by Stasia Black
With a decisive nod, I turn toward Daniel. “Yes.” I turn my back to him and bend over at the waist, stretching my hands to my toes. Giving him a perfect view of what he’ll never have. His intake of breath brings a wicked smile to my face.
“Did I hear the slave say something?” I roll back to standing, then stalk with sure, confident strides toward Daniel. He follows me with his eyes.
“No, Mistress.” He swallows hard.
I grab his chin roughly with one of my hands, squeezing his cheeks. “Good.” I make my voice menacing. “Keep it that way.”
But then I remember another important part of play. “Unless it’s your safe word. What is your safe word? Say it now.”
“Red.”
“Say it again,” I command.
“Red.” His voice is confident. Okay. He gets the idea.
“Other than that, I don’t want to hear a single word out of you. My slave is to stay silent. Is that understood?”
He opens his mouth but then closes it again when I arch an eyebrow. Instead, he nods.
“Good boy,” I croon.
I grab one of his unbounded wrists and jerk it back toward the cuffs. Reattaching them, one after the other, I make sure that they aren’t cutting off his circulation this time. They are tight enough to make sure he’s not going anywhere, but he still has good blood flow.
Satisfied, I step back to examine my work. And God does he looked pretty. So, so pretty, bound and chained there for me to do whatever I want to. He peeks up at me.
“Eyes on the floor,” I command roughly. I don’t know where the Domme voice comes from, if it’s a role I’m playing at or if it’s a real part of me. Hell, maybe it’s a mixture of the two here at the beginning while I’m still figuring everything out. Maybe I’ll become Mistress the more and more I play. And some day I can be this badass version of myself all the time. Queen over all her domain. Never bowing under the heel of anyone, man or woman.
The high is so high I want to stand here, feeling it forever. But like all highs, it’s unsustainable without continuing to feed it. So I walk back to the whip. What could be more thrilling than knowing I have the little key to someone else’s pain and pleasure?
It’s without much ceremony that I swing the whip in the circle movement and bring it down on Daniel’s back.
In spite of my determination to inhabit this role, it’s a less-than-decisive strike. Okay, let’s call it what it was. Weak. The whip barely has the energy to complete the circle and Daniel has no reaction to the impact whatsoever. It might as well have been a fly landing on his skin. I remember his body jolting from the flogger when Jackson applied it last Monday.
Then again, Daniel did say this was just a practice whip. Which is good. I don’t need to be marking up anyone’s back. But still, a little redness isn’t going to do anyone any harm. I make the circle again and strike with a more satisfying hit. Daniel still doesn’t move, but the noise that echoes throughout the room is rewarding. A mid-pitched thwack. Very, very nice.
I land a few more blows in that direction before alternating counterclockwise for five more. Then I switch back to the other and continue, back and forth until I land twenty more. I pause to examine my work and can’t help grinning at the reddened canvas of his upper back.
I step forward and gently rub my hands over his skin. It’s warm to the touch. I trail my fingers across his shoulders and down his shoulder blades. When I glance around to his face, I’m expecting to see some of the pleasure like I saw in our last session.
Instead, I only find consternation. I feel my eyebrows draw together.
“What’s wrong?”
He’s quiet, even going so far as to bite his lip.
“You can speak now. I’ve asked you a direct question.”
His eyes flick up to meet mine. “It’s nothing.”
I grab his jaw again. “Never lie to your Mistress. It’s not nothing.”
I feel him swallow but only tighten my grip.
“It’s just that, I’m a dirty, nasty, stupid slave. And filthy slave boys require heavier correction. We need to really feel it if we’re ever going to do any better. We’re stinking, hideous little bitch boys.” He strains against his restraints. Not because he wants out of them, I realize. He just wants to feel the pain of the metal handcuffs digging into his skin.
He didn’t just accidentally pull the wrist cuffs too tight earlier. It was on purpose. He’ll do anything he can to get to the pain.
Which is why he needs me. And I’ve been neglecting the other half of his psyche. The part that needs to be humiliated.
I toss his chin I’ve been gripping so hard to the side roughly. “Why am I even bothering with such a pathetic excuse for a slave?”
“Please, Mistress, I’ll do whatever you ask—”
“Back to no speaking, you fucking idiot,” I force myself to sneer. “You’re right about one thing, you are my little bitch for the night.” I walk back to the whip and test its weight in my palm. It feels good.
“Is my whiny little bitch boy going to complain about a little pain?” This time when I land the circle strike, it’s a thud. Oh yeah. That one landed. Fuck’s sake, did it land. Daniel’s body finally jerks just the tiniest bit and I smile.
“I bet you loved that, you little slut. You’re a slut, you know that right? You let me in your house, almost a complete stranger, because you’re so hard up for this, aren’t you?” Another hard strike.
“Yes,” Daniel cries out. “I’m a bitch slut for whoever will give it to me.”
“I told you not to say a word.” I move to counterclockwise strikes. “Not.” Whip swing and strike. “A.” Swing and thud. “Word.”
I change up my swings and try out the X pattern. I’m a little rough at first, but eventually get the rhythm of it. These land more on the inner part of the back and I try to distribute the blows so they don’t all land in the same place.
“Twisted pain slut,” my heart races as I continue shaming him. I didn’t think I’d find this part so thrilling, but damn if I don’t. “If you could speak, I know you’d be begging for it. But you are my slave and you can’t say a damn thing. You’re a helpless little bitch.”
My next swing is a little off and barely grazes him but I follow it up with another that lands on the target. From eight feet away, I can see his back is growing redder and redder. The session has been intense but awesome. He’s probably had about fifty blows by now. Shit. I should have been counting. That’s something I bet Dommes do. Or they have their subs count. Right. I feel like I’ve read somewhere that that’s the thing.
Oh well. I won’t feel bad about it. Daniel knew going into this that I’m just learning my way around. I let the whip drop to my side and am about to go closer to inspect his back and make sure he’s okay when he speaks up. It’s bad enough that he’s talking out of turn, but then his words register.
“If I’m a slut, Mistress is a slut too. You came over so willingly. I bet your panties are soaked.”
His laugh is caustic. “Fucking bimbo piece of trash. As if you’re even good enough to suck my cock. You’d be lucky if I wanted to shove my big fat cock down your throat. But if I did, I’d jam it in so far, you wouldn’t be breathing for a week. You’ll choke on it, you’ll—”
The whip is singing through the air before I quite realize what I’m doing. Stop him. Stop him from saying another word. That’s all I can think.
But the crack of the whip on his back only makes him laugh. He looks over his shoulder at me defiantly. “Oh yeah, I’d fuck your face so hard you couldn’t breathe. I’d make sure you were the one in these fucking chains, locked down here in my basement so I could use you whenever I want. My own personal cum bucket. That’s all a bitch like you is good for. And you’d want it. You’d love it.”
That’s right, you love it, you filthy whore. The words of my rapist, while he was still inside me. Violating me from behind while his co-rapist took from the front.
Oh God, I fe
el them. Suffocating me from all sides, sickening cologne and rancid breath biting at my breasts. Get them out of me! God help me! God, where are you?
See? It just takes one session sometimes to break a bitch. That’s what this is. Intentionally trying to break me. To crush the bits of my soul into pieces smaller than the finest grains of sand until there’s nothing left.
“Cause that’s how whores like you want it,” the voice in the room shouts, taunting and full of menace. “You pretend like you don’t, but you just need a man to come and shove it in your cunt, then you’re creaming all over—”
I scream and the whip flies. “I’m not broken! You didn’t break me!” I bring the whip down again. And again. And again. “You sick motherfucking rapist bastard!” I scream. I bring the whip down yet again with all the force I can manage.
Tears blur my vision as my arm rears back to strike again when the figure in front of me suddenly slumps to his knees.
Wait. What? What’s going on?
I stumble back, lose my footing and fall on my ass. I look around, confused and disoriented. Then it comes back to me. Daniel’s basement. The scene. Everything was going great until—
I look over at Daniel.
Oh God. I swipe at my eyes so I can see more clearly but the image is still the same. Blood. There’s blood on his back. A lot of fucking blood.
“Oh my God.” It’s a horrified whisper. Did I— My eyes jerk around the room. Of course I fucking did. Who the hell else do I think was here just whipping the helpless man chained to a post?
Oh my fucking God. What did I just do?
I scramble to my feet and run over to him.
“I’m so sorry.” The broken whisper barely gets past my throat. I grab for the key in my bra and then fumble to unlock his wrists. I jam the key at the little lock but can’t seem to get it in the hole. I shove it again but my hands are shaking so damn bad.
“Motherfucker,” I swear to myself as I try yet again.
“It’s okay,” the hands I’m trying to free grip mine and I look up to find Daniel’s eyes on mine.
How can he even look at me? “I didn’t hear your safe word. I swear, I would’ve stopped if I’d heard it.” Tears pour down my cheeks. “It’s unforgivable, but I’m so sorry, I’m so—”
Daniel just shakes his head vehemently back and forth and cuts me off. “I didn’t say it. I, I didn’t want you to stop. Please. I’m sorry for the things I was saying. But please. Just a little more. I need it. You don’t understand how much. No one else will give me what I need.”
“What?” I yank my hands back from him. I want to pretend I didn’t hear him right.
His whole face has gone hopeful. “That’s right,” he nods toward the whip I discarded. “You should punish me for being so disobedient and speaking out when I shouldn’t have. Saying such bad things. Give me as many more lashes as you want. I can handle it.” There’s a manic edge to his voice. He hugs the pole and struggles back to his feet.
I step even further back from him. The blood on his back… God, there’s so much of it. It’s dripping. I whipped a man bad enough that his back is dripping blood. And he wants more of it. My stomach goes queasy.
“I’ll get help,” I call over my shoulder as I turn and bolt for the stairs. Help. I don’t know what that means in this situation, but I just have to get the hell out of here. Out of this dungeon. Away from the man who wants me to injure him more than I already have.
So I run.
What are you doing? You can’t just leave him chained up down there. I hiccup as I try to get enough air in before I have to gasp for another breath. Shit shit shit. Running up the stairs like a bat out of hell didn’t help the breathing situation. In the hallway at the top, I bend over and put my hands on my knees.
In. Out. In.
My head swims and I finally manage one longer breath for every three short hiccupping ones. After a couple minutes, it seems like there’s less of a chance that I’m going to pass out. Great. Okay. One crisis averted.
I look around the narrow hallway. It’s full dark outside. I’m in this crazy fucker’s house all by myself. The crazy fucker in question is still cuffed to a pole downstairs. In need of medical attention. Should I uncuff him and take him to the hospital? And how exactly am I supposed to do that? I don’t have a car and I don’t know if Daniel does. Not that it would matter even if he did. My fucking license expired a couple months ago and I didn’t see the point of renewing it since I don’t have a car.
The image of me trying to drag a bloody and half-delirious Daniel onto public transit pops in my head. He’s a foot taller than me and outweighs me by at least seventy pounds. Yeah. Not happening. From my brief glance, it didn’t seem like the cuts were serious enough for an ambulance and I don’t think an Uber driver would look kindly on me being like, cool if you take us to the hospital, I’ll just put some towels against the seat so, you know, my friend doesn’t bleed all over your Honda Fit.
My breaths start to stutter again and I ball my fists.
No. I’ll just head down there, calmly ask him where his first aid equipment is, and… and… Oh shit, I feel sick. I press one hand to my stomach and the other to my mouth.
I turn to try to find a trashcan and almost trip over my purse where I dropped it in the hallway when I first got here. I stare for a long moment. My stomach settles as an idea hits.
Of course. The most obvious solution of all.
My hand is still shaking as I crouch down and paw through my purse. There it is. The hard plastic of my phone case. My hand closes around it and a great whoosh of breath escapes through my teeth. But when I breathe in again, for the first time in fifteen minutes, my lungs seem to expand fully.
I thumb through my contacts and press call. As the ringtone sounds in my ear, I consider the very real possibility that he might not pick up. It’s a Thursday. Not Friday, but still. He’s undoubtedly a busy man. Probably has a full social life. My stomach tightens unpleasantly at the thought. The phone trills for the third time.
Shit. He’s not going to pick up. I’m all alone in this. I press my palm to the flat of my forehead.
God. It was stupid of me to think of calling him in the first place. Never rely on anyone. That’s been my motto for years now. What the fuck is wrong with me? I made this mess. I shake my head in disgust and pull the phone away from my ear to end the call.
“Yes? Callie?” Jackson’s strong voice is distant but clear even with the phone inches away from my ear.
I stare at the phone, my thumb hovering over the end button.
“Calliope, are you there?”
My mind flashes to the man in the basement. Fuck it. This is about more than just me. I bring the phone up to my ear.
“Jackson. It’s me. I need your help.”
Chapter Ten
JACKSON
I rushed to Daniel’s house as soon as I got Callie’s call. Miranda met me there. As soon as we assured that Callie was okay—shaken, but okay—we went downstairs and found Daniel.
It didn’t take long to uncover what had happened. I was tempted, so damn tempted, to pick up the bull whip and complete the job Daniel was so desperate to trick Callie into doing. He might be the one bleeding but it’s her who’ll have lasting scars from tonight. I saw it in her eyes when we’d briefly checked in with her. The shame and horror at what she’d done. It was like looking in a mirror.
The only thing stopping the beast from grabbing the whip was how much pleasure it would have given Daniel. It was good that Miranda was there. She uncuffed Daniel while I prowled the basement pacing back and forth, trying to shake off my anger at the man.
He stumbled as soon as he was free and was too heavy for Miranda to catch so finally, I joined them and shouldered his weight to get him up the two flights of stairs to dump him in the tub and turn the shower spray on.
I don’t bother waiting for it to heat up.
“Wash yourself,” I bark and turn away in disgust.
Miranda gives me a what the hell look and passes by me to bend over and help Daniel. Aftercare, yeah yeah yeah. She knows just as well as I do that Daniel did this to himself. I thought about calling one of his former dommes but know that none of them would have wanted to come. Not again. He’s pulled stunts like this one too many times.
Daniel swore he was getting better. Going to counseling, and his probationary period at the club’s been over for two months.
Then for him to go and pull this shit… I should never have introduced him to Callie. I keep making mistake after mistake when it comes to her.
“Fuck.” I run my hands through my hair as I stomp into the bedroom and sit down on the bed. I don’t go downstairs to Callie. Miranda might still need my help and I’m not sure I can face Callie yet, not after failing her again.
I guess I thought I’d, I don’t know, swoop in like some white knight with all the answers. She’d be my apprentice domme and I’d be her wise teacher in the art of domination. I envisioned long sessions learning flogging patterns and how to lead a sub through the various devices and stations at the club, about all the different toys used in the lifestyle. But nothing’s worked out like I imagined. Then again, nothing ever does, does it?
Miranda comes out of the en suite bathroom, eyes shrewd.
I swallow. “How is he?”
“He’ll be sore for a few days. Nothing that a little ointment, arnica, and rest won’t cure.”
“He’s got bigger problems than a sore back,” I say darkly.
“Oh I know.” Miranda says, gaze flicking back toward the bathroom. “But I think he can still come back from this.”
I glower at her. As far as I’m concerned, Daniel is done. But Miranda’s just shaking her head. “He won’t tell me who it was that did it to him.”
I frown. What does she mean. Obviously it was Callie who—
“I mean who broke him. Who made him so fucked up.” She looks toward the window. The sun has long gone down but her gaze has gone faraway. “At least I’m at the place where I can say the name of my demon out loud. Bryce Gentry.”