by Trent Evans
This was animal.
This was every second of my torment, every moment of my denial, every instant I held in my desire to confess to her how much she meant to me now.
I pounded into her over and over and over again, as if I could purge myself of the confused feelings I’d been grappling with for so long. Of the times I’d seen her as my light and my dark, my pain and my pleasure.
My everything.
She cried out as I slammed home as deeply as a man could, my balls slapping against her cunt, the head of my cock battering the entrance to her womb. I reached down and twisted my fist in her hair again, pulling her up, holding her like a rein on a horse as I drove into her again and again. I wanted her cries, I wanted her surrender, I wanted everything.
For those precious, sweet moments, she was mine — and I made her feel it in every way I knew how.
I don’t know how long I took her, growling at her to squeeze that cunt. Slapping her ass, her hanging bouncing breasts as I pounded her sex mercilessly.
Too soon, my climax had gathered, my ability to hold it back breaking down under the battering force of my long frustrated, cruelly-denied desire.
I roared my lost, agonized pleasure as my vision exploded in stars, my consciousness blurring, every nerve ending in my body seemingly connected to my exploding cock as my seed poured forth deep within her.
As I came down, panting, spent, I pulled her body back against me as I collapsed against the couch. She turned in my arms, burrowing her face under my jaw, her little whimpering sounds something I’d never imagined I’d hear from the fierce, unattainable female. I hugged her close as our frantic heartbeats became one, as our sweat cooled upon our naked bodies, for this one, quiet, precious moment simply a boy and a girl, holding each other.
I stroked her hair, murmuring my wordless reverent thanks to the woman who’d taken me, kept me, tormented me.
Broken me.
The woman who’d found something worth fighting for.
Anna, the woman who’d saved me.
Chapter 33
They waited in silence as the elevator dropped below the streets of Seattle.
Situated below the basement level of one of the tallest skyscrapers in the downtown core, Iridium was an invitation-only club. There were no flashy ads for it, no beckoning signs, no line waiting behind a purple velvet rope.
Put simply — if you weren’t the right clientele for Iridium, then you had no idea the nightclub even existed.
“Just like we talked about.” Anna stared at the numbers on the LED board, showing just how far they’d dropped into the bowels of the massive structure’s sub-basement. “When we’re in there, you don’t talk. You follow any instruction I give you — immediately. Understand?”
“Yes, Mistress.” A tell-tale tremolo had snuck into his voice. He was as nervous as she was — though probably for an entirely different reason.
She’d bought a new shirt for him, but otherwise he was wearing the same suit he’d been in when he’d been abducted. It was a good thing she hadn’t let Darynn burn it.
The suit looked damn good on the man. The only hint that there was more than met the eye than a dapper, attractive young man was the thick black leather collar about his neck, the burnished silver rings catching and glinting with the overhead light.
Taking in every line of his muscular body, the plane of his jaw, the haunted eyes, the almost pretty eyelashes, she tried to commit all of it to memory, even as she knew it would be best for her if she did the exact opposite.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, idiot.
They’d talked, of course, before they’d left the house, going over everything she expected of him. She knew he was ready. She wasn’t sure if he did though.
Her only requirements of him to accompany her to the club that night were two things:
He had to obey every command she gave him, no matter what it was.
He had to wear a blindfold traveling to and from the location.
It still gave her pleasure to know Quinton had no idea where he’d been kept for so many weeks. It was selfish of her she knew, but it was a small thing.
She knew how precious the small things could be.
The elevator came to a stop and whispered open, the muted warning tone the only sound, echoing across the empty concrete floor that stretched away from the doors. Striding across the concrete, Quinton stayed close, his own gait stiff. It had been many days since he’d last been able to walk freely, and he moved accordingly.
The guard at the entrance, dressed in a long, black dress coat, mirrored sunglasses, and a fearsome mien, was gigantic. Anna flashed him her ID, and he opened the mirrored doors.
The place thumped with a solid four-on-the-floor beat, the lighting muted reds and greens, a central floor surrounded by two levels of seating, groups of booths interspersed with separate tables. Knots of people clustered everywhere, the air alive with countless conversations, laughter, the clink of glasses. The faint sound of cries, and impacts against flesh occasionally sounded over the musical and verbal din. The savory smell of steak and the tart, full-bodied scent of red wine wafted from somewhere nearby.
Quinton stopped in his tracks, the light from the dance floor visuals playing across his features. His haunted eyes stared across to the far end of the floor.
There were crosses… and a set of stocks. Several people were crowded around one of the crosses, one — a barrel-chested man in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up — was swinging what looked to be a long flogger.
Anna stepped in front of Quinton, touching his face. “Yes, we’re going there. I want everyone to see who you belong to tonight. You’re going to do as you’re told, aren’t you?”
Please just let this work.
“Y-yes. I just… please not the stocks.” His throat worked as he looked beyond her, his memories of his captivity no doubt flooding through him at the sight.
“That depends upon you, boy. Please me, and I might decide you don’t need them.” She turned, giving him a sidelong glance. A buxom waitress, holding a round tray filled to overflowing with wine glasses and tall, dark bottles, sidled by, giving them a warm smile. Her skirt was so short that Anna was sure if the girl bent over, her sex would be on full display to anyone who happened to notice.
Anna took a deep breath, pulling the length of leather from her bag. Quinton watched her in tense — but docile — silence as she affixed the leash to one of the rings in his collar, the snap of the silver clasp loud enough to get a couple heads turned their way from nearby tables.
Wrapping the leash about her fist, she led him across the dance floor, the clack of her heels clearly audible even over the driving music. She wanted everyone to see him, to see them — but not for the reason she suspected Quinton might think.
There was a large group sitting in a corner, in full view of the crosses and the stocks. One man, strikingly tall, stood to one side, his dark suit blending almost completely into the shadows such that only his intent gaze shone.
Brauer.
She knew that somewhere back in that corner, obscured from view by his gathered sycophants and gaggle of hangers-on, lurked Grayson Corddray.
Ignoring the chills down her spine, she pushed through a group of people milling about the crosses and stocks. Many referred to such a section of a club as a “play area.” She despised the term, and the sentiment in general.
What she engaged in, what she loved, what was her… was anything but a game.
Dragging a clearly reluctant Quinton toward one of the huge St. Andrews crosses, she patted the middle of it, turning to her charge.
“Strip, then put yourself to this cross. Ass out.” She caught Quinton’s eye and gave him a slow nod, seeing the fear there. “You can do this. You will do this — because I want it.”
She knew she had to push away her own fear, the knowledge of what she still had to do. It wasn’t the time for that, not the time to lose her nerve.
It was time to
concentrate on her slave, to enjoy every moment with him. Especially knowing how precious those moments really were.
Strolling over to the wall-mounted implement rack, the lighting behind it displaying the fearsome instruments of pain in stark bluish illumination, she plucked up a single tail whip. It was a thin, particularly snappy version with an evil little knot of leather at the end. It was more like a carriage whip than a proper single tail, and as such, made more precise strikes easier. She also grabbed a stout penal cane.
Tucking them under her arms, she turned back to her slave, slowly approaching him as she watched him comply with her orders.
Despite the reddish mood lighting of the club, she could still make out his adorable blush. There was a time she would have laughed at the very idea the adjective “adorable” could be ascribed to Quinton Trask in any context. She marveled at how far things had come.
Never would she tire of seeing those blushing cheeks… even as she knew she might never see them again.
Removing his jacket and shirt was hard enough for him — the rings at his nipples catching the light and invariably drawing the eye, especially of the female onlookers — but it was when his fingers moved to his fly that he paused, frowning at her, a desperate note in his keen gaze.
“Do it, boy,” she intoned, loud enough to be heard over the thump of the background music. “Do not defy me.”
The slacks dropped, and a murmur went through the crowd at seeing he wore not a thing under them. He bent over, still facing Anna — and she knew exactly why. For along from his collar, he wasn’t quite totally nude.
Kicking off his shoes, and stepping out of his pants, he stood before her, back to the people who’d gathered to watch. A snapping sound of leather impacting flesh, and a sharp shriek made him jerk. Two crosses down, where most of the crowd was gathered, the bound woman, her breasts swaying beneath her as she bent at her own cross, was being striped increasingly harshly, her tormentor having shed his shirt as well, the tattooed muscles of his back gleaming under the light as he sweated with his disciplinary exertions.
“Turn around, boy. Give them a look before we begin.”
It was something she craved more than she wanted to admit, this last bit of shaming for her slave. That his forced exhibition, his humiliation, made her clit stand up was only part of it though. Now, there was more. It was a pride, a satisfaction in showing off her slave, a strong man bent utterly to her will, yoked to her body and soul.
He closed his eyes as he reluctantly faced the crowd. Gasps, and soft laughter could be heard. One woman, a sophisticated blonde with ice blue eyes and thin, cruel lips, merely sipped from her wine glass, her eyes flashing as she looked down at the cage huddled between Quinton’s legs.
“Is that… that’s fucking Quinton!” someone hissed, a shocked murmuring rippling through the increasingly large knot of people who looked on.
Anna scanned the club beyond, her pulse already starting to pound. The place was beginning to fill up, but the people she spotted, some huddled over drinks, others looking on at the spectacle across the floor as they reclined back against sumptuous couches, were unknown to her. She’d never made it a point of making a large number of acquaintances at Trust functions… but it was unusual for her not to see at least a few familiar faces.
She tapped her charge on the shoulder, and he looked back at her, shame coloring his handsome face a deep crimson. She tilted her head toward the waiting cross.
It was the first time she’d seen relief in the man’s eyes at the prospect of being bound. She knew it would at least offer him a modicum of privacy, to at least partially conceal the sight of the shameful steel cage imprisoning his cock.
Looking on in silence, she watched him secure each cuff, first around his ankles, then at each wrist, leaving the second cuff open, knowing she preferred to be the one to lock him up fully.
“Good boy,” she murmured to him as she reached up and fastened him tight. She caressed his back with a palm, loving the feel of his flesh against hers, tracing the lines of his tattoo with her fingertips, and marveling again at the rush of jealousy she felt that the ink there wasn’t of her design, emblazoned upon his skin at her direction.
He was hers; inside they both knew it. Which made what was to come that much more painful.
She palmed his ass, squeezing both buttocks, the tensing of his body the only outward sign he showed at the way her nails dug brutally into his helpless flesh. If they were in private, she’d have been tempted to bite one of those muscular cheeks too, until he hissed and pleaded with her.
But she decided to spare him that more intimate humiliation.
For now.
Taking up the single tail, she swished it through the air, the onlookers stilling as they anticipated what was about to happen.
She didn’t make any pronouncements, state any reason for the whipping. This wasn’t some role play, needing a “reason” for his punishment. It was a given that she would thrash him whenever she liked, for whatever reason she liked — even if it was simply for her pleasure.
Even he accepted that now. It was the way of things between them.
“Be strong,” she said in a low voice such that only Quinton could hear it.
Then she slashed down the leather across his ass. His buttocks squeezed tight as the line bloomed across his smooth, pale flesh, then they loosened. He knew what his stern Mistress expected.
It made her smile as she laid down the second stroke.
The crowd gathered still more as she painted his back, his ass, the vulnerable thighs, with lines of fire. After thirty, a delicate tracery of pink lines could clearly be seen, her captive breathing hard, only crying out when the vicious tip wrapped around against his rib cage, or the far hip.
Alternating sides and grips, she whipped her slave steadily, ruthlessly, showing everyone what it meant to be the slave of a Mistress unafraid to indulge her sadistic impulses.
After fifty, welts could clearly be seen crossing every part of his back, particularly the quivering buttocks. His powerful thighs were in constant motion, whispering together helplessly as he groaned out his anguish.
She leaned in close, gently cupping his ass, her lips at his ear, nipping it as she spoke the quiet, cruel words. “I think you need a dose of the cane too.”
Quinton moaned, dropping his head, but it made her smile that he didn’t beg her to spare him. He well knew such an entreaty for mercy would not be granted.
The volume of voices around her raised a moment, and she was dimly aware of harsh words being whispered, of the tension in the room rising. But she had a job to do, a punishment to mete out.
A slave who needed to understand, one last time, who it was who really owned him, body and soul.
Lining up the cane across the fullest part of his ass, she laid it down with a flick of her wrist, Quinton going up on his toes, his breath coming in a pained hiss.
Taking her time, she laced him with stroke after stroke, the last three making him cry out with each one. At the end, a neatly laddered pattern of swollen, crimson tramlines decorated his cheeks. His breath whistled in and out through clenched teeth, his entire body trembling.
The crowd had drawn to a stunned silence at the display of discipline.
Anna stepped up behind Quinton, and pressed her body to his. He made a soft sound of surrender as she wrapped her arms around his chest, kissing him gently at the back of his neck.
“I’m so proud of you, Quinton. So proud.”
“Yes, Mistress.” He shuddered, then turned watering eyes back toward her. “Thank you.”
The words stunned her like nothing else could, both of them knowing what they meant, the change and evolution in him that they spoke to.
The meaning they held for what had grown between the two of them over all these months.
Before she freed him from his bonds, she slipped around to his side, dropping to a knee. He looked down at her as she worked at the cage, freeing the lock, then freeing hi
s tortured manhood from the merciless imprisonment.
She met his eyes. “You’re free, Quinton Trask.”
His brow furrowed at the words, his lips moving.
“Just be still.” She quickly loosened his ankle cuffs, letting his feet slip from their grip, then unshackled his hands.
Haltingly, he turned to her as she rose to her feet. “M-mistress, you—”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here with him?”
Anna froze, seeing it in Quinton’s wide eyes. It was finally happening.
She spun around, stepping in front of Quinton — and not just to shield her charge’s nudity from the gimlet gaze of one Grayson Corddray.
“He’s a member of the Trust. He’s got as much right to be here as you or I do.” She straightened up, scanning the crowd once more, her heart sinking at what she saw there.
Or what she didn’t see there.
Grayson, wearing a suit the color of palest gray, stepped closer, stabbing a finger at her, his eyes blazing hellfire. “Bringing him here isn’t what I’d call doing your job, Shaw. You insult me by bringing this degenerate asshole here.”
“I don’t give a shit what insults you.”
“Anna, don’t…” Quinton grabbed her shoulder, but she shook his hand away.
“I’ve tolerated your stubbornness, your mouth, your disdain for our ways.” Grayson scrubbed a hand across his mouth. “But I won’t tolerate your disrespect.”
“The contact is canceled, Mr. Corddray.” Anna looked around at the crowd. “You all hear that? It’s canceled. Right now.”
Anna’s blood froze at the sound of a gun cocking.
“I don’t think so, Ms. Shaw.”
She turned toward the icy voice, her heart in her throat. A black pistol was pointed at her face, inches away, the end of the barrel yawning open like an infernal entrance to hell.
Before she could say anything, Quinton grabbed her by the upper arm, yanking her behind him so fast she almost lost her feet, his strength shocking — and reassuring.
No way had he been broken.
“Put that fucking gun down, Brauer.” The old Quinton sneer was back in his voice, but she knew it was only a weapon now, a tool — not the real him. “You think this is gonna solve anything? You think you’re some kinda fucking cappo in a mob movie? Get the fuck outta here with that shit.”