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The water is lukewarm, just the right temperature, and even though my skin stings, it feels wonderful to soak my filthy self.
He walks away again, and when he comes back, he’s holding a bottle of water in his hands.
He unscrews the top slowly, deliberately. He kneels next to me, and my gaze is fixated on it. My entire universe has shrunk down to that water bottle. I want it more than a pile of gold coins or an Upper-East-Side mansion. Cool, sweet water.
He holds it out to me and presses it up against my lips, but he doesn’t tip it up so I can drink.
“You may apologize now.”
“I’m sorry, Master.” My lip splits and bleeds as I speak.
“For what?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t let you give me a bath. Master,” I add quickly.
He tips the bottle and lets me have a few precious sips.
Then he pulls it away.
“I could have forced you, but that isn’t the point,” he says as my eyes desperately fix on the water bottle. “The point is, you obey me instantly, without question. And this bath will be part of our daily routine, every morning. I despise filth, and I require your cleanliness. The next time you refuse to let me bathe you, you’ll be in that room for two days. And if you do it again, three. I won’t kill you, but if we get to four or five days, you’ll probably die, and I will consider you as having killed yourself. But I don’t think we’ll get to that point. Will we?”
“No, Master,” I croak out.
He presses the water bottle against my lips, tipping it up, and I greedily gulp it all down. He walks away, sets it down on a counter, and returns with a small pot of salve, which he massages into my dry, cracked lips with gentle fingers.
Then he sheds his towel. I can’t help but glance at his long, thick cock, jutting upward. Then I look away.
He climbs into the bath with me, straddling me, settling into the sweet, fragrant water. I feel his balls gently rubbing against my stomach. His cock is rock hard, pointing straight at the ceiling.Once upon a time, I dreamed of him being inside me…
First, he washes off my face with a soft cloth. Then he takes a blue sponge and drips liquid soap onto it and begins massaging the filth off me. He swirls it around my breasts, and the whip marks sting, causing me to suck in my breath with pain. But as he washes me, my nipples swell under his touch.
He moves slowly and gently, watching me the whole time. My lips part and my breath quickens. I don’t want to be aroused, but I’m helpless under the slow, firm pressure of his hands.
He drips shampoo into my hair and lathers it up. His fingers expertly massage my scalp, pressing firmly, and I close my eyes and surrender to the delicious sensation. My hair smells like honeysuckle now, and he runs his fingers through the strands when he rinses it, then repeats the process with conditioner. He takes his time, his attentions shockingly tender.
When he slides a soapy cloth between my legs, I flinch, but force myself to relax. I feel warm pleasure flowing through my body with each stroke of the cloth. He slides it through the folds, caressing me with it, and my breathing speeds up.
It feels so good that for a moment I forget why I resisted yesterday. Then I close my eyes again and firmly force myself to remember that he is the enemy, and every submission he forces on me strips away some of my power. But it’s hard to concentrate on that when my whole body is melting and my legs are spreading of their own accord, welcoming the firm rubbing motion across my slit.
Waves of pleasure flow through my body with each stroke. They start gathering in my lower belly, tightening, growing urgent. I’m humming wordlessly, almost on the brink of orgasm when he stops. And I’m sure he knows it. He drains the tub and sets to work shaving me. He squirts shaving soap between my legs, from front to back. The razor glides delicately across my flesh, plowing through the creamy soap, and afterward he rinses it off, massaging me with the washcloth. Stoking those hot flames of arousal between my legs. When he stops, I glance down at myself. I’m bare, pink and smooth. He strokes me once, then pinches my clit between his thumb and forefinger. A little too hard to be sensual.
I jerk, and I can’t help the pained whimper that escapes from my lips. He meets my gaze. A lazy smile curls his lips. Tears shimmer in my eyes, and I look away quickly.
He slides back in the tub and leans in close to look. “Beautiful,” he breathes, his warm breath fanning my splayed-open sex.
Dear God. Even here, now, in this horrible situation, after everything he’s done to me, he’s got me so turned on that I want to scream with frustration. I remember the feeling of his tongue lapping at me, and I yearn for him to do it again.
But instead he pulls away and uncuffs me. I’m so weak and shaky, he has to help me climb out, and he holds me firmly but gently. Like a lover helping his sweetheart.
He marches me over to a full-length mirror. “Look,” he intones.
I wince at my reflection. There are long red welts across my breasts, and when he turns me so I can see my butt, I gasp in horror. There are thick raised lines of vicious red crisscrossing it, with mottled bruises spreading out around them.
He traces his fingers over the welts on my breasts, applying pressure, and I flinch, because it stings. Then he picks my hand up and puts it on my breasts.
“Touch them,” he says. “Remember.” So I run my fingers along the welts the way he did, my breath hissing out in pain. After a moment, I try to drop my hand, but he pushes it back. “Not yet.”
Streaks of fire follow my fingertips. He watches attentively as I keep stroking the agonized flesh, nearly in tears from the humiliation as much as the pain. As my fingers move over my breasts, my nipples swell again, and I curse my treacherous body. I hate how obvious my body’s excitement is, and I loathe the look of triumph in his eyes as his gaze roves over my breasts.
