Chapter 6 #2
Still, I only fucked her for twenty minutes, but I was rough and pitiless while I pressed her legs wide and forced myself into her so deep the plug shifted hard with every thrust, and she fought to pull air in, fighting the boneless cincher.
Her cunt was already damned sore — not the raw, swollen, layered tenderness that would hit in another couple of days, but we were getting there.
Her body took me because I gave it no choice, her muscles clenching and squeezing my dick while I fucked her into the mattress — watching her face the entire time, cataloguing every flinch, every sound, every change in her scent.
I wasn’t sure she was up to three orgasms, so I made the first one damned good, and I kept her riding it a good four or five minutes before I finally let my own release out.
She wasn’t the only one worn out from a stressful day, and when I came, it felt as if every last ounce of energy left me. I stayed buried, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in while the last pulses went from my balls straight into her.
She fell asleep while I cleaned her, woke when I changed her plug out for a larger one, but then crashed again shortly thereafter.
But I needed to settle more before I could sleep, so I held her for a full half-hour before I dropped off.
Her body was soft and heavy against mine, still trembling, likely due in part to the larger plug.
She was mentally and physically exhausted, yet even in sleep, her scent stayed full of relief, which may have just been that I was with her and she felt safe in my arms, but I felt like at least some of it was because I hadn’t skipped a night simply because the day had been brutal.
I wasn’t sure how I could’ve known that, and realized the thought came from my inner turtle.
He’s usually right about these things, and I breathed easier.
Slaves get used. It’s a brutal fact of life whether the slavery is consensual or not.
Valuable slaves are used with an eye toward not damaging them, but pain isn’t taken into the equation.
Injury is bad, and pain merely for the act of giving it isn’t Storm’s thing, but pain as a result of me slaking my needs is a fact of life, and we’d had enough conversations I understood she was quite clear on that.
Also, our power exchange and routines were too new for me to back off just because she was tired.
A year from now, maybe I could give her a gentle, loving night to change things up, but we weren’t there yet. I had to be harsh.
Not that I’m complaining about having to hurt her when she was so damned tired, of course.
Still, I’d cut it short tonight, which meant I’d need to make our fucking session particularly rough the following night.
I tightened my arm around her and let the thought settle. She was mine to use, mine to protect, mine to keep. The two things had never been in conflict.
We needed to talk about maintenance, but not yet. I wasn’t sure how long to wait, but I was playing it by ear, assuming I’d know when it was time.
The day had gone well with me acting as her shadow, staying in the background while I kept an eye on her and everyone assumed I was merely her security. Would I have that option after she came to live with me? Or would she insist on going places alone, working as she always had?
I didn’t know, but it was certainly a conversation we should have, but probably after she was moved into my home.
The next morning, I took her hard and fast — five minutes of deep pummeling, plunging into her with wild abandon, and with no warm-up and zero mercy.
When I was close to emptying myself into her, I reached between us and worked her clit, circling and pressing until her hips jerked, and her scent told me she was right on the edge and barely holding back.
I reminded her she didn’t have permission to come, and I drained myself into her, grinding the last pulses in deep while I told her, voice rough, “Mornings are about my pleasure, not yours, little fuckslave. You focus on pleasing your owner, not on chasing your own release.”
We made breakfast together and ate in silence, since it felt like she needed some time to process.
And then it was, sadly, time to take her out of her slave-gear so she could work.
I’d lodged the second-largest plug into her the night before, and it took a little work to get it out while she whimpered and clenched around the stretch.
I watched every second of it, watched the way her body fought and then had no choice but to yield — and fuck, did I love having that kind of power over her, leaving her needy and desperate for the day.
Empty and aching. Her rules said no masturbation and no orgasms without permission, and we both knew she wouldn’t be allowed release until after I’d thoroughly fucked her, likely long after the sun went down.
I removed all hints of her slavery, asked her who I am, and was floored by the hug she gave me after she called me Magnum.
Then I watched her get dressed and leave the bedroom for her office, her scent absolutely conflicted. I hoped it was because she didn’t want to leave me to go work, but I couldn’t be certain.
I was on my own most of the day and only saw her at meals, which I made and cleaned up, but I could hear her talking to people in her office throughout the day, could hear her fingers flying on the keyboard.
I had my own work to do, but I also explored her property some more, snooped through some drawers, looked over her extensive book collection, and took a detailed mental inventory of her pantry, fridge, and two freezers.
And made plans for how I was going to convince her to sell this house she clearly loved and move in with me.
This meant I spent a great deal of time researching small apartments in Manhattan and New Jersey.
Eventually, I called Gen in Chattanooga.
She’s the prez’s wife there, and she’s a Realtor.
She put me with someone she knew in New Jersey, and I went outside and down to the creek to call the other Realtor.
I let her know right off the bat this was, for now, a fishing expedition, but I hoped to turn it into more.
She told me what I’d mostly already figured out about costs plus taxes on a second home — unless Storm’s there more than three or possibly four months a year, she might be better off working out a deal with a hotel.
It’d mean she won’t have clothes and makeup already there, but would be a helluva lot cheaper.
And I learned Storm would absolutely need to stay in Jersey City or Hoboken rather than Manhattan, because being physically in New York state for more than 183 days a year would make her a resident, with income taxes due, and this applied whether she was in a hotel or an apartment.
When I got off the phone with her, I researched extended-stay hotels, and an ad on the page took me to a luxury apartment with tiny suites for a little over three grand a month, which seemed doable.
I could pay for a year while she figured out what she wanted to do.
Barely three hundred square feet, close to transportation that could dump her into Manhattan in less than half an hour, and not the worst crime rate for the area.
I texted Gen, “Don’t want to bug you if you’re busy, but I have a few more questions.”
She called back. “If I don’t have answers, I’ll know where to go for them.”
“Any idea how long it might take to sell a really nice three-thousand-ish square foot house on nearly four acres in the suburbs of Pennsylvania? Like, thirty miles outside of Philadelphia?”
“None whatsoever. Give me a few seconds.”
I heard her fingers on a keyboard, and she said, “I mean, if she prices it competitively, then pretty fast, but if not, it could be a while unless she happens to be close to an interstate.”
“We made it into Manhattan in just under two hours, and even less time to get home later that night.”
“Might be fast, might not. Too many variables to know for sure, but you’ve got a shot at it going quick if all the cards line up.”
“Thanks. I’m working through how to convince her to sell and move in with me, and it helps, understanding the logistics.”
“Good luck. McGyver’s Blueberry has been keeping us up on the gossip. Sounds like your girl didn’t kick your ass back home, so that’s a good thing.”
I smiled. No one’s private life can be kept secret in an MC. Somehow, Knife had kept his Tuesday secret, but he’d also kept her far from the clubhouse — and only used a burner to contact her.
“Only time will tell. The Realtor you sent me to was a big help; I just didn’t think to ask her about how selling a home might go.”
I sat by the creek and considered my options for an hour before I went inside to bake the tilapia I’d moved from the freezer to the fridge that morning.