15. To own is to…Control
Chapter fifteen
To own is to…Control
C hloe
My hands shake as I discreetly try to wipe my sweaty palms on the seat of the car we’re riding in. Master glares out the window in the same silent fashion as usual, only tonight, he seems more on edge. My skin prickles when I think of the way he caressed me in my bathroom. It wasn’t like his normal petting that made my core flutter. This was…softer; I’d still fluttered, but it was somewhere far higher up. I felt butterflies for the first time since I was a child. I felt… adored . That feeling seems fit to linger, despite my unease.
If I hadn’t been worried enough about what tonight held, the short jet ride over here was enough to turn my anxiety bludgeoning. Much like our very first plane ride together, he ignored me. This time, though, it felt drastically worse. During our last few weeks together, I’ve spent nearly every waking moment at his side, soaking up his attention like a sponge that sat in the desert. After we boarded, I scurried to the seat closest to him, only to get a harsh scolding from Stuart. Sir avoided my eyes, and more disturbingly, my body as his gruff right-hand man ordered me to stand so he could adjust the backing on my dress. Odder still is that my owner allowed me to be adjusted by another. Master only barked out a tense command to a half-naked and bored looking flight attendant to get him a drink.
My eyes drift again to the other collared women with us, all dressed much differently than me. Their clothes are elegant but lewd in a way mine isn’t, despite it being sheer. Red lace hugs their every curve, simple silver collars around their necks. Master’s other dogs . They were kept in the cabin room of Master’s jet, but they’ve yet to be scolded, lounging on each other in a detached fashion. They look…sensual. The one on the left sports vibrant red, bob length hair, the perfect contrast to the spiraling waves of the woman on the right. Her brown hair is such a deep tone, I had originally thought it to be black. The dark-haired woman’s skin is golden, shining and warm. My eyes turn back to my pale complexion, noting every bump and imperfection, my blonde hair twisted up in a concert style loose bun, since it’s the only hairstyle I ever got good at doing.
It’s stupid— no, it's entirely insane to feel inferior. These women are no doubt every bit victims who were trained, just like me. It's nonsensical, disturbing, even, to view their presence as competition, to be jealous, to want the attention of our captor, our abuser, more. Flush fills my cheeks as the red-haired girl’s green eyes turn toward me, taking me in with something close to indifference, maybe even a bit of annoyance. My chest betrays me, bracketing in on my lungs like a vice.
“Dog.”
I flinch, turning my attention back to Master. “Yes, Master.”
He signals for me to come closer, and I feel more than a little shame at how quickly I scramble to do so, my bare feet getting tangled in the hem of my dress. My eyes widen on the white ball gag he jerks from his pocket with unrestrained boredom. “Open.”
My cheeks flush as everyone’s eyes turn toward me. Stuart and the other women watch intently as Master places the ball in my mouth, securing it in the back. I spin to face him, desperate for some sign of approval, but he offers me none. His bored expression is firmly in place as he lifts his hand, giving the ball a little flick that makes me jump. “There. That should keep your whimpering to a minimum.”
I nod, my lips and jaw feeling uncomfortably stretched despite its relatively small size. One of the other women snickers, whispering something to her counterpart. Stuart snaps his fingers at them as the limo-style SUV rolls to a stop. Behind the blacked-out windows is an abandoned warehouse. I frown, casting a worried look at Master, who is already staring at me with a tinge of contempt I feel deep inside my gut, plucking the wings from the butterflies that resided there earlier. Stuart exits first before Sir. Once they’re both outside, we hear the double click of his tongue, the girls filing out before me. The outside of the dark warehouse is bustling with quiet activity. Security guards, a few who seem to recognize my master, nod to him in respect as we’re ushered inside. The door opens into a vast, unlit area filled with rusting machines. It looks like every stereotypical place to commit crimes in any crime movie ever, like the good guys would be waiting just outside, ready to storm in and leave the villain bloody, begging for mercy. But there're no heroes here, and the bad guys are so good at what they do, their damsels wouldn’t dare leave their side. Master shifts his suit jacket, slightly exposing the handgun he always keeps on his waist. My breath leaves me in rougher shunts as we turn, heading up flight after flight of creaking metal staircases and wide double doors. Every now and then, he turns, glancing back, as if to make sure I’m still here. As if I’d dare to get lost in a place like this. My thighs are burning the moment we reach our desired floor. Sir removes his passive hand from his gun, his posture dissolving into a slightly less tense one. The enormous room we enter is from an entirely different universe than the warehouse that holds it. Its lavish speakeasy vibes cater to the same brand of hedonistic parties Bloom was known for, ones I could never attend. As grateful as I am for that, based on the auction party that ended up being far more pain than pleasure, I hate it just as much. Where others were taught to survive in this world, I wasn’t.
I’ve yet to learn how to stomach it properly.
Leaving my heart, my soul, raw and puffy.
Or maybe it was just always like that.
A loud man dressed in an off-white suit seems to be the star of the show as he roughly claps everyone on the back, laughing until his cheeks are red, a thick cigar trapped between his fingers, its ash seconds from breaking loose into the amber-colored liquor it’s balanced above. The man is so animated, it's almost amusing to watch, the slightest smile tugging up the corner of my lips as he laughs at his own stupid joke.
Master clears his throat; I can feel his disapproving stare as my teeth score my inner cheek so hard, it makes my eyes water.
“If it isn’t the infamous Basilisk in the flesh!” The man booms, shoving through the party goers crowded around him. “An honor you would attend my little soiree, and with such lovely party favors too.” The man breathes out a puff of earthy smoke as he shakes Master’s hand. It’s odd, the way his bolstering seems to quiet the longer Sir stares, like a simple look was truly all it took. A sharp pinch on the back of my arm makes me frown, jerking away from Stuart's damned fingers as he holds his hand out for my slippers. I bend, earning a glance from Sir, his hazel eyes always watching and tracking me, much like how a serpent watches his prey.
How fitting.
It takes several uncomfortable seconds before he speaks, leaving the rowdy nature of the man tattered around my feet. “I can’t say we’ve met.”
The man laughs. “I only recently bought my way into your inner circle, but your reputation precedes itself. Your likes and dislikes too.”
There’s something more to whatever he just said, but my eyes are caught on something entirely different now. It’s both a bed and a stage, a stunningly beautiful woman lying on it further into the venue. Her skin is such a rich, dark shade, she looks unearthly, divine, as she moves, capturing the attention of everyone around her. The burnt orange dress she wears dips off her slender figure, as if it was draped there, not a garment she slipped into. Her shaved head only serves to add to the regal air she gives off. The golden collar around her neck tells me her situation isn’t any different from mine.
She adjusts the neckline of her dress, letting it expose her breasts as she leans back into the pile of pillows she was propped on. It's only then that I notice the collared men at her sides, touching and caressing her. Each one stays just shy of the spot everyone wants. Their cocks are hard, their skin dusted with a sheen of gold that seems to compliment hers. It’s no doubt their presence is meant to be an accessory. My lips part as I watch her, my thighs pressing together as she cants her head back, exposing her slender neck, letting the men sample the delicate skin there. Unlike the shows I grew accustomed to, even bored watching at Bloom, nothing about what she does looks fake. She’s alert, animated, in control.
“I hope your girls will follow the house rules. Within my establishment, I will be called Master, my wife the same.”
My eyes snap begrudgingly away from the show to Sir, his stubbled jaw clenched. “Do with them as you please. Perhaps if the night goes well enough, you can keep one. Think of it as a gift.”
The man’s eyes roam over me as my gut sours.
Master clicks his tongue, getting our attention. “Go make yourself available.”
Saltwater laps at my face as hungry, incessant hands grip and pull. They take my breath as I’m ripped wide and spread. I’m positive that off in the crowd, I glimpse shiny snakeskin boots, even though I know that’s unlikely.
My knees feel weak, and when the other pets behind me mutter their Yes, Master, I don’t. The words are lodged somewhere underneath the lump in my throat, pushed further from the surface by the swelling ball of anxiety. I dip my head as I take a step toward the crowd before Master's harsh voice halts me. “Pup, stay.” My breath leaves me loudly as I step back toward him, back into his magnetic orbit of sage and oak, clasping my hands in front of me to hide their shaking.
The man laughs. There’s no doubt he’s the one Stuart spoke about earlier today, the one who can help Master. “Her reputation precedes her as well. We’ve yet to earn a spot in one of the infamous auctions, but we’re certainly on our way. Is it true, pretty one, that your trainer prodded you? I knew that slimy fuck when he was on his knees. It’s abhorrent, the treatment of the ones they take.” The man reaches out, grasping my chin, angling my face up toward his, making me gasp.
Master’s hand grips the man’s wrist, removing his hand from me. “House rules do not apply to this one. You simply have the privilege of playing in my world. I still own it .”
The man lets loose another tense laugh. “Of course, Basilisk. Forgive me. I was so enamored, I didn’t even notice how you’d adorned her.”
How he’d adorned me…
My hand drifts up to my collar, the emblem there. My eyes scan the room, noticing for the first time how the Sirs and Mistresses aren’t engaging me directly. Nobody is meeting my eyes in the way they did before the auction, nobody battling for my attention, nobody asking for a turn in the way my training told me they would. That was among my most important lessons. They would ask for me, beg, buy, but I was not to engage unless instructed.
Master nods, patting his thigh, urging me closer. “No doubt my presence at one of your parties gives you the legitimacy you lacked. I’m interested to know what you’d offer for an invitation.”
The man waves over a server, who offers my master a cigar from a wooden box. The expanse of his tattoos peeks out as he accepts one, but when the woman goes to light it for him with the Zippo held between her fingers, he turns away from her. I watch in confusion as she nods and rushes away.
“Pup.”
My eyes slip back to him, realization dawning on me. I scramble, looking around for a lighter, making Sir roll his eyes. “My right pocket.”
My throat bobs, working overtime to swallow my spit around the ball gag, my heart thrumming in my chest as I gently dip my hand into his pocket. The hardness of his handgun presses into my wrist as I grip the small box of matches.
“You’ll come to find I am quite generous with my friends, but let’s not waste the party talking business. Find me after the main show, yes?”
Master doesn’t bother looking at the man again. His only response is a slight tilt of his head as he puts the cigar between his lips, allowing me to bring the quickly shrinking match up to it. Hazel eyes meet mine, allowing the rowdiness of the room to quiet. My hand stills its shaking as I stare back at him, his quiet anger seething below the surface as he tilts his head, his auburn hair shifting before he pulls his cigar from his mouth. His free hand grasps my wrist before he leans closer, my breath hitching in my throat as he blows out the match. “You were about to burn yourself.”
I nod, my eyes dipping to his lips, wondering how something so harsh could be so soft. I want to taste them, and I think he can tell. “Focus, pet,” he whispers, leaning forward so those harsh lips tickle the spot just before my ear. “I’d hate to remind you of the damage a bullet can do when it encounters flesh. Let’s be on our best behavior, yes?”
Yes, Master.
It’s whispered in my mind as I nod again, following behind him, my ball gag still firmly in place.
Warrick
Whatever heavy handed drink the server gives me burns the back of my throat. My fist inches closer and closer to the gun at my waist the longer she’s separated from me. Despite her only being a few mere feet away, it seems I cannot keep my eyes off her.
Or my thoughts.
I force myself to focus on the men crowded around the bar, their conversation bleeding in and out like a shitty station on the radio. Andres LaMonica, the tycoon I was here to see, bolsters loudly from the middle of the room, unaware of the waiter who just slipped one of his guests' watches into his pocket on my left or the woman currently being strangled to death at a table just behind one of the leather couches—one of mine, I believe. He’s clearly unaware of how dangerously close I am to blowing a hole in his skull then fucking his eye socket until he gives me what I want so I can go home.
The glass in my hand cracks as a muffled sound cuts through the rest, my head casually swiveling to check on my troublesome dog as she lounges on a couch with a few others, the latter of which are already deeply saturated with seminal fluid and naked. Most of them slur and whisper to each other, already intoxicated, and I can tell how badly she wants to keep up. It’s likely one of her first encounters with anyone not in direct possession of her since she was taken. Her wide brown eyes are pitched with frustration as she tries to communicate with women who largely ignore her.
“You’re staring, Sir,” Stuart cuts in as I force my eyes away.
“She’s mine. I can do with her what I—”
“Warrick—”
Clanking on glass fills the room, rising above the moaning and chatter as people halt their conversations and fucking to listen to what the oily man funding the party has to say. I snap my fingers, loud enough to draw her attention, signaling her over. All of them on the couch come, and I gesture for them to fuck off as Pup kneels at my side. My palm itches to caress her.
“Does your jaw hurt?” I ask, forcing myself not to look at her. She long since stopped struggling to keep her spit from leaking around the gag, and the temptation to lap it clean is beating at my self-control. She shakes her head, making me hike an eyebrow before she relents and nods. Her inhale is sharp as I snake my hand around the back of her neck, urging her to lay her head on my thigh. She does, the press of her warm skin heating me despite the fabric separating us. Her face feels so delicate underneath my palm as I massage her jaw, watching the dark-skinned woman and a male slave take their positions in the middle of the room.
“My wife has decided to put on a little show for you all tonight! You are quite lucky. She’s utterly divine,” Andres LaMonica boasts, and now, I recognize the woman splayed out and already panting on the floor. She was one of the premiere models a few seasons ago. She walked in Milan. Now, she’s married to an old, fat man.
A rich, old, fat man.
By all accounts, she’s not a slave. She’s here willingly. If Stuart’s file on the couple is accurate, she decides when to wear her collar, when to be in the space, and when to dominate it. The look of adoration she gives Andres irks me. I shift my thigh, propping it better underneath Pup’s head. That angle couldn’t have been comfortable for her neck—not that I particularly give a shit. It’s not like Pup would complain, but if she’s in pain, she’ll be less effective. That would be annoying. I’m still massaging her jaw, struggling to keep my attention on the show before us.
The woman leans up, grasping the man’s collar before directing him between her legs. There’s no buildup, no foreplay or caressing, but it seems they were doing that bit all night. Her cunt is dripping, the moisture clinging to her thighs, glistening in the dim lighting as she takes him. When the other man joins, spitting on her asshole to ready her, my eyes dip to movement at my side. My little pet shifts, pressing her thighs together tightly.
My hand fists, my other one staying soft and controlled as I apply gentle pressure, making soft circles on her jaw. The woman cries out as she’s turned onto her knees, the second man pressing into her ass with a loud hiss. They don’t waste time picking up a twin rhythm. She holds herself up, her toned thighs flexed as they fuck her, one from underneath and the other from behind. She’s beautiful, no doubt; the scene is one I would’ve normally gladly watched, preferably with a woman’s mouth on my cock. Yet, I feel only a visceral, budding irritation. The press of my gun seems…more pronounced. That mean streak I long grew out of blooms in the pit of my stomach. My lips twitch, wondering if I could make them keep going after I put a bullet in her head, although killing the man’s wife wouldn’t be good for business relations. I don’t even know why I want to.
I watch Pup's curious eyes fall to the woman's cunt as it laps at his cock. She raises her head, no longer using me for support. A spark of something foreign builds in my chest, my skin hot and my suit chafing. Whatever was building there doubles in on itself as Pup’s eyes widen. My eyes cut to Andres’ wife, her eyes now on my pet. The woman is drinking her in, taking notice of the way she's watching, how she’s rubbing her pale thighs together, wanting friction. A lusty smirk fills the woman’s face, her hand trailing down her front between her large breasts to her clit. It feels like I've swallowed acid as my hand leaves its rejected spot, hovering blankly in the air where Pup's jaw had been and snakes toward the back of her collar. Stop looking at her like that.
God, why the fuck do you care ?
The slaves impaling their cocks inside her are all but forgotten, like a piece of furniture you've made yourself comfortable on. She lets out a throaty moan, and Pup responds with a soft whine. This is no longer a show for the Masters circled around, no. This is for Pup now, and I don't fucking like it. Rage bubbles in my chest before I can get hold of it. I jerk her collar, sending her careening into the side of the chair. She winces, her suddenly timid eyes hesitantly finding mine, trying to figure out what she has done wrong.
Nothing. You've done nothing wrong. Right? Pup, you've done nothing wrong…
So why do I need to punish you?
No, not punish. Eviscerate.
I want to shove one of my rifles so far up your fucking cunt, it breaches your womb. I want to rearrange you. If you’re so desperate for their attention, I want you to have it.
I want you to take them all until you’re bloody and screaming. Then, I want you to say sorry, to apologize for paying attention to anyone who isn’t me.
I’m your fucking master.
Weeks of your attention, your constant tears, being oh so gentle, and it seems you’ve forgotten…
You’re the fucking dog.
The room halts for a moment as I fist her collar, pulling her up from her knees. Pup yelps as the collar tightens on her throat, the ball gag choking her as well as silencing the whimpering pleas as I drag her behind me. It’s the same way you would a dog after it pissed in your floor, holding it by its collar as you show it what it did wrong, after you’ve rubbed their nose in it. I’m not thinking as I burst through the wide doors that house the hidden gem. Her struggle slows when I jerk her up into my arms, tossing her over my shoulder when we hit the unfinished, rusted metal flooring that makes up the staircase.
Can’t have my pet all torn up now, can I?
I have no clue where I’m taking her, only that eventually, I stalk down the metal landing far enough that the bars lower, and the frequency of worn and faded authorized personnel only signs warning of dangers increase, the red in my vision no closer to fading. Her hands grasp my suit jacket as I sling her off my shoulder, a scream lodging in her delicate throat as I shove her against the rusted metal railing lining the walkway.
“Who owns you?” I growl, my skin flush and my cock throbbing uncomfortably.
She tries to answer, those big, crystalline tears cascading down her cheeks. It’s not her fault she can’t answer me, but it pisses me off all the same. I jerk her dress up, pinning the small of her back against the railing. It groans in response, a warning, and panic flares in her eyes.
I laugh, the demented sound humorless as she tries to claw away from it, claw her way to me, her nails scoring my neck.