It was creepy that he’d found her birth control pills, but of course it made sense. He’d naturally gone through her purse when he’d kidnapped her. And she was glad to have them. Imagine the horror of being impregnated by this monster?
At least her phone was passcode protected. The thought of him pretending to be her and sending out texts was horrifying. Had he even brought the phone to wherever they were now? Did it still have any juice left? Could her location be determined if someone was looking for her?
Even as hope surged, she knew it was extremely unlikely. The odds were good he’d gotten rid of her phone from the get-go. While he was clearly deranged and dangerous, he wasn’t stupid.
All other thoughts fell away as she stared up at the ominous cross. She’d read so many novels about submissives undergoing slave training, but the stories had been sexy, not terrifying. She’d often fantasized about what it would feel like to be restrained on a cross or rack, naked and at the mercy of her dominant lover.
But those fantasies had been nothing like this. Damon wasn’t her lover. He was her captor. And there was nothing safe, sane or consensual about what was going on.
The spanking had been bad enough, his hard palm crashing down again and again until her ass felt like it was on fire. But that riding crop looked wicked. Could it draw blood?
The thought made her shudder. A whimper of fear very nearly escaped her lips. She never could stand the sight of her own blood. She’d once made the mistake of participating in a blood drive, and as she watched the bright red blood filling those plastic vials, she’d passed out cold. Afterward, she’d been advised that she was not an ideal donor, to put it mildly.
Don’t think about it, she warned herself. Just get through this.
She would take the punishment because what choice did she have? But no way was she going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream. She was strong. She was brave. She would swallow her cries along with the pain. She would retreat into herself until it was over.
Hopefully.
He disappeared behind her. “Fifty swats,” he said. “You’ll count each one out loud. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Counting would be good. It would help to distract her from the pain, and give her a goal.
The first smack landed on her left cheek with a slap. It wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d feared, and much less painful than his palm had been.
“One,” she dutifully called out.
The second slap landed on the other cheek, the sting easily manageable.
“Two.”
She relaxed, just a little. She could get through this.
The third strike landed with considerably more force, making her understand the first two had just been warm ups, more for his arm than her flesh. This time, the sting was tenfold in intensity, sending a shock through her system. Despite her promise to herself, she yelped in pain.
“Count,” he snapped behind her. “Or we start again at one.”
“Three,” she cried, wondering how in the hell she’d get through forty-seven more.
As she breathlessly counted, the crop rained down against her ass until every inch of flesh was burning. Though the room was cool, she was soon sweating, her body trembling, her heart hammering. She could barely catch her breath to form the words as she cried out the numbers.
At thirty, mercifully, the pain began to lessen, though the blows were just as hard as before. As had happened toward the end of the spanking, her skin was numbing, or perhaps she was just adjusting to the constant barrage of pain.
Twenty more, she encouraged herself. More than halfway done. You can do this!
But then the crop stung her inner thigh. She gasped, tears filling her eyes as she forced herself to keep up the count. The thought of starting over was unbearable.
He was relentless, smacking at her inner thighs until she gave up the fight to remain silent, save for the required counting. She screamed with each searing blow, the tears flowing freely down her face, sweat trickling down her sides and into her eyes.
“Forty-nine,” she finally gasped.
The final blow landed squarely between her legs, the force of the smack lifting her to her toes. The blinding pain and sudden shock of being hit directly on her spread sex took her breath away.
“Fifty,” she managed, her voice breaking on a sob.
“You’re lucky I don’t give you fifty more,” Damon said nastily.
Hatred rose like bile in her throat, even as the tears continued to leak from her eyes. She sighed with relief when he released her wrists, bringing her arms down to her sides. Then he undid the ankle cuffs, allowing her to close her legs. Her poor pussy was on fire, as were her ass and thighs, but at least it was over.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her so she was facing him. He lifted his hand and she winced reflexively, expecting him to slap her again. But, instead, he only wiped away a tear with his finger. “Poor little baby,” he said with saccharin sweetness.
Then, his face hardened. “Now, stand against the cross again, this time facing me.” He had dropped the crop to the floor, and now he bent to pick up a short-handled whip, the leather tail about fifteen inches long.
The word No rose like a howl in her throat. Her arms tingled, her hands clenching reflexively into fists.
He was watching her, as if daring her to protest or make a move.
Callie forced herself to draw in a breath and let it out slowly. She unfurled her fingers, letting her hands relax at her sides. “Yes, Sir,” she managed, hoping the meekness of her tone hid the fury in her heart.
His smile was cruel as he stuck the nasty little whip in the waistband of his shorts. As he loomed over her to resecure her in the cuffs, she could smell his clean, freshly-showered skin and the warm scent of his cologne, a stark contrast to the acrid tang of her fear sweat. The contrast filled her with impotent rage.
Once she was again spread against the cross, he pulled the whip from his shorts and flicked it in the air. The whistling sound made her gasp. She’d seen videos online of what a whip like that could do. She stared at it, wide-eyed with fear. She very nearly begged for mercy, pleaded that he not do this—she’d learned her lesson. She would be so good from now on, she would promise, just please, please, please don’t use that whip.
His eyes narrowed, and again she felt he was silently daring her to defy him, perhaps hoping she would.
No. Don’t give the bastard the satisfaction, she desperately counseled herself. She closed her mouth, pressing her lips together to keep from uttering a sound.
His expression changed. Was that disappointment on the sadistic bastard’s face? Had he wanted her to break down and beg, just so he could have the pleasure of refusing her? But all he said was, “Ten strokes with the whip. Five on each breast. You will count each lash. Got it?”
“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, her vocal cords paralyzed with fear.
Each snap of the whip landed like a stroke of icy fire against her skin, the pain far more intense than either the spanking or the cropping had been. He alternated between breasts, leaving angry red welts over her skin. She cried out each number, her voice rising into a wail she couldn’t control with each searing stroke. When the whip snapped against her nipple, she actually saw stars dancing before her eyes. She would have fallen to the floor if she hadn’t been held in place by the cuffs.
But somehow, her breasts on fire, she made it to ten.
Damon took a step back and dropped the whip to the carpet. “I trust you’ve learned your lesson, naughty girl?”
“Yes, Sir,” she somehow managed to gasp. She’d learned her lesson, all right. No more haphazard efforts at escape. Next time she made her move, she’d be sure it would work.
Then she made the mistake of looking down. Several of the welts beaded with bright red blood.
She’d hated the helpless, peculiar feeling those few times in the past when she’d fainted. But now she welcomed the swooping d
rop in her stomach and the strange whistling sound her ears. Then the darkness swallowed her whole.
Chapter 10
“Callie?” Damon lightly slapped her cheek. She didn’t react. Her eyes remained closed, chin lolling on her chest, her mouth hanging open.
He placed his palm over her heart. The beat was steady and strong, but she remained limp as a rag doll. There was barely any blood on her tits—just some droplets on one welt, a trickle oozing from another. But the sight of it sent a dark thrill through his core.
He slapped her again, a little harder. “Callie. Come on. Wake up.”
Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned softly. After a moment, she opened her eyes. She stared at him blankly for several seconds, as if she had no idea where she was or who he was.
“You went out like a light. Guess you’re one of those types who can’t deal with the sight of their own blood.”
He stroked one of the welts with his fingertip, awed that he had done that. He lifted the finger to her mouth, smearing the trace of blood over her chapped lips.
Still out of it, she barely reacted. But the simple power of that gesture—of the total and absolute control he had over this girl—nearly made him come then and there. He briefly considered trying to get his cock into her while she remained on the cross, but dismissed the idea as impractical.
Instead, he crouched and released her ankle cuffs. Then he rose to unclip the wrists cuffs. Her arms flopped down like dead weights and she cried out, her face twisting in pain. As her knees buckled, he pressed his body against hers to keep her upright. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he drew her away from the cross. The color was returning to her face and her eyes had become more focused.
“You’re quite the little drama queen.” He shook his head. “You need to toughen up, girl. The whip barely broke the skin. You better get used to the sight of blood, because it turns me on.” He gripped the tent pole in his shorts to emphasize his point.
She said nothing, but the fear in her eyes made his cock throb. He needed to fuck this cunt. But first, a shower. She was rank.
Damon half-walked, half-carried Callie down the spiral stairs to the first floor. He led her into the master bedroom and on through to the bathroom. Opening the glass stall door, he reached in and turned on the water. Then he quickly stripped off his clothes, deciding he’d join her.
“I’m going to wash you. You just stand there like a good little piece of ass.”
She remained silent and docile as the warm water sluiced over her body. Hopefully her well-deserved punishment had done the trick, and she would think twice before pulling anything like that again.
“Put your hands on your head and stand with feet shoulder-width apart,” he instructed.
He soaped her body, carefully washing the welts on her breasts and the still-reddened, already bruising skin on her ass and thighs. The sight of the marks he’d placed on that lovely skin kept his cock hard as an iron rod. She was his object, his toy, his slave. He could do whatever he wanted to this girl and no one, not a soul, would ever know.
He had to be sensible, though. It wouldn’t do to kill or permanently harm her. She needed to stay reasonably healthy in order to serve him properly. He would have allowed her to eat this morning if she hadn’t pulled her little stunt. That was on her—entirely her own fault.
Hopefully, it was the last time she disobeyed. He would condition her to be a subservient, obedient slave. She would come to understand that she had no choice in the matter, so she might as well get used to it. This was her life now.
There were all kinds of guides and advice on the internet about how to train a dirty little slut. And he had the added freedom of not needing to worry about stupid shit like limits and consent. When he got bored with her, he’d sell her to some sex traffic ring, and do it all over again.
He rubbed a soapy hand between Callie’s legs and then rinsed her body with one of the hand-held showerheads. He stroked his erection, eager to stick it in her slit.
He was aware soap wasn’t a good lubricant for sex, and silently praised his own foresight at placing the tube of KY in the stall that morning. Grabbing the lube from the shelf, he smeared it over the head of his cock.
Reaching for Callie, he lifted her into his arms. “Wrap your legs around my waist,” he directed, hoisting her body on his hips. He walked with her in his arms to the back of the stall and out of the direct line of the warm spray. Leaning her against the wall, he held her up with one arm as he reached for his throbbing cock. He positioned the head between her legs, groaning with anticipatory pleasure as he pushed his way inside her.
She gave a small yelp as he entered her. Her cunt was nice and tight. It spasmed against his shaft like a thousand perfect fingers. Holding her in place against the wall, he thrust and rutted with animal pleasure. He groaned with lust as a powerful climax gathered in his groin. “You… are… my personal… cunt,” he gasped as he ejaculated deep inside her.
Satisfied, he pulled out and set her down on the tile. “Get on your knees and kiss my feet, slave,” he directed. “And then thank me for fucking you.”
She had huddled herself in a little ball the moment he set her down. For a moment she didn’t move. He was about to give her a sharp prod with his toe, but then she shifted, wincing as she got to her knees. She lowered her head and brushed the top of his foot with her lips. “Thank you,” she mumbled, face averted.
“No, no, no,” he admonished. “Look up at me and thank me properly. Say, thank you, Sir, for fucking this worthless slave.”
She drew in an audible breath and then slowly lifted her head. She started to speak, cleared her throat, and then repeated the words with all the enthusiasm of a dead fish. They would have to work on that. For now, he let it pass, eager to get on with his plans for the morning.
“You’re welcome, cunt. Now, get up and wash your hair. Then get out of the shower and dry off. I’ve got plans for you.”
~*~
Damon’s disgusting jism dribbled down her inner thigh. When he stepped out of the stall to dry himself and dress, she quickly washed it away. Then she reached for the shampoo and squirted a large dollop onto her palm.
Callie’s arms felt like lead as she lifted them to wash her hair. She was weak with hunger and utterly exhausted. She supposed she should be grateful he’d bothered with lubricant, but he’d still hurt her when he’d shoved his big, hard cock inside her.
She wanted to stay under the spray forever, rather than step out to whatever “plans” he had for her. She didn’t dare, however.
She had to keep herself focused. Her number one priority right now was to make him believe he’d broken her. She’d taken too many risks already, and he was now doubly on his guard. She had to behave like the meek, docile mouse he seemed to want, desperately eager to please.
The really terrifying thing was that she felt meek and docile at the moment. She would do anything for something to eat and the chance to rest in a real bed.
Hair and scalp clean, she turned off the shower and stepped out of the stall, accepting the towel he held out to her.
“Dry off while I grab something from the bedroom,” Damon ordered. He returned a moment later holding a small bundle of clothing and a pair of black stiletto heels. “Put this on.” He thrust the things at her.
She took them, staring down with dismay at the black fishnet stockings and garters, tiny black satin apron and an open cup lace shelf bra. Seriously?
Remember, you’ve given up. You’re his obedient slave girl. He has to believe that.
She tied the tiny apron around her waist, looping the long satin sashes into a bow at her back. The lacy Lycra bra covered only the lower half of her breasts, her nipples on full display. At least the welts were no longer bleeding, but the sight of the long red lines marring her skin upset her, and she looked quickly away.
Her hands shook as she put on the garter belt and stockings. How long before she totally lost her mind?
Stay strong. Don�
��t give up.
She slipped her feet into the high heels. They were a half size too large, and she wondered how she was expected to walk in the damn things.
When she was finally dressed in the ridiculous getup, Damon thrust a feather duster into her hand. Reluctantly, she took it.
“We’re going to engage in a little role play,” he said with a sly grin. “Here’s the story—you’re a French maid and you’re applying for a position as my housekeeper. I have asked for a demonstration of your dusting skills. You are to dust all the furniture in the bedroom. No matter what I do to you, you have to keep dusting. If you get distracted and stop what you’re doing, not only will you not get the job, but you’ll be punished. Got it?”
Callie bit back a wail of fury. If only she had the strength to shove the fucking feather duster down his throat. Instead, she swallowed her rage as she composed herself. “Yes, Sir,” she managed.
Then, unable to stop herself, she added, “Please.” Her voice cracked. “Please, Damon. I want to do what you want, Sir, but I’m so hungry. I’m not sure I have the strength to do this right now. I’m afraid I’m going to faint again.”
He frowned, crossing his arms over his muscular chest. “You should have thought of that before you tried to escape.” He took her elbow and marched her into the bedroom. She tried not to stumble as he led her to the bureau.
“After our game, then you can have something to eat, as long as you do a good job. Now, get to dusting, little maid. And remember, don’t get distracted from your task.”
Blinking back tears, Callie lifted the duster and ran it over the top of the bureau. He’d left his wallet there. She scanned the already-polished wood for something she might use as a weapon, or perhaps a key, but there was nothing else on its surface.
As she dusted, Damon moved up close behind her. Reaching around her, he cupped her still-sore breasts and rolled her nipples between his fingers. Remembering the rules of his stupid game, she gritted her teeth against the pain and forced herself to focus on her task.
Tricked Page 8