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“Years.”
Oh. Fuck. “How old?”
“F-forty-six. Our secret. I just…it was scary. I felt dirty. I pretended it didn’t happen.”
“How. Many. Times?”
“I consented. I’d beg.”
“I asked a fucking question.Answer me now.”
She recoils like I slapped her, and she sways in, lips parted, breath shallow. “Six times.”
I just nod. “He was around the house a lot. Your father’s associate?”
“Yes.”
I’m pretty sure I know who she’s talking about. But it’s not my business. Someone took advantage. It happens. Just like me killing him—which I’m going to do—will happen.
I take my hand from her and bring it up to her lips. “Lick.”
She does, her tongue warm as she cleans my fingers.
“Just so you know, he took advantage of you. You didn’t tempt him. You were fucking fifteen.”
“You didn’t want me.”
“And neither should he have, fuck. You were a child. If you tried to kiss me at this age, you’d have been on your knees with my cock in your mouth so fucking fast. But you then? No. Fucking annoying as shit. A man his age should have thought the same, even if you did beg.”
“Merc—Master.”
“I’m bored with this conversation. Get up.”
I’m far from bored, but I can’t go there. I have work to do. And all fantasies of killing some slime need to wait.
Ivy rises on shaky legs and her thighs glisten with her juices. I get up, too, pulling her to me and kissing her softly, tucking her in at my side, mainly because I don’t want people looking at her too much in this vulnerable state.
I guide her to another room, down a twisty hall, past doors where groans and cracks and moans come from, as well as the occasional scream.
Places like this are always monitored, to protect the bottoms in different acts, and yes, at times to blackmail or gather future favors as I like to call it. I lead her into a big room that’s shadowy except for the spotlight on the lower stage. Anaked woman is tied and chained to a St. Andrew’s Cross. The Dom is in leather, his cock out and fully erect. He’s heavily tattooed and has a leather mask covering most of his face.
I find a nice corner where we’re both hidden in shadows and can be seen if someone looks hard enough. “See that?” I stroke up her thigh, stopping before I hit her panties and letting my fingers play in the moisture clinging to her skin. “I’m going to do that to you. But I have better whips. Maybe I’ll use a magic wand on you.”
We watch the show as I idly touch her, feel her, slide into her. Whatever the fuck I want, never staying in one spot long enough to stoke the fires beyond the level they’re at, so her frustrations are pretty much combusting.
I miss half of what’s going on in front of us as I’m drawn back to the soft heat of Ivy, the tiny sounds, the way she moves. How her resentment strokes against my arousal. When the master finally fucks the slave, I’m bored with them. I’m fantasizing about Ivy on the cross. Of one of my whips biting into her skin, the soft flesh of her thighs, cutting bruises into her succulent ass.
Ivy’s got a high tolerance for pain. I know that from when I spanked her ass. And she has a real taste for humiliation and denial.
I want her in ropes, the knots placed just so, balancing her between pleasure and pain, the intensity of not enough and too much, of being bound to my whims.
When I look up, there’s a mistress with long, wild black hair in red latex with her pussy exposed. Her heels are high and dangerous, and her slave is cock caged. Offering up to her glory.
She starts in and I’m drawn. She’s amazing with the whip. The way her slave cowers and begs for it is sublime, it reminds me of Ivy and her reactions to me and my punishment.
This is a real D/s couple. It sings in the air, they’re so connected, and it brings the erotic element up to?—
I twist my head to look at Ivy. She fucking pinched me?
