Chapter 18 #2
The following day, he put MAINTENANCE on the calendar in deep red for the following Tuesday at seven p.m.
The calendar was my second Master, in some ways.
I was constantly checking it, making sure I was on schedule and hadn’t missed anything, and my eyes went to that deep red entry every fucking time, sitting there like a threat.
I felt it in my fluttering stomach every damned time — as well as my clit, which seemed to think it was a reason to engorge with blood and start throbbing while my mind went through every possible worst-case scenario.
I was terrified about how badly his huge-fucking cock would hurt my asshole, and every morning, the reality of it came closer and closer, like an execution. Okay, that’s overdramatic. A root canal, maybe. Without laughing gas or those damned numbing shots.
I’d catch myself standing in front of the tablet longer than necessary, staring at the deep red letters, imagining how he might situate me on the bed, or maybe over the bar he sometimes made me lean over to be plugged.
And there was no doubt that, wherever he fucked me, he’d hold me down when I fought him.
Part of me wanted to ask him exactly what maintenance would look like — where and when and how long — but I was too terrified of the answer. I knew him well enough at this point to know that, if he said anything at all, it would just be something to make me even more scared.
So I said nothing, and the date kept getting closer, and every morning the knowledge sat heavier in my chest.
Some things settled into a comfortable routine, like waiting in wall pose when he sent me to the dungeon.
It was peaceful, knowing my job was just to wait in the pose, which is crazy considering I hated what came after: having to hang from the bar to be laced and plugged.
But the pose itself — ass out, back arched, arms high — felt like a kind of home base.
A steady, grounding part of the day’s routine.
My favorite part of every day, though, was when I was given permission to let go of the bar in the evening, and he’d look down on me, his gaze on mine, and ask some version of, “Who am I, slave?” Sometimes it was cunt, once it was my little weeping fucktoy, but the best part of the day was when I got to answer, “Sir. You’re my Sir. ”
One evening, he put one of his shirts on me, ordered me to put my sport sandals on, and walked me down to his dock.
He sat in an Adirondack chair with me in his lap, and slowly fingered my pussy, manipulated my clit, and just generally treated me like a relaxing fidget toy while we sat quietly and listened to the noisy wildlife all around us.
I couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell him how much of a torment it was, how badly I needed more.
Eventually, I just rested my cheek on his shoulder and endured the pleasure and the pain while my heart raced and my entire lower torso throbbed with unfulfilled, maddening need.
And what I didn’t let myself fully consider in the moment was that this was the kind of thing that could make me completely, head-over-heels fall for him, if I wasn’t careful.
It was the opposite of his usual strict rules and walled-off emotions.
It was casual intimacy wrapped in tender but still absolute power exchange — red hot danger, for me.
Like a hot stove I couldn’t resist touching.
Speaking of stoves, meals were a whole different ballgame.
Breakfast and dinner were unpredictable.
Sometimes he allowed for respectful conversation, other times he ignored me, and I had to sit and eat in silence, hyper-aware of every shift of the plug and every shallow breath the cincher allowed while he was completely absorbed in his phone.
Occasionally, he peppered me with questions, choosing a topic and then demanding I tell him what I loved, what I hated, what I was neutral about.
He’d ask how I was handling the protocol, make me detail exactly what hurt and how sore it was.
How I was handling it both physically and mentally — and I had to answer.
No deflecting. No “I don’t know.” He wanted the truth and he expected it fast.
Lunch was different, when I was dressed and we were…
not equals, exactly, but conversation could flow naturally and it felt as if I was actually getting to know him.
We talked about the investigation, about food, about nothing important.
I tried a few times to ask about his past — childhood, school, siblings, parents — but he always changed the subject or quietly deflected.
Meanwhile, during high-protocol, he asked all about my history when I had no choice but to give him full answers, but there was no point in lamenting the fairness of it, since that isn’t even a tiny consideration in a power-exchange relationship.
The point of an owner/slave relationship, by definition, is the opposite of fair.
But that isn’t why I let it go. If this was just a fling while I was trapped in his house, it didn’t matter. If we decided to make it more at some point? I’d need to get to know him better, but in our current configuration, it wasn’t important, no matter how much I wanted to know the real man.
He fucked me so much longer the first night we could do away with the condom.
He jackhammered into me until I thought my pussy might self-combust from the friction.
Finally, he came deep inside me, but then dropped between my legs and ate me out before rising above me and shoving himself back into me, fucking me with long, hard strokes that scraped every overstimulated nerve.
He drove into me faster and faster, thoroughly enjoying skin-on-skin while I sobbed and begged for mercy.
When he finally came inside me again, his face was the picture of bliss.
He allowed four orgasms instead of the usual three, but my pussy felt scorched from the friction, and I was still trembling when he soothed me and rubbed my back after, helping me drop off into sleep.
By the end of the week, it felt like my body was being rewritten for his pleasure.
Plugged, laced, denied, used, and so far beyond sore I wasn’t sure how to define it.
And still, every time he tightened the damned cincher around me, or ordered me into a Gorean pose, or spread my legs and prepared to fuck me again, every dark and hungry part of me answered yes.
Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.
I’d never considered myself a masochist, and I started to reconsider that.
He gave me different kinds of pain — the constant pressure of the cincher, the relentless reminder of the plug owning my asshole, the twice-daily fucking sessions, not to mention the damned heels.
He wasn’t belting or caning me, and he’d never clamped my nipples or clit, but he still fucking hurt me for hours and hours every single day.
And yes, the waist cincher wasn’t him actively hurting me outside of the minutes he took to tighten it, but intentionally hurting me while he fucked me was about as pointed and direct as it could get.
The dichotomy, though, was despite the fact I hated the pain even when it turned me on, I was also thriving under the rules, the protocols, and that monster of a dick he used like a weapon.
The structure held me together even while it took me apart.
By the end of the week, I no longer knew where the line was between enduring him and needing him.