Chapter 8
Magnum
The two weeks went by way too fucking fast, and I learned so much about my Storm.
The first Sunday, she worked until two o’clock and then turned her phone off, so she spent the rest of the day in her slave accoutrements.
I’d stopped putting her shoes on when she was just walking from the doorway to the bed, but she was under strict rules to stay on her tiptoes anytime the cincher was on, even for a trip to the bathroom and back in the middle of the night.
So this was a treat, watching that tight little ass move under the steel bones, her long legs made even longer by the stilettos — fuck, my cock was granite hard the entire afternoon.
I didn’t want her doing housework all day, not when these hours were so precious.
I did, however, order her to make a late lunch for us and then clean up.
After we ate, I ordered her into a dozen of the Gorean positions for the simple thrill of forcing her to obey order after order after order. Okay, and also to watch her move back and forth, up and down, displaying herself from every angle.
Then I told her to go get her vibrator and pleasure herself.
I didn’t put the pressure of making her get herself off into it, though that was the goal.
It bothered me that she hadn’t been able to, and I wanted to see if she could get there with me watching and then ordering her to come.
If she couldn’t, I’d get involved and make it happen with my mouth and fingers, but if she could, it meant I could help her over the phone.
And it worked for me to order her around, tell her when to put it on her clit, when she could take it off and slide it inside her pretty little cunt, how fast to fuck herself with it while she pinched her clit with her other hand.
And when I ordered her to come, she fucking did, hole clenching around the vibe while she made the most beautiful orgasmic sounds.
“You’ll call me when you need to come and I’m not here,” I told her. “You’ll need a larger vibrator, too. I’m going to want to know you’re stretched so wide it hurts when we do this on the phone.”
I didn’t plan to leave her for five weeks at a time again, but she still needed to have some orgasms between visits.
She made us a quick dinner and then cleaned up with the cincher tight around her narrow waist, a huge plug stretching in her ass wide open, and the stilettos locked on her feet.
She moved around the kitchen with graceful efficiency, looking like a sex goddess built for one purpose, and her scent carried the quiet, confident satisfaction of a woman who knows exactly what she is and who she belongs to.
When she finished, I ordered her into the endure pose while I inspected her work. I knew it was fine, but she needed the extra hit of power exchange, so I gave it to her.
She’d known what the pose was when I ordered her into it at my house, months earlier, but once out of high protocol, she’d informed me it isn’t actually in the books. Little did she know, this made it even more fun for me to order her into it.
I took my time inspecting the kitchen — every appliance, every cabinet, every inch of counter while she held the position with her legs and feet burning.
Her scent told me the plug shifted with every small balance adjustment, and I let the silence stretch until the strain and burn deepened past discomfort into pain, until her thighs were trembling and her only focus was fighting to hold the position.
Finally, I ordered, “Upstairs, my obedient little fuckslave. Center yourself on your bed and grab your ankles. I’ll be up shortly.”
Her scent was heavenly when I walked into the room five minutes later, her cunt beautifully exposed. I climbed onto the bed and drove right into her — the wait had more than done the job of preparing her.
Her hole was damned tight at first, and I loved forcing it open, thrusting into her without mercy, savoring every inch of resistance while her body had no choice but to take the violence I inflicted.
Once I’d worked myself deep, I kept going, pounding hard, and so deep the heavy plug in her ass fought me for space.
The dual stretch made her whimper and clench.
Tears slipped down her temples, but her scent told me she was right on the edge, desperate to come, holding it back until she got permission.
She came barely a second after I ordered her first orgasm, and I watched it tear through her.
By the third, she was openly sobbing out those soft, broken sounds I love while her cunt spasmed and clenched around me in helpless pulses — and I pounded her without mercy.
Her scent was full of arousal, submission, with the pain threading through below.
I breathed it in like oxygen, soaking in the sounds of her sobs, and her pleas for the mercy I never granted.
Eventually, I allowed more orgasms, ordering them when I could tell she was so close she wasn’t sure she could hold onto them.
I edged her before the fifth, pulling her back from the brink and then pushing her back to desperation again and again before I finally drove her to the fucking apex and ordered it — and then didn’t let her come down from it for-fucking-ever.
When the last of it finally tore through her, she was shaking, wrecked, and three levels past exhausted — but her cunt still milked my cock even completely spent, the spasms rippling through her as painful aftershocks.
Only when those greedy little muscles finally quit, when even her cunt surrendered, I pulled out, came across her stomach, and rubbed it into her skin while she watched me with glassy eyes.
But I didn’t give her more than a few minutes to catch her breath before I had her up and wrapped in a blanket.
I settled her in a chair near her metal firepit while I lit a fire — I’d prepared the logs and kindling earlier, so it didn’t take long before she was in my lap and no longer needed the blanket.
We sat under the stars and the moon for hours, talking about nothing and everything. I kept one hand on her, needing the contact, feeling the clock running down on the time we had left.
We went back inside at ten, and I put her on her back again, and I drove into her sore, raw cunt until she was sobbing and clinging to me, the plug shifting with every thrust, her body milking me even while she begged.
My Stormy girl comes the hardest when I make her look at me while I pound her and hurt her, and I ordered five more orgasms out of her over the next hour and a half, demanding eye contact every damned time, and each release hit harder than the last. Her body kept trying to close around me even while she begged, scent thick with desperate need and pure surrender.
I held out until she was trembling and incoherent before I allowed the last one, and then buried myself farther than she’d ever taken me before emptying everything I had into her, my forehead pressed to hers, not a doubt in my mind she felt the way I was claiming her — body, mind, and soul.
Only then did I allow her to crash.
And now it was our last night, and I was far too emotional, but I buried the loss I was already feeling and determined to make it memorable.
She stopped working at four o’clock, tears in her eyes when she walked into the bedroom, stripped, and reached up to grab the chin-up bar.
I stepped in behind her and started on the cincher. We were both feeling the loss before it got here, and the sooner I got our minds on other things, the better.
I watched the laces draw tight while I put some muscle into it.
The steel bones closed around her waist one pull at a time.
Her breathing shortened, and soft tremors ran through her every time I took another half-inch.
I measured when I thought I was close, and decided on another quarter inch farther than we’d ever managed, so I pulled and tugged a while longer, my dick throbbing inside my jeans from the little noises she made.
When I measured again, I’d gone a little over, but her waist looked fucking great, so I merely logged it into the spreadsheet on my phone and then crouched to lock the heels onto her feet.
I couldn’t resist sticking two fingers into her slick cunt and pumping them a few times before I stepped back and said, “Permission to let go, slave.”
She dropped carefully, her eyes watery when she met my gaze.
“Who am I?” I asked, working hard to keep my voice level.
“Sir,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You’re my Sir.”
“Of course I am. Over the bed, cunt.”
She moved into place, and I retrieved the largest plug I’d brought.
Her hole looked impossibly small when I pressed the lubed tip against it, and my cock throbbed in my jeans.
The first inch went fast, but then I had to go slow, forcing her open little by little, twisting and pushing, advancing it millimeter by millimeter as her muscles were given no choice but to surrender.
She started begging before it was even halfway in, soft, broken pleas that turned sharper over time.
“That’s it, slave,” I told her, voice low. “Beg me. Tell me how bad I’m hurting you while I watch your ass strain and stretch around this beast of a plug.”
My hardheaded little slave went quiet a few minutes before she started back, begging in earnest, desperate for relief, but I didn’t back off even a tiny bit.
By the time the plug finally seated and her hole clenched hard around the fat neck, she was shaking and crying and so fucking beautiful, I had to slide two fingers into her slick cunt, just because.
And then a third.
I curled them against the front wall, pressed, and rubbed until her thighs were trembling and her breath strained in short, frantic gasps. I took her right to the fucking edge before I pulled my fingers out and stepped back.
She made a broken sound of pure frustration, but I ignored it and ordered, “There are three loads of clean laundry waiting for you. Handle them, slave.”