Page 37 of Magnum, Volume 1

But the only way to get high-protocol was to wear it — and I wanted the rules and structure, but just not the damned steel-fucking-bones squeezing and constricting my entire core.

Also, the damned plug had been in me too fucking long, stretching tissues that had cramped and spasmed until I could feel it in my hips and back.

But it wasn’t just the physical ache bringing on tears I couldn’t seem to stop. It was the weight of the whole last twenty-something hours since he’d decided denying our kinky natures wasn’t working and had taken control.

He’d used me, denied me, corrected me, and the needy submissive inside me craved everything he’d done. Everything he was doing.

It was too much, it was exactly right, it was… too fucking perfect while being too much, and his crass words, spoken with seeming sympathy, had driven home the fact that belonging to him felt bigger than life itself.

I wanted to hate the words, wanted to deny them, but my asshole clenched around the plug and my cunt spasmed and wished it was full, despite how fucking raw I was inside.

Tears spilled over and ran down my cheeks, but he didn’t mention it again. Just kept working on the job at hand.

He sent me to make breakfast, and I have no idea where he went while I worked, but an apron was draped over the island, and I figured this was his answer to me asking for a shirt to cook in. It covered my front but not my back.

Every step in the heels made the plug shift. Every time I bent to get something from a lower cabinet, the cincher bit in and reminded me of my status. I kept glancing toward the hallway, wondering how I was supposed to let him know the food was ready when I wasn’t allowed to speak. My stomach was in knots by the time he appeared in the doorway, just as everything was ready. Was he watching me on hidden cameras? It wouldn’t surprise me. Normally, I’d talk to someone about privacy issues if I thought they were getting me naked on video, but without even having the conversation, I knew he’d never abuse the trust I was giving him. There probably weren’t cameras inside his home, but if there were, he wouldn’t be recording anything — just a live feed he could watch.

He looked around the kitchen, sat, and began eating without saying a word. After a few bites, he started scrolling on his phone, reading and swiping while he ate.

I took the apron off, sat, ate — and was completely ignored in the thick silence he didn’t seem to notice. I’d thought he’d at least look up when I took the apron off, but he didn’t.

I ate because I was hungry, but every bite felt strange with him sitting there, thumb moving across the screen like I wasn’t in the room. I wanted to ask if he needed anything else. Wanted to ask what the day was going to look like. Instead, I sat and ate, hyper-aware of the plug and the way my body was already starting to throb in low, insistent pulses as the situation reminded me of the facts: Slaves only speak with permission during high-protocol hours. Slaves aren’t guaranteed attention. Slaves operate on their owner’s needs and wishes. Not on theirs.

I’ve been told these things before. I know the rules.

They’re still a bitch though, every time I’m confronted by the realities of the life I need and crave. When you give up the right to make decisions, you can’t bitch about the decisions the other person makes. This means you have to be super-careful about who you cede power to, but so far, Magnum had shown me he’s worthy.

And in truth, ignoring me was more proof of it. I’d never be happy with an owner whose sole purpose was to please me. Slavery works the other way around, by definition.

When he finished, he stood and walked out without a word or a backward glance.

I cleaned the kitchen on autopilot, moving carefully in the heels, trying not to make the plug shift even more than it did with normal movement. According to the calendar, today was baseboards and vents. He came back while I was wiping down the counters, nearly finished, and watched me until I put everything away.

He showed me the cleaning supplies in the pantry, and then walked me through the first two rooms, pointing out exactly what he wanted — every vent cover removed, cleaned, and replaced. Baseboards wiped down. Also, every doorframe and light switch, along with the walls around them when necessary.

It was tedious work, but at least it was only once a month.

I was putting the supplies back in the pantry when his hand grabbed my ear. He didn’t yank hard, just enough to make me follow as he walked me into the mudroom. He stopped in front of a light switch and held my face two inches from a faint smudge I’d missed.

My stomach dropped.

I dropped to my knees without thinking, heart suddenly racing. I didn’t know what he wanted from me — an apology, an explanation, or should I beg forgiveness? I wasn’t allowed to speak, so my brain short-circuited.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice calm. “Clean it, cunt.”

I scrambled up so fast I nearly twisted an ankle in the heels, and ran as fast as I dared to the pantry for a rag and spray. My hands were shaking while I wiped the smudge away. I expected him to punish me. I expected something sharp and immediate. Instead he just watched, quiet, until I finished, and then followed to watch me put the supplies away again.

“Go to the dungeon,” he said. “Wall pose. I’ll be there shortly.”

I walked upstairs on shaky legs. The heels clicked with every step and the plug moved inside me with every shift of my hips. By the time I reached the dungeon, my heart was beating so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Wall pose means you face the wall, cross your arms in front of you, and put your palms against the wall, but there are variations. Arms at face height, arms as far up the wall as you can reach. Upper body slanted, upper body parallel to the floor.

I chose the version that would be the least punishing over time, because I had no idea how long ‘shortly’ might be — upper body slanted forward, arms at face height, palms flat against the wall. It still left my ass out and my back arched, but not as dramatically as some of the variations.

It felt like I was there a half hour, but it was probably half that. He didn’t speak right away, just walked to view me from different angles before his hand settled on my lower back.

“Ass out more,” he said quietly. “Back arched more. Arms higher, until your shoulders feel it.”