Page 52 of Magnum, Volume 1

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.