Page 28 of Magnum, Volume 2

Every impact jarred through my entire body, and the cane marks lit up as if they were fresh brands.

He fucked me relentlessly, driving into me hard, each plunge a little deeper than the one before.

The rough, textured shaft may as well have been sandpaper, and it scraped me raw while his giant cock forced that tight ring of muscle to keep stretching, more and more and more, taking up space inside me that my body didn’t have to give. I screamed into the mattress. I begged and pleaded for him to slow down, to give me even a second, but he gave me nothing.

His weight kept me pinned. His legs locked mine together so tightly I couldn’t open or twist away. Every time his hips met my ass, the cane welts flared white-hot, reminding me I’d made this worse than it had to be by not obeying.

There was no way for me to change the angle or alter the intensity. No way to escape.

The panic took hold, and my hands scrabbled at the sheets. I tried to buck him off, to fight, to do anything that might create even a fraction of space, but the bastard just tightened his grip, pressed me flatter, and kept the same merciless rhythm.

The stretch never eased, and the burn only layered deeper. Devastation rose in thick waves until I was sobbing continuously, voice wrecked, breath coming in short, desperate hitches that the cincher made even harder.

Time stopped meaning anything.

There was only the next thrust, the next scrape of his textured cock, the next jolt of pain when he forced himself deep, yanked out, and then drove back in to do it all over again.

My pleas dissolved into broken, formless sounds. The fight drained out of my limbs in increments until I could only tremble, shake, and accept his dominance over not just my asshole, but my entire being.

Before the hour was up, I lay limp over the wedge, completely open, completely used, and I wept. The violence of it hadn’t lessened, but I was far past exhausted and unable to resist. There was only full surrender, encompassing body, mind, soul, and the last scraps of my will.

Or maybe I was only exhausted past the point of struggle. I’m not sure there’s a whole lot of difference.

When he finally finished and pulled out, moving wasn’t an option. I wanted to roll off the wedge and curl onto my side, but I couldn’t manage even that. My hole throbbed in deep, raw pulses. The cane marks still burned. Even breathing took effort.

He cleaned me with a warm cloth, his hands slow and gentle. Next came the salve, and he soothed me with his voice while his too-thick fingers worked the ointment on the outside and then the inside, spreading me open so he could get it inside me. More broken sounds came out of me, and he’d say differing variations of, “I know it hurts. Breathe through it and give it time to work, little slavegirl.”

Eventually, he lifted me and carried me to the bedroom, where the vicious cincher came off and my nighttime one went on, softer and without bones, but still firm enough to remind me I was owned and secure.

Then came the smallest stainless plug, and I cried and yelped while it went in, but it gave the exhausted, sore, overstretched anal muscles something to squeeze around, and somehow, the familiar weight grounded me. I’d been hurting before the plug went in, and within thirty seconds of him seating the plug all the way inside me, I felt more discomfort than pain. Whether the salve kicked in at the same time, or squeezing those muscles made things better, I have no idea.

The cane marks still hurt like fuck, but my anal ring was better.

And then my wonderful Master stretched out behind me and pulled me against the front of his body, spooning himself behind me with a heavy arm around my middle.

He kissed under my ear, then the top of my head, and just held me. There was no order to hush, or to stop crying. He held me close while the sobs worked their way out of me, slowed, and eventually stopped.

I could still feel the heat of my asshole, the extreme discomfort of it being stretched beyond reason and scraped raw, but the cane marks hurt exponentially worse. I wondered if he’d put something in the salve to deaden the pain, but decided not to ask.

Instead, I focused on the steady beat of his heart against my back, and the quiet certainty that he’d taken me down to nothing, and he’d made me tell him why before he even started — to remind us who we are to each other. Owner and owned. Master and slave.

I fell asleep still hurting, completely owned, and I know it’s fucked up, but completely steady again.

Chapter 13

Storm

Skippy had brought Gears to me when I was in the clubhouse over the weekend, and they told me Mason wanted to talk to me. Privately.

I vacillated back and forth on whether to tell Magnum about it. On the one hand, he doesn’t need to know the details of my workdays, but on the other hand, this was the biological brother of one of his MC brothers, so he’d feel I should tell him.

But I worried he’d want to come, and Gears had been clear that his brother wanted to talk to the reporter who gave his family a voice without anyone else around.

So I didn’t tell him. If Skippy and Gears thought it was safe for me to talk to him alone, that was enough for me.

I already knew Mason was still having trouble fitting into society. He’d liked the strict schedule of fight training, knowing exactly what would happen and when, every minute of the day.

I could relate to that.