Page 55 of Magnum, Volume 1

When he finally said “Come, slave,” the second orgasm crashed over me like a dozen hurricanes this time. The contractions were deeper and harder this time — around both him and the plug. I screamed and writhed through every second of the release but he never even slowed, just fucked me through the aftershocks and straight into the next climb.

By the third orgasm, the stretch had gone from intense to burning, and every thrust scraped over oversensitive tissue.

But that was it. Three orgasms a night. Never more.

Except… he didn’t stop. He didn’t find his own release. And he once again edged me until I was shaking and desperate, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, and when he ordered me to come yet again, the release was violent. My whole body locked up around him. The plug felt enormous. My pussy was scraped raw and swollen. I was crying in earnest now, the overstimulation too much. Too long.

But he still didn’t stop, and I heard myself pleading with him through my tears. “Please, Sir! I’m begging! Your slave is begging! It’s too much. I can’t! Please have mercy!”

He fucked me through the pleas, one hand braced to the right of my head, the other holding my left ankle on the mattress.

When the fifth orgasm hit, it fucking hurt. The intense spasms were painful around his granite-hard girth, not to mention the unyielding steel in my ass. I sobbed his name, and still he kept moving, driving into me fast and deep, dragging every ridge of his rough cock over tissue that had nothing left to give.

The sixth one broke me.

It built slower, heavier, and when he finally demanded I come around his cock, it felt as if he dragged it out of the depths of my soul. The pleasure was enormous, but the tortured agony was right there with it — the raw, overstretched burn of being used for so long, and the constant pressure of the plug. Also, the psychology of it, even more than the physical, knowing he could keep going as long as he wanted and I had no way to stop him. I came so hard, my ears rang. I wrapped my free leg around his body and grabbed his shoulders, clinging to him while my body shuddered and clenched and tried to both push him out and pull him deeper at the same time.

Only then did he jackhammer me faster and faster, until he finally finished deep inside me, grinding hard against me while he came, rubbing me even more raw with the rough part of his cock while he emptied his balls inside his slave.

I lay there afterward, wrecked and trembling, the plug still seated, his cock still inside me as he softened. Somewhere in the haze, I realized he’d given me the three orgasms I’d lost to the maintenance session. The thought floated through my head and then dissolved as exhaustion slammed into me. I have no idea whether I fell asleep or blacked out, but consciousness left me until he rose over me the next morning and used me all over again.

But this time, there was no orgasm, because we were well and truly back on the schedule.

It was a relief despite the tears I cried while he fucked me raw and left me desperate once again.

It felt good to be back on his routine. He’d taken the cincher off me after I’d passed out, which meant it had to go back on this morning — along with the damned heels.

Then came breakfast and chores before I was stripped of everything marking me as a high-protocol slave. We went back to looking at the social media of the first family’s friends and close associates, and I thought I’d found someone she might be fucking, but it turned out I found someone she was blackmailing — a freshman Senator, and she was forcing him to vote as she wanted him to.

The rest of the week flew by, and then Dementor was with me from Saturday morning until Sunday afternoon. Magnum didn’t explain shit, but thankfully, Dementor did.

Turns out, weekends at the bikers’ clubhouse are a really big deal. Magnum had missed the first weekend I was with him, but for the rest of my visit, someone would come out one day every weekend, so he could spend part of the weekends with his brothers. Also, there’s some big meeting they call church on Sunday mornings, and this would have, as Dementor put it, “his ass in the seat for church.”

Dementor took me to the garage and sparred with me, demanding I fight him for real, assuring me I couldn’t hurt him. It was a little insulting, but it turns out he was right — I punched and kicked as hard as I could, and I’m pretty sure I hurt my own hand and foot more than him. Still, it was good practice, and I thanked him, after.

He also talked to me a great deal about security in general, reminding me of things I’d learned and forgotten, like using red glasses to keep my night vision as high as possible. He even made something of a scavenger hunt, making me wander around Magnum’s yard under a new moon without a flashlight to find things he’d placed.

Despite Dementor keeping me busy, I missed the high-protocol hours, and I was tempted to masturbate in my own bed that night, but I didn’t. No doubt, my new Master would find out, and I didn’t even want to know what the consequences might be.

I’d promised to follow his rules, and they didn’t go away just because he wasn’t here to enforce them.

Most of the Doms I visit have tons of rules. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t be interested. The thing is, I’m usually with them a matter of days. Rarely even a whole week, though it happens occasionally.

But I hadn’t been 24/7 for this long in years. It was hard, but also satisfying. Waking each day and knowing the schedule was a gift — and yes, even with the morning fuck that hurt like hell and never ended in release.

At some point, I realized I hadn’t just missed the schedule and the protocol. I’d missed him. Missed his arms, his heat, his gaze that sometimes felt like a physical caress. I wasn’t sure what to do with that, so I put it aside.

I wondered if he’d give me six orgasms Sunday night, to make up for the ones I’d lost while he was gone, but he did not. I should’ve been relieved, probably, but it was a huge disappointment. I mean, the three he gave me were as fantabulous as always, but the fact I only got three… fuck. I hate it when I’m a whiny bitch about this shit. The point is, he went right back to the schedule, like he hadn’t been gone at all.

Five weeks later, Mad Dog came out with Ember, Sloan, Squatch, and Skippy. It took hours to go through everything Skippy, Ember, and Sloan had gathered — and their tech abilities were genuinely impressive.

The bird drone had been super-close, in a branch maybe ten feet away from the husband outside the mansion with someone I didn’t recognize, reaming the other man out. “She’s just a damned nosy reporter cunt. Shouldn’t be hard to find! What’s the problem?”

“She’s gone. Completely disappeared. She checked in on her house, and we eventually tracked it back to where she’d been, but it took the better part of two days, she’d shielded so damned well. And when we tried to follow her from there on the Flock and other cams…” he shrugged. “She’s good, boss. She hasn’t logged into her house, her email, her social media. Nothing. Also, her phone has been completely off-grid since before she logged into her house with a burner. We found the burner, eventually. She dumped it in the back of a random pickup truck.”

“I hate when they’re smart. When you find her, kill her, and don’t worry about the mess. Dispose of the body and let her be a damned internet mystery.”

The way they said it, talking about me as if I’m a thing and not a person. I mean, I know they’re responsible for over a hundred deaths, at least, so it wasn’t surprising logically, but viscerally? Fuck.