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I scramble to obey.
He pulls out his belt and whips my ass so hard that I howl in pain, my legs jerking with each smack of the leather across my flesh.
And I’m grateful for it, for every agonizing slash, for the flaming burn that coats my skin when he’s done. Because at least I’m feeling something. Anything is better than that awful numbness of being chained in a dark room day after day.
After he whips me, he snaps, “Put your pants back on.” His voice is thick with hate.
Master hates me.
Oh God, nobody will ever love me, ever.
I would do anything to make him happy, but it’s too late. I cry hopelessly as he takes me to the library. I go pick up a book and sit with it on my lap, but I don’t read it. I don’t think I want to read anymore, ever again.
There are other worlds nestled between those pages. They will call to me, they will whisper forbidden thoughts, tell me of places I can never see, people I will never meet. They speak of a different life. They might give me wrong ideas. I can’t risk thinking bad thoughts.
And on some level, I know that those books also represent hope. I have no hope now. I will never even be able to please my master. He’s taken that from me. I will just exist, carefully and quietly, and try not to make Master too angry. Sometimes he will give me pleasure, sometimes he will let me please him, and that is all I deserve and all I will have.
After lunchtime, it’s time for me to work out. He takes me to the exercise room, and I put on my exercise shoes. Weeks of being chained have weakened my muscles. After just a few minutes, I stagger and fall off. The contempt on his face burns terror into my heart.
“Please, Master!” I scream. “Please don’t put me back in the cell! I’m so sorry, Master. I’m just a stupid cow, Master. I’m nothing. I’m nobody! I’ll try harder, Master!”
He whips my back with his belt again for begging him, then makes me get back on the treadmill for ten more minutes. My legs are burning, every gulp of air draws white-hot fire into my lungs, but I don’t dare ask him to stop. The room goes blurry, and I desperately force my legs to keep moving. I pray that Master will save me. He doesn’t say a word. He just stands there and watches me struggle to breathe.
Finally, I lose consciousness.
I wake up on a couch in the library. Not my cell. The couch. I cry with relief.
I quickly get up and begin pacing down the long halls so I can start strengthening my muscles, so I can do a better job for him tomorrow. I won’t be weak and stupid again. I won’t disappoint Master again.
He’s a good master. I am just a useless toy. My job is to make him happy. If I can keep him happy, he won’t make me wear the bad collar, and he’ll let me out of the cell during the day.
Every morning, for days on end, after he bathes me, he teases me with his mouth and fingers. I beg him to fuck me. I wail with my need for him. My body heaves with sobs. Often, he makes me bend over the dining room table and spreads me open and laps me until I’m crying and shaking, pulling back just when I’m at the brink. Afterward, he stands there and strokes my skin, not because he wants to please me, but because he wants to draw out the sensual torture. After he teases me, my body seethes with desire for hours, and when the desire slowly, agonizingly recedes, he seems to know instinctively, and he resumes my sensual torment.
He is the source of all pleasure and pain in my life.
I beg him, again and again, to fuck me. And finally, he says yes.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
TOY
We’re in the playroom.
I’m naked and chained to the St. Andrew’s cross, trembling with anticipation.
My master is finally going to fuck me. Will he stop hating me someday? Will he let me show him how sorry I am for being stupid?
He takes out one of his floggers and begins whipping me with it. Slowly, sensually, the leather fringe caresses my back, and I find that it’s too gentle. I want more. My pain tolerance has grown considerably, and now I find I crave it. I want that heady rush of pain and pleasure. I want the tendrils of the whip to bring me back to life.
He seems to sense that, because he begins whipping me harder and faster. The leather stings as it splays across my back. My skin grows hot with his attention, and a delicious lightness flows through my body. Soon I’m drifting away, the whipping somehow releasing me from my bonds, and I’m nothing but pure sensation. I feel every smack of the whip, and I love it. He moves down to my ass, and I feel each cheek grow hot, and I arch my back and push my ass toward him, rocking from side to side.
I’m floating on a cloud of delirious pleasure when he unchains me, and I slump into his arms. He slings me over his shoulder, his muscles bunching as he carries me across the room.
He drops me roughly onto the bed, on my back. He strips slowly, his glazed eyes watching me, a cruel smile of conquest curving his lips. Then he grabs a condom from his dresser drawer and slides it onto his thick, erect cock as I greedily watch.
“Yes.” I breathe out my surrender. Yes to the end to my torture, yes to giving up another piece of my soul. Yes to sinking lower than I ever dreamed possible and begging for the privilege of my kidnapper’s cock.
Walking over to the bed, he climbs on and parts my thighs, and bends down to caress me with his tongue. At first it’s the gentlest and softest of touches, like a feather trailing over my heated flesh, and then it grows firmer and firmer. He spreads me open wide with his fingers and penetrates me with his tongue, drawing agonized whimpers from deep inside me.
