Chapter 22
Storm
I just stared at him while my brain went through answers I absolutely didn’t want to tell him.
He had finally, fully claimed me last night.
His dominance of me was more complete than any other Dom had ever managed.
He hadn’t just hurt me, he’d broken me open and shattered my last walls.
I was his in a way I’d never been for another man, and that thought terrified me.
But no way in fuck was I telling him that. I had to tell him the truth, but nothing said he got all of it.
“We’re more owner and owned now, Sir. There’s all kinds of data out there about breaking a slave and building her back, and you broke me open last night.”
He watched me while he chewed a bite of steak, considering, and finally said, “True, but not the absolute truth I asked for. There’s more.”
I looked down at my plate. How does he always know when I don’t give him the entire truth?
No way would I ever dare lie to him, even if that wasn’t part of my moral code with Doms and boyfriends — if I can’t be honest with them, the relationship isn’t working and it’s time to leave.
But that doesn’t mean they always get the full truth, especially so early in a relationship.
But somehow, Magnum always knew when I was only giving him part of an answer.
I looked back up to meet his gaze. “I’m not really sure how to articulate the rest of it, Sir.
Yes, there’s more, but do you really need to know you’ve claimed more of me than any other Dom has managed?
That whatever strings are between us grew stronger and shorter last night?
” I rolled my eyes. “It sounds silly when I say it out loud, Sir.”
“The truth is never silly, and yes, I felt it, too. You’re more mine now than you were, but that also feels…
precarious. You haven’t agreed to stay past the danger, and I don’t even know if you’d be interested in that.
” He held a hand up. “Don’t answer that, slave.
I’m not inviting and you aren’t asking. It might be a conversation we have another day, but not yet, and not during high-protocol hours. ”
“Thanks for that, Sir. For the record, it probably is a conversation we should have at some point, but not hours after you completely obliterated me, please Sir.”
When we finished eating and he ordered me to stand, I dreaded having to go to my toes again, but I did so as gracefully as I could manage and just told my calves to deal with it. Fuck, they wanted to cramp and bitch about it, though.
“Upstairs, slave,” he said, surprising me, because I was supposed to clean the kitchen now.
But no way in fuck was I going to argue with him, so I turned and made my way up the steps — and stayed on my toes even once out of his sight.
I went to wall pose, once again staying on my toes even though I desperately wanted to go to my heels and stretch my calves, and I wondered how long I’d have to wait.
I looked to my right, to the mattress platform, and realized no one had cleaned up last night.
That would probably be my first job today.
Had he intended for me to come up and clean? Should I be doing that?
No, I decided. He’d have told me to clean if that’d been his intention. Following protocol was the right move.
He came up after no more than three or four minutes, and he started talking the instant he was in the room.
“Jump up, slave.”
I did so without a word. He’d given an order and hadn’t asked a question, after all. Slaves obey; they do not comment on the order.
My arms stretched over my head, and gravity resettled my body below me, reminding me all over again of the shape my pussy and asshole were in, but also how my spine and entire torso were about to feel — and my clit throbbed to life of its own accord, without my approval.
He stepped behind me and started lacing the regular cincher around my waist. The steel bones pressed in immediately, compressing everything and forcing my spine into more of an arch.
I tried to breathe through it, but the pressure was relentless.
My eyes stung and my throat went tight, but I was not going to cry for him. Not again.
I wasn’t.
But then the laces went tighter, and tighter still, pressing into bruises the cincher had left the last time it was on, and the tears came anyway.
“Oh yeah,” he murmured, voice low and pleased. “There’s my weeping little fucktoy.” He tightened them more. “It’s hard to be the slave. So hard.”
The words hit hard, and humiliation burned my cheeks, but my empty pussy clenched and twitched while a fresh pulse of heat flooded between my legs and into my clit.
My body always responded to that calm, certain tone, spoken as only a Dom can manage — and the reminder of who I am to him made my clit throb harder.
I hung there, holding tight to the bar like a good slave, crying quietly while he finished tightening the cincher until it felt as if my internal organs were pushed up into my chest, and breathing was an effort.
And yet, I breathed out in relief when he crouched to lock the heels onto my feet.
I remembered him once telling me I’d see the heels as a gift, to keep me from having to walk around on my toes, and I got it now.
My feet were aching from the day before, along with my calves, but at least the shoes would hold me up.
“Drop and lean over the bar,” he said, stepping back to give me room.
I opened and closed my hands while I walked to the bar on shaky legs — and then bent over the bar, arms stretched out to grip the handles, ass up and presented.
The position made the cincher dig in harder around my fluttering belly, because I knew what came next and I was terrified.
My hole was beyond sore from the night before, and I’d assumed I’d get a pass on the plug today.
He stepped behind me, and his warm fingers spread more salve around my hole, then pushed inside again, working it deeper than I expected.
I whimpered, the stretch burning raw tissues despite his slow, gentle touch.
My asshole was still so fucking tender, and every slow twist of his fingers was agony.
But I was also relieved, thinking he’d just had me bend over so he could apply more salve, and not to plug me.
“Easy,” he said, his voice gentle, but his fingers didn’t back off even a tiny bit. He kept coating me inside until I was slick and trembling, then pulled his fingers free, and I got the sense he was lubing something behind me — which made my stomach somersault all over again.
Ten seconds later, he pressed something cold and hard against my hole and started working it in. I tried to relax, but my body fought it. The sharp stretch was too much, and I couldn’t stop the broken whine that slipped out as the widest part pushed past my rim.
“Fuck,” I gasped, voice cracking. “Sir, please — it’s too big. It hurts!”
“Of course it hurts,” he said, tone incredulous. “You think I don’t know I’m hurting you?”
He kept pushing until the plug finally sank home and my hole clenched tight around a surprisingly skinny neck, considering how wide it’d stretched me on the way in.
And then it made sense. He had a few of these that made me squeeze to hold them in. Something about building muscle while he stretched me open, but in truth, it just made me hurt that much worse the next day when he crammed me full and spread me wide again.
The weight of it settled deep inside me, and I knew it’d be a constant, heavy pressure all day, and that my asshole and ass cheeks and thighs would ache by the end of the day.
Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, and I was panting more than breathing, forcing air into my chest despite the damned cincher.
And still, my clit throbbed, and my pussy ached to be touched and filled — even while my asshole burned around the steel.
He patted my ass once, almost affectionately.
“Permission to stand.”
I nodded, still trying to catch my breath, and jerked hard when the plug shifted inside me on the way up.
He grasped my arm and helped me the rest of the way up, and I had to lock my knees to stay upright.
The cincher kept my posture rigid, the heels made every step careful, and the plug made sure I never forgot who I belonged to.
I reminded myself I only had a few hours of chores before everything would be removed. I could do this.
How fucked up was it that I was both dreading the next couple of hours, and looking forward to it? Doing chores while not plugged would’ve been… anticlimactic. Not that there would be any climaxes under any circumstances, but still.
- - - ? - - -
Magnum
My dick stayed hard while she worked. I was outside mowing for most of the time, but just knowing she was inside and working, feeling every movement deep in her asshole had me granite hard.
Today, she’d be changing the sheets on my bed, and my mind kept running through how she’d look doing so, how her breath would catch when she leaned over to tuck the corners, how the plug would shift.
How she’d lift a knee to the mattress to reach across and smooth the pillows, and her slit would show to anyone standing behind her.
I beat off when I showered, remembering how it’d felt to fuck her tight little asshole while she fought, cried, and begged under me the night before.
But then came the part of the day where she calls me Magnum once I’ve taken everything off her and out of her, and fuck if that didn’t make me hard, too. Shit.
Eventually, I’d probably have to introduce her to the donut I use when I don’t want to hurt the woman I’m fucking, so we could have sex during non-protocol hours. Not that I won’t still dominate her, but it’ll be different.
But if she was only going to be here a few more weeks, I was inclined to keep our sex to the strict morning and night schedule. Especially with us working together during the day.
But her words from that morning came back to me. I’d stopped her from responding to whether she might want to stay once she’s safe, and her response had been to note we needed to have the conversation, but not mere hours after I’d ‘completely obliterated’ her.
First off, she’d so easily admitted what I’d done to her while noting it made her unstable enough that a serious conversation wasn’t wise.
And second, she’d wanted to be certain to note that, while now wasn’t the time, we did need to have the conversation.
That told me she was thinking this might continue in some fashion.
But, I reminded myself, she had Doms in a number of cities, and it seemed she visited them when her work brought her close to them. It was possible I’d just be another of the men she played with while she traveled the country, chasing the next story.
Or it could be more, my inner turtle noted, and I acknowledged it could be, but didn’t dwell on it because she was in full-on work mode, and she had other ideas about what to investigate today.
I sat and watched while she scoured the social media accounts of every connected asshole in the Virginia first family’s orbit.
Storm’s got a sharp fucking eye, because she saw the way the First Gentleman was looking at someone in a party shot on Insta — and then looked at the bitch’s travel schedule, and fuck if it didn’t match up with the governor’s husband’s travel a half-dozen times over the past year.
She wasn’t an employee, and that probably meant mistress or girlfriend or whatever we’re calling a side-chick these days.
“No idea what we’ll do with this,” she said once we were as certain as we could be without hacking into the woman’s phone or email, which I fully intended to do.
And then I realized I didn’t have to hide that from her, and probably shouldn’t, so I said, “Let me have the keyboard. We want to be sure.”
She eyed me a few seconds before saying, “Samsung phone. Not an Apple.”
I nodded. I’d looked, too, and it was good to be on the same page.
“Yeah. I can get into both, usually. Do we think he’s put alarms on her account, so he’ll know if someone tries to hack her?”
She furrowed her brow. “If he knows how, then yeah, but I’d be willing to bet he pays someone to do that shit for him, and he won’t want anyone to know about her.
I figure she’s a secret to even his closest people.
Maybe one person knows about her, someone he was in the teams with, but probably not the rest.”
I’d learned Storm is pretty good about guessing that kind of thing, but I was still slow and careful while working my way in. The great thing about people with gmail is that, once you’re into their account, you can see their calendar, their phone messages, their pictures — everything.
Figuring out her password based on past data breaches went surprisingly fast, but spoofing her number to get past the 2FA bullshit took some extra finessing.
“Fuck me,” she breathed out once I was in and we were looking at a video she’d taken — likely without him knowing — of the two of them fucking. I felt the same, because she had him tied up and helpless while she rode him reverse cowgirl and pummeled the shit out of his balls.
Still, I couldn’t resist saying, “On my time, not yours, little slave.”
“Goes without saying, Sir,” she said while she clicked to download the video so we’d have a copy.
“And now we have blackmail material to get the bastard to talk,” I noted. “He might not care if we show it to his wife, knowing he’ll be going to prison for a long-damned time, but he’s the kind of guy who’d be horrified for that to go out to the public.”
“Not to mention, having that out there might make prison a little more difficult,” she noted. “He’ll go from being a scary ex-teams guy to a sexual submissive who likes having his balls pounded.”