Page 26 of Magnum, Volume 2

But he didn’t even slow down, just fucked me through the release and the aftershocks — and straight into the next climb, one hand braced beside my head, the other holding my thigh open. The second orgasm was deeper, the intensity painful despite the release it gave me. The third wrecked me. By the fourth, I was openly crying, no longer able to keep the sounds in, begging in broken words and phrases that he, as always, completely ignored.

He forced a fifth orgasm out of me while I shook and clung to him. I barely remember the sixth. The world narrowed to the stretch, the relentless friction, and then everything went soft and dark at the edges, and I woke to the feel of his mouth between my legs the next morning, the soft dawn light filtering through the tent’s fabric.

He licked and sucked until I was biting my hand to stay quiet, hips lifting helplessly while I silently begged for release with my body. When I was about to come without permission despite fighting it with all I had, he rose over me and mercilessly drove into me. He’d fucked me so damned long the night before, I was more swollen and raw than ever. Thankfully, he didn’t take terribly long, but I was still millimeters from an orgasm and having to hold it back when he came deep inside me, kissed me breathless, and then pulled out, leaving me aching and more desperate than I could ever remember being.

He kissed the tears on my cheeks and murmured, “Poor little needy slave. Let’s swap your plug out for something bigger before I take the cincher off.”

I rode in the van until lunch, and he thankfully handed my helmet over when we walked back outside. My hips and lower back bitched all the way home, but I was much happier with my arms around him, leaning back and forth on the curves.

There were microphones in the helmets, so we could talk, and partway home, he said, “One of the complaints I’ve had from previous submissives is…” He sighed. “I like ritual, but I guess it becomes boring for women, after a while.”

I wasn’t in a cincher, so I answered the question he hadn’t exactly asked.

“Not bored. Not even a tiny bit. I appreciate the routine of it. Knowing what’ll happen. I mean, you change it up a little every once in a while, but mostly, there aren’t surprises. I appreciate that.”

My cheek was against his back, so I felt his nod. “Okay then. If you ever need me to change it up, I need you to promise you’ll talk to me about it.”

“Goes without saying,” I told him. “With you taking control the way you did and do, a long-term relationship can only work if I talk to you about what isn’t working while we’re outside of high-protocol.”

“Anything not working?”

“Not yet. I needed to work until nine once, and you seemed fine with it. There’ll be times I’ll need to be gone at night, but that hasn’t happened yet.”

“You’ve been finished between five and six twice,” he noted. “We don’t need to keep a scorecard. As long as it goes back and forth, it’s fine.”

I hadn’t been letting myself make any judgments about my visit. I’d focused on being a slave while in the waist cincher, and on being a reporter when out of it. I wanted to just live in Magnum’s house, under his rules and structure, without analyzing the fuck out of it. It’s the overall structure I need, not the individual pieces.

But the last hour of the ride back, with my asshole spasming and burning around the plug while my clit throbbed away and my pussy was so damned raw — and I knew he wouldn’t take it easy on me once he had me in bed that night… my mind cataloged how things were going.

We were two days out from maintenance, so it was time for me to start considering my overall view. I had another forty or so hours to decide, but I wasn’t inclined to walk out, and I didn’t think that was going to change.

Chapter 12

Storm

Over the next two days, it’s possible I thought about what was coming way more than I should’ve, and I was a wreck by the time Tuesday morning came. I’d structured my day so I only had a few hours of work that morning, to give myself plenty of time for the enemas.

The cramps from the soap tore through me in sharp, vicious waves that hurt infinitely worse this time, likely because my nerves were a fucking mess before I even started.

I tried hard to lean into the routine and structure of it: fixing his dinner, standing on the X and staring at the mattress he was about to violently fuck my asshole on while he held me so I couldn’t escape.

And then, eventually, having to hang from the bar for a different waist cincher. It wasn’t as tall as the regular one, but it felt as if this just let him lace it even tighter, and tighter, and tighter still.

As before, the plug he forced into me was massive, and it took him a long time to work it in — all the while, his voice ordering me to relax and accept it. And I tried to obey, but it split me open so wide. The stretch was brutal, the burn unbearable, and I was begging and pleading with broken sounds and phrases before it was even halfway in. And I know this because he told me so.

“It’s barely halfway in your tight little asshole, cunt. If you’d relax and accept that it’s coming, and stop fighting me, maybe it’d go in easier.”

“Not fighting you, Master! I’m trying to relax.”

“Stop trying and do it, little fuckslave.”

When it was finally in, he set me up to work leather conditioner into the items I didn’t get to the last time he made me do it. The whole time I worked, I kept glancing at the wedge, remembering how it would keep my clit isolated, so nothing touched it. Not even my pussy lips.

When he finally returned, he made me retrieve the olive oil, work it onto his cock, and then came the piece of paper.

I hadn’t considered that I’d have to give up my safeword all over again, and the act of doing so was kind of like the final shock to my nervous system. I said the words to him, and mostly got them out, though the last half-dozen words were more of a whisper.

I voluntarily relinquish my safeword for one hour while you reinforce and remind me of my place as your slave, Sir.