her clit.
“Good behavior today means orgasms tonight. Mediocre behavior means you don’t. ”
Her breath caught, but she didn’t respond, and I was pleased.
“Stand,” I told her, and when she obeyed, I added, “Inspection.”
She immediately went into the Gorean pose, and it made me wonder just how familiar she was with it. Had she role-played it? I knew there were clubs that really got into it, pretending it’s real, following all the rules.
This pose has the slave standing with feet shoulder-width apart, fingers laced behind the head, tits out, back arched, stomach sucked in — and fuck, she was beautiful in it, standing in the shower with water streaming over her.
I took my time washing her tits, paying special attention to the way her nipples tightened under my not-so-tender ministrations.
When we were both clean, I dried her off and locked the heels back on her feet.
“Bring your daytime cincher,” I said. “Two steps behind me, to my left.”
She picked it up without argument, followed me to the dungeon, and jumped up to grab the bar when I pointed to it.
I stepped behind her and began the process of lacing the steel-boned cincher again.
I scented her distress from the start, but I kept going because it’s normal — the day a slave realizes this will be a twice-daily event, with no escape.
It would either work for her, or it wouldn’t, but it wasn’t optional.
Sure enough, the second I began pulling the laces tight, her breathing changed, she sobbed, and I scented tears.
I kept working, though. Tears don’t stop the inevitable. “I know it’s hard,” I said quietly, still working the laces. “The life of a slave is rough, but you want to be pleasing to your owner, don’t you, little cunt?”
She nodded, and the scent of her tears grew stronger. I let her sob while I worked the laces, measured, and noted the numbers.
- - - ? - - -
Storm
His voice was low and almost sympathetic while he kept pulling the laces tighter, telling me the life of a slave is rough, asking if I want to be pleasing to my owner.
His words landed like a slap and a caress at the same time, and my eyes burned while the tears fell.
My torso felt bruised, and the cincher was already squeezing everything too tight again when he’d barely gotten started.
But the only way to get high-protocol was to wear it — and I wanted the rules and structure, but just not the damned steel-fucking-bones squeezing and constricting my entire core.
Also, the damned plug had been in me too fucking long, stretching tissues that had cramped and spasmed until I could feel it in my hips and back.
But it wasn’t just the physical ache bringing on tears I couldn’t seem to stop. It was the weight of the whole last twenty-something hours since he’d decided denying our kinky natures wasn’t working and had taken control.
He’d used me, denied me, corrected me, and the needy submissive inside me craved everything he’d done. Everything he was doing.
It was too much, it was exactly right, it was… too fucking perfect while being too much, and his crass words, spoken with seeming sympathy, had driven home the fact that belonging to him felt bigger than life itself.
I wanted to hate the words, wanted to deny them, but my asshole clenched around the plug and my cunt spasmed and wished it was full, despite how fucking raw I was inside.
Tears spilled over and ran down my cheeks, but he didn’t mention it again. Just kept working on the job at hand.
He sent me to make breakfast, and I have no idea where he went while I worked, but an apron was draped over the island, and I figured this was his answer to me asking for a shirt to cook in. It covered my front but not my back.
Every step in the heels made the plug shift.
Every time I bent to get something from a lower cabinet, the cincher bit in and reminded me of my status.
I kept glancing toward the hallway, wondering how I was supposed to let him know the food was ready when I wasn’t allowed to speak.
My stomach was in knots by the time he appeared in the doorway, just as everything was ready.
Was he watching me on hidden cameras? It wouldn’t surprise me.
Normally, I’d talk to someone about privacy issues if I thought they were getting me naked on video, but without even having the conversation, I knew he’d never abuse the trust I was giving him.
There probably weren’t cameras inside his home, but if there were, he wouldn’t be recording anything — just a live feed he could watch.
He looked around the kitchen, sat, and began eating without saying a word. After a few bites, he started scrolling on his phone, reading and swiping while he ate.
I took the apron off, sat, ate — and was completely ignored in the thick silence he didn’t seem to notice. I’d thought he’d at least look up when I took the apron off, but he didn’t.
I ate because I was hungry, but every bite felt strange with him sitting there, thumb moving across the screen like I wasn’t in the room.
I wanted to ask if he needed anything else.
Wanted to ask what the day was going to look like.
Instead, I sat and ate, hyper-aware of the plug and the way my body was already starting to throb in low, insistent pulses as the situation reminded me of the facts: Slaves only speak with permission during high-protocol hours.
Slaves aren’t guaranteed attention. Slaves operate on their owner’s needs and wishes. Not on theirs.
I’ve been told these things before. I know the rules.
They’re still a bitch though, every time I’m confronted by the realities of the life I need and crave.
When you give up the right to make decisions, you can’t bitch about the decisions the other person makes.
This means you have to be super-careful about who you cede power to, but so far, Magnum had shown me he’s worthy.