by Skye Warren
In a reckless burst of courage, she reached out and put her hand directly on his cock. At first it felt like nothing, just the flat stiffness of his jeans. But then, there, it jumped beneath her palm, lengthened.
This was solid ground. She could arouse him, then she would get him off. Any way he wanted it, she had probably done it before, or she could learn. He would see her value then. It wasn’t exactly obedient to grope your Master without express orders to do so. The opposite, really, but she was desperate.
He put his hand on the top of her head, not pushing her closer or away. It was sweet, his hesitation, and she thought for a moment that he would let her get away with it. God, she would do anything. Please.
He gently pushed her hand away.
She wanted to live. How pathetic.
Tears fell in hot tracks down her cheeks.
“Someone really did a number on you, didn’t they?” he asked.
At his words, she looked into his eyes. Amazingly, they were filled with something like understanding. It was probably better that she couldn’t speak then, because she would have begged for him to help her. But she didn’t deserve his benediction. She’d failed.
“Here’s what we’re going to do.” He slid his hand around her neck, grasping her firmly from behind. She melted into the firm touch. “You’re going to sleep now. Stay off the floor. Nod for me.”
She nodded vigorously, her eyes downcast in joy.
His fingers still curled behind her neck, he swept his thumb along her cheek, then down over her neck. Back and forth, he caressed her. She stayed still, watching as her breath ruffled the dark hairs on his forearm.
He moved his thumb against her mouth then pushed it inside. She closed her lips around it, eager to suck it. He tasted of salt and earth and hope. This was her chance to touch him, to please him, to show him badly she wanted this.
She swirled her tongue around the tip, worshipping his thumb like she wanted to worship his cock. Like she wanted to lick every part of him, if it meant she could stay. The soft wet sounds filled the room, tangling with the harsh sounds of his breathing.
She begged with the warmth and wetness of her mouth. She implored with the skill of her tongue. Every swipe promised pleasure, if only.
He pulled his hand away.
Her lips were still parted, damp from his ministrations. She stayed perched on the bed in supplication. A bulge rounded his jeans. His nostrils flared with what she recognized as arousal.
He turned and left the room.
She stared at the door for what felt like hours, until her limbs ached and her eyelids grew heavy. No trick. She sank into the clean bed.
She caught the slight sound of crickets outside, serenading her under the window. He had been surprised to learn about her defect, but he had worked around it. Nod for me. Maybe he would keep her after all.
Chapter Two
She had been naked before, cold before, but not like this. The chill bit into her skin, penetrated her bones, until she couldn’t imagine ever being warm again. Stripped not just of clothes, but of humanity, of hope.
The dream, she was in it again. Dear God, no. Get out. Wake up!
The shadowy Masters in the dream paid no attention to her silent plea, just as they hadn’t in her memory. The wet cloth covered her face, heavy and stifling. Panicked, she sucked in a breath. No, wrong, stupid, because her mouth filled with water, not air. There was no air, none. Not in her lungs, not in her nose. Only water, never-ending water in her face and all around.
Her whole body bucked with the effort to breathe, but all she earned was a brief respite, just the flash of distraction as the bonds cut into her wrists and ankles and neck. Then she was drowning. This time they had gone too far. No air – she gulped. She sucked the water into her lungs, knowing it was over. Hope faded, everything dimmed.
The rush of air shocked her before the bright lights could register. She drank in the air, free from the torture chamber of simple damp cloth.
Her face was wet, leftover water, but also with her tears, with snot, with drool. And lower too, she had wet herself, but she couldn’t bring herself to embarrassment just yet. She couldn’t control them, not a single one of her reactions, as her body spasmed and shook and grunted out primal sounds of relief and fear.
The master crossed his arms, angry, but his eyes were amused. “Don’t have anything to say now, do you?”
Her body jerked in its restraints, though she couldn’t have said why. Actually, she couldn’t say anything. Her throat was frozen. Her mind pulled it to a halt like some large, clumsy piece of machinery now rutted into the dry ground. Good. She couldn’t remember what she had said, but she thought she must have talked back. She must have mouthed off, and her masters didn’t tolerate that.
“Answer me,” he said.
What was the question? No, she had nothing to say him, not ever again if it meant she did not have to endure that again. Her body jerked and secreted fear in the form of bodily excretions, but it would eventually find equilibrium. But her mind—God. Her mind was numb, waiting, like that moment after seeing your thumb hit with a hammer but before the pain sets in. She would never be the same again. She would never be warm, never be safe again.
He flicked her, right on her forehead. “Cat got your tongue?”
She closed her eyes, opened them. Licked her lips and tried to speak, but nothing came out.
His eyebrow raised. “The correct answer is ‘Yes, Master.’”
When nothing came out, he turned purple, splotchy. “You would disobey me now? That wasn’t enough for you? Answer me, slave. Say it.”
Fear shuddered through her. Her throat worked, fruitless. She formed the words with her mouth, desperate. Yes, Master, Yes, Master, Yesssssmaster.
Her lips kept moving, even as the wet cloth clamped down on them. The water slapped her face, fell into her mouth, and blocked her nose. Only one lungful of air left. She opened her mouth to scream. Use it all up to scream, but it turned into a gargle. She gasped and gasped, breathing in water. Drowning, sinking, falling too deep to ever make her way back up in time.
* * *
She woke gasping for air, shivering. That nightmare again. God.
At least she couldn’t remember it. That was a small comfort, but the effects on her body were chilling enough. It took her a minute to realize where she was again. Not her cell. She had a new master, one who kept a beautiful cell for her. One who fed her fresh bread and clean water.
It took her a moment to hear it: something between a groan and a whimper. She glanced at the window first, fearful of wild animals. The house was practically in the middle of a jungle. The sound came again, this time more clearly through the wall—from inside the house. When it was accompanied by a muted thump, she thought she knew what it was. Who it was.
Her feet hit the cold, gnarled wood, and she padded into the hallway silently. His door was open. She saw a shadowed figure flail on the bed, but far from scary, the sight was endearing. He had nightmares—like her.
She crept inside. How exactly would she wake him up without speech? Perhaps she could shake him, though the thought of touching him without permission… but she had to try. She knew the pain of being trapped inside a dream, again and again.
When she reached the side of the bed, he stilled. This room was darker than hers, without a window. The sheets drew gray relief against the black night. Perhaps his dream had ended.
In a flash of shadows and whip of wind, she was wrenched onto the bed. With a silent cry, she fell—caught by softness and blanketed with male musk. Uncertainty kept her still, but curiously she felt no fear.
No menace simmered in the air, just pain, and that was an old friend to her. Harsh breathing sawed just above her, touching her face like a caress. She waited, wanting. Longing for something, but what?
His hand on her breast, heavy and possessive, came as a shock. She jumped and twisted away. He didn’t slap her for her error, only straightened her body out, pulled a
t her lips like she was nothing more than a cloth to be spread out nice and straight. But he knew what she was—flesh and blood, oh yes. His cock lay thick and hot against her thigh, burning, seeking. His hand returned to her breast, probing, tweaking.
She had been in the dark before—blindfolded, hurt. She had been touched by hands and cocks before—humiliated, used. But not like this. Tears stung her eyes. Long dormant arousal unfurled inside her. Blasphemous thoughts whispered through her: you’re not a slave. You’re a woman.
“I’ve missed you.” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been the one covered in a cloth and poured with water. A warm-cold touch on her nipple told her he’d licked her. “God, I’ve missed you so much.”
This wasn’t for her. Not his arousal, not his tenderness. It was for some woman in his memories.
Of course it had been too much to hope that she deserved it. He didn’t even know her. She had done nothing to prove her service, to please him. But a part of her shriveled and fell away, and only then did she realize how much she wished for this. Only when it extinguished did she recognize the hope she had harbored all this time.
What did it matter if she was a good slave? What sort of goal was that?
She did the unthinkable: she pushed him away. It was nothing more than a nudge, her weak arms against a broad, unmovable chest. He caught her wrists and held them above her head, set her defiance aside as if it were nothing. She was nothing.
She lay still, unblinking at the night. Tiny specs floated across her vision—insignificant, like her. Her hands were pinned above her, her legs spread by his hips, but she wouldn’t fight this.
He returned to her nipples, licking, suckling. It was instinctive, those actions, not a sign of affection. But the kisses—oh, they were different. His lips brushed the underside of her breast. He kissed the side and the sloping top, and then his lips met her chest in the middle, where her heart would be. He roamed higher, to her neck, and she felt her pulse beat against his lips. She swallowed. This would never be for her. Even the best slave didn’t deserve such treatment.
Please. Her lips formed the words. No sound broke the silence, because she was a part of the night. A silent specter to complete his dream, a shadow of the woman he wanted.
She felt him nudge her entrance, the head of his cock broad and insistent. Instinctively she clenched, fearing the pain. He thrust inside—hard. She gasped.
“Oh Jesus. So fucking tight.” He sounded drugged, still trapped in the dream that made this all okay. She knew all about that dream, the one with white lies and endless reasonings. Or with none at all: just live.
He pulled out and slammed back in, his cock reaching deep, and his thighs opening her wide. Her mouth was open, in shock, in pain. Although, it wasn’t really pain. She was wet, at least, and he hadn’t even needed lube. He was just big, and she had always been small.
Then his hips dipped, and he thrust upward, hitting a spot that made her eyes roll back in her head. She thrust her hips to meet him, like a slut, she was a slut, who cared when it felt like this? That awkward pain of betrayal faded beneath the onslaught of physical sensation. Her cunt ached, she ached, and then he moved harder, faster. She was pinned to the bed, and it seemed like he would never stop, and she didn’t want him to.
But then he did. He pulled out, leaving her inner muscles clenching at nothing. With a smooth motion, he flipped her onto her stomach. She immediately tilted her hips up and back to meet him; he slipped inside. His body fit to hers, chest to her back and muscled thighs coarse against her own.
Making love.
The thought blinded her, streaking through her haze of sex and fear like a shooting star. That’s what he was doing: making love to her. Even if it wasn’t really her, it was beautiful. Even if he couldn’t even see her in the dark, she felt beautiful.
“But why?” he whispered. “Why did you do it?”
A sharp slap to her ass shocked her. She grasped the sheet and waited for another, but it didn’t come. His hand snaked around her body to cup her breasts, to pinch her nipples. And then twist. This time she felt her inner muscles spasm around his cock, and he groaned in her ear. That’s what he was doing. Increasing his pleasure with her pain. Playing her body like an instrument, tuning it to sing for him.
She was still full of gladness for his earlier tenderness, and now a shroud of submission descended upon her. He pinched her other nipple, and she contracted again. She lifted her upper body ever so slightly to allow him better access. His breath caught, and then he sat up, pulling her up as well.
She sat up in the middle of a strange bed, in the dark, impaled on the cock of this Master she didn’t know. He pulled and twisted her nipples, forcing her body to writhe in his cruel embrace. Her slavery had never been sweeter.
More. She wanted to do more for him. To please him in whatever way she could. She slid her hand down past where they were joined, hot and slippery, and farther. The soft skin of his sac was wet with their juices, and she stroked him there. Cupped and rolled his balls in her palm. His low moan was all the gratitude she could want. The way he slowed his thrusts to allow her better access was her order to continue. But when he softened his hold on her nipples, she faltered. Mercy always came with a price.
With heavy palms on her back, he tipped her forward. Her shoulders hugged the bed, leaving her ass completely exposed to his thrusts. He reached inside her, and now there was pain. Small twinges each time he struck deeply that left her breathless.
Every thrust came with a sound now, a grunt as the air left him in a rush. A groan that made her tighten around him as much as his pinches earlier had done. His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, holding her steady even though she would never try to end this. But it was beyond her now, to fight or to please him, to do anything at all except take it. It had never been up to her; it would always come to this. Trapped under his weight, impaled with his cock, dripping in his sweat. Isn’t this what she wanted? So why was the sheet beneath her face wet? Why was the blackness blurry with her tears?
Take me. Use me. Want me. Oh God, somebody want me. I don’t want to be worthless anymore.
“Fuck,” he shouted, and the sound was like a gunshot in the night. It startled her, even as the thick pulse of his cock soothed her, familiar and warm. She clenched her eyes shut as his fingers dug rivers into her skin, as he groaned out his passion for some other woman into her body.
He collapsed beside her. She lay unmoving in that ignominious position, her ass in the air, her cunt dripping with his leavings, but there was no one to see her. No one to care. From tiredness or hopelessness her body slid down, straightened on the sheet, and she fell asleep in the puddle of salty fluids.
* * *
She hung from vines, tacked to the mossy wall by their thorns. The man with dark hair and dark eyes held no weapons, but his eyes held a knowledge of pain given and pleasure received.
“What do you want, girl?” he asked.
“Please let me down,” she answered, and that’s when she knew it was a dream.
He stroked her breast, pinched her nipple. Twisted. Oh, he liked that. “Try again.”
“I want to be free,” she said, meaning it this time.
Still, he shook his head.
This time he stuck two fingers inside her—three. It burned and stretched and throbbed in confused arousal. “You’re already wet,” he said, holding up his fingers to show her. “What do you really want?”
She looked into his eyes and tasted his fear. He thought he needed vines to keep her. “If you let me go, I’ll stay with you.”
And so he let her down, each thorn leaving clean, bare skin as it was removed. Gladness beat in her breast. He’d trusted her, and now they could be together without chains. But then he was holding his belt, folded over.
“Come and kneel in front of me,” he said, his voice soft and beguiling. “This is what you wanted.”
She did it, embraced the pebbles and twigs that carpeted the ground. The be
lt seared into her back, and she gasped. Again; she arched and choked out a cry. Eventually she wailed, until she couldn’t take it anymore.
She looked back. “Oh God. Please!”
His eyes were bright with bloodshed. What do you want?
This.
* * *
She woke to rustling behind her. The room wasn’t overly bright now but enough to see by. The sense of accomplishment that usually met each day was marred by her dream. She tried to recapture the feeling, but it slipped away like her memories. Blinking away the sense of loss, she rolled over to face her Master.
He stared at her, a sea in storm. “You,” he breathed.
She swallowed hard, lowering her eyes. He deserved her submission, but she would not feel guilty for what he had done to her. No matter how his tone sounded like an accusation. No matter the pain she saw marring his eyes.
From the corner of her vision, she saw his jaw clench. “Get the hell out of my bed.”
Chapter Three
She tentatively approached the kitchen, reluctant to make her presence known after his anger this morning. He had barely spoken to her since then, just directing her to the bathroom to wash up and handing over a thin yellow dress for her to wear. She didn’t know where he’d gotten it.
In the kitchen, he was flipping eggs in a sizzling frying pan. He turned and stopped at the sight of her. After a beat, he gestured to the table. “Sit.”
The plain chair was strangely comfortable, as if it conformed to her body even though that was impossible. And soft—the wood felt like velvet. This house and its furnishing were sparse, primitive even. But also cozy. Everything in its place.
Except for her.
He set a plate down in front of her with a large helping of scrambled eggs and bacon. She stared at the food. Her mouth watered, but her stomach turned. This rich food was a sharp contrast to the bland meal she was used to. She couldn’t eat it, but neither could she rebuff such generosity.