Please, please, let me come.
My thighs start to tremble as I reach the peak. He pulls away. He lifts my legs so my ankles are wrapped around his neck, and the thick head of his erection presses against my opening. I moan as it slides into me.
“Oh, Master.”
He’s so big that I feel the burn of my muscles stretching as he forces his way in. He keeps thrusting, advancing, inch by punishing inch, until the head of his cock is nudging up against my womb.
I squirm impatiently, but he holds me still and makes me wait.
He draws it out, cruelly. Pumping his hips, stretching me, hurting me in the most deliriously wonderful ways. Then withdrawing. Then starting again. Waves of sensation rising and receding.
It’s ecstasy. It’s sweet torment. He’s every bit as amazing as I always dreamed he’d be.
I start to cry, to wail, to beg.
Tears stream down my face as he picks up the pace, slamming into me, balls slapping against the cheeks of my ass.
When he finally lets me come, I scream with pleasure and shock. Wave after wave of orgasm washes over me, drowns me. I am high on sensation, floating in some strange netherworld of unbearable ecstasy.
He groans as he comes, his fingers sinking into my thighs hard enough to bruise. My inner sheath is convulsing, squeezing him, and my legs quiver uncontrollably as orgasm after orgasm rocks my entire body.
“Yes,” he growls. “Yes. So good.”
He withdraws very slowly, and as I lie there, gasping, he trails his fingers down the small of my back. It’s more intimate than sex; it’s a connection between us, an acknowledgment of our delirious connection.
Then suddenly he snatches his fingers away, as if he realized he was being sweet and tender and stopped himself before it could go on too far.
I lie perfectly still and hold on to hope. If I’m really, really good and obedient, perhaps someday he’ll touch me like that again.
Afterward, he puts the thin collar on me and clips a leash to it. He lets me put on a robe, then leads me, stumbling and weak-kneed, down the hall.
We go into his media room to watch television. He sits down in his chair and gestures at me. “Kneel.” I kneel at his feet, and he props them up on me.
I try to shut out the sounds of the television, going tense with the effort. I sing songs in my head and make silent screaming noises. I can’t know about the outside world. There is no outside world for me.
Elizabeth comes into the room. “Nothing for me right now,” Master says. “And I didn’t ask you to come in here. Please don’t bother me when I didn’t summon you.” There’s a moment of silence.
“What?” he snaps.
I sneak a peek, and I see that she’s just staring at him, swaying where she stands. Then she falls to the ground with a thud.
Master pulls his legs off me and runs over to her. I don’t know what I should do, so I just stay crouched on the ground, a silent piece of furniture, as he scoops her up in his arms.
I noticed that she was getting paler and thinner. She’s miserable because I’m here, and she’s not allowed to take it out on me or bully me, so she’s just shrinking in on herself.
I feel no pity at all.
I crouch where I am for a long time, close to an hour, humming loudly to myself to drown out the sound of the television. I need to pee, and my bladder starts to throb with urgency.
When Master finally returns, I have to decide what will make him angrier—if I pee on the floor, or if I ask permission to go to the bathroom. I am very brave, and I risk asking him. He rakes me with a look of contempt. “Of course you can fucking go to the bathroom. What are you, stupid?”
Pain courses through me. His words bruise me so badly.
“Yes, Master, I am very stupid.” Why can’t I be smart? What should I have done instead? Should I have just peed on the floor?
I hang my head in shame as I hurry to the bathroom, but I also feel an emotion that is something like anger, but it can’t be anger because I would never dare to be angry with Master.
He isn’t being clear about the rules. All I want to do is follow the rules.
But I banish that thought from my head. I cannot criticize Master. If anything is wrong, it’s my fault, not his.
That night, he asks me if I want to sleep at the foot of his bed or in the cell. And I am so grateful. I beg and beg to sleep at the foot of his bed.
He’s looking at me with an expectant expression. I don’t know why at first, and then I think I have figured it out. This is the last thing that I swore I would never do. Master wants to know if I am devastated by breaking my final vow to myself. Of course I’m not.
I’m far too broken for that.
Chapter Twenty
Joshua
Toy behaves perfectly for me.
I chain her to the foot of my bed every night. She submits, instantly, to every command. I make her answer to the name Toy and acknowledge me as her master, many times a day. I exercise her on the treadmill, and several times she falls off into my arms, nearly fainting, rather than ask to stop. She watches me fearfully, desperate to please me.
When I say cruel things to her, she cries and cries and begs me to forgive her.
She is completely passive except when I fuck her. Then she writhes underneath me and cries out in pleasure, and I feel her pussy spasming on my cock, and it makes me come so hard I think I’ve died and gone to Heaven. Not that I’ll ever know what Heaven feels like, if there is such a place.
And yet something’s lacking.
I find myself being harder and harder on her. When I take her to the playroom, I whip the shit out of her. I put clamps on her nipples and pussy and make her crawl across the floor to me, and she wails in pain the whole way and then kneels at my feet, quivering, waiting for me to release her from the cruel clamps but not daring to ask. I make her wait a very long time. Often I sit there and read a book, propping my feet up on her back while her tears drip on the floor.
She’s a perfect little Toy. She’d suffer agonies rather than disappoint me. And I make sure she does.
After a couple of weeks, to reward her for her good behavior, I order a dozen couture gowns in her size. It takes a week for them to arrive from Paris. I have them delivered to a town two hours away and send Elizabeth to pick them up, because I don’t want to leave the house if I don’t have to. Elizabeth has severe agoraphobia, but she suffers through it to go out and pick up our supplies a couple of times a month. Food, clothing, household goods. It’s necessary. I don’t like to be seen anywhere in this area, to preserve my anonymity.
I hang the dresses on a rack and slide it into the center of my bedroom and bring Toy in to look at them.
“These are for you,” I tell her, waiting for the gush of gratitude and excitement that should accompany such a generous gift.
She barely glances up at them.
“Thank you, Master,” she whispers, standing with her hands hanging at her sides, gaze trained on the floor.
Shock and anger blast through me. These are beautiful hand-stitched creations. Models wear them on the cover of Vogue. Twenty grand or more each. She’s dismissing a few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of dresses with a flick of her eyes.
“You don’t like them?” My voice is harsh.
Instantly, her eyes are like saucers, and she flinches in abject terror. I feel that burn of arousal that reminds me, yet again, that I am a truly sick and terrible individual. My cock stirs in my pants.
“Yes, Master, I’m sorry, Master,” she whimpers. “I love them, Master. Thank you, Master.”
“Which one do you like best, Toy?” I snarl.
She hurries over to the rack, her eyes wide with fright. She begins carefully looking through them.
She picks one out, her hands shaking. “This one, Master. Thank you, Master. It’s beautiful, Master.” It’s black with a lacy fringe on it.
“Why, Toy?” I ask, with a nasty bite to my tone. “Why do you like that one b
est?”
“They’re all beautiful, Master.” She’s sobbing now, terrified of what I might do to her. “But this one looks like a flapper dress from the 1920s. I’ve always loved the style from that era.”
“You’ll wear it for dinner tonight.”
“Yes, Master! Thank you, Master.” She’s staring at the ground, gulping, trying not to make too much noise when she cries.
The sight makes my cock harden. I tell her to get on her knees.
She sinks down quickly, eagerly.
I unbutton my slacks and ram my cock down her throat so hard that she chokes and flails in panic. I hold her head still while she struggles to breathe, and make her suck me, then pull out when she’s only halfway done.
“You give lousy blow jobs,” I snarl at her, and the look on her face…it’s like I just murdered a puppy in front of her.
It’s not true. She gives amazing, world-class blow jobs. Her mouth is a national treasure.
I’m just angry that she wasn’t excited about the dresses I gave her. Since when do I care about anyone else’s feelings? What the fuck is wrong with me these days?
She starts crying.
She’s still crying when I make her turn around and get on her hands and knees right there on the floor. I quickly roll on a condom and shove my cock inside her without bothering to lube her up, and she cries out in pain as I tear her sensitive inner tissue. I fuck her hard and rough, ramming into her, and she’s wet within a minute, but still cringing and weeping. Her muscles are tense and clenched. I reach around and stroke her clit as I’m fucking her, until I feel that trembling in her core that tells me she’s close. Her clit swells with my attention as I force pleasure on her for my own sake rather than hers, and finally, her sheath convulses on my cock and she comes explosively. And she’s still crying.
For some reason—this has never happened to me before—I can’t come. I pull out of her and stalk out of the room without looking back. The sound of her sobs follows me down the hallway. I go to the parlor, where I fling myself into my chair and try to figure out why the hell I even care what my idiot brainless slave thinks about anything.
Yeah, I could punish her for not reacting to the dresses like I wanted her to, but what did I want her to do instead? Do I want her to lie to me and pretend she loves the dresses? Because she’s a lousy liar.
Her behavior confuses me. Just when I think that I’ve got the basics of human behavior figured out, someone throws me a curveball that leaves me annoyed and frustrated.
Take the dresses. They are perfect for her, I know that.
Why didn’t they make her happy? Women like gifts. Women especially like gifts that are personalized. Gifts that show that you know what they like.
She should have been excited and grateful I bought her those dresses. Instead, she barely looked at them. She couldn’t care less that I bought them. And I think…well, I was certainly offended. If I had feelings, I would say she’d hurt them.
Does that mean I have feelings now? And how would I be able to tell? It would be like a blind man regaining his sight and trying to identify the colors of the rainbow.
I settle back in my chair, wearily running through my daily security checks. Review the Blackthorne video feed. Read over the intel that my private investigator has gathered on the police who are investigating the disappearance of Toy and the security guard. I could take care of Sergeant. Ruiz pretty easily; wife died of cancer, daughter ODed, nobody to miss him, and it wouldn’t be hard to stage a suicide. He seems to be the driving force behind the investigation. The detective who’s assisting him on the investigation has a gambling problem; I could use it to either blackmail him or discredit him.
Heather is still missing, vanished without a trace. Something is definitely up there. My private investigator found out that when she quit the bagel shop, she didn’t do it in person; she called it in. Did she vanish voluntarily?
Toy’s face swims in front of me again, pushing aside all other thoughts. I picture her quick, indifferent glance at those gowns I worked so hard to select, and I pick up a small statuette from my desk and hurl it across the room in an entirely uncharacteristic fit of anger. That isn’t me. I am cold and calculating and controlled.
What the fuck is happening to me? What is happening to her?
Chapter Twenty-one
Toy
I think I’ve been here a couple of months now, but it could have been longer. Maybe three or four months?
I thought that changing for Master would make him happy, but I have failed somehow.
He has grown cold and withdrawn, and he says cruel, horrible things to me every day. I deserve them, but I also remember that he wasn’t always like this. When I was less obedient, when I thought about escaping and fought back, there were moments of kindness. Now his words are sharper than knives and his looks wither my soul.
I am very angry with myself for failing. I wonder what I could do differently. How I could be better.
I think I’m doing everything I can. I spend most of my time keeping my mind blank, just waiting for orders. I no longer worry about my own comfort or safety—the only thing that’s important is pleasing Master.
I am gratified by how much pain I can endure for him. Punishments that once would have had me panicked and screaming and begging, I now suffer through without a peep. I have come to crave the whipping and the paddling, because they give me a chance to prove my devotion. He doesn’t seem to notice how high my pain tolerance is now, which is devastating, because all I want to do is make him proud of me.
I accept that he’s killed me. He lied to me when he said he wouldn’t kill me. He killed Tamara. The girl who loved the smiles on people’s faces, and coffeeshops, and books, and music; the girl who dreamed about someday making a difference…she’s dead. I can’t be myself anymore, because I can’t stand to be locked up in that room alone anymore. I need Master. I am alone in the world without him. Sarah doesn’t visit me in my head anymore, and neither does the dark tormenting voice that blamed me for destroying my mother.
I thought I was making a difference in the world, and now I know that I failed at that. I never touched a single soul out there.
I should have known. Didn’t those lonely days in the group home teach me anything? A year of looking up hopefully every time a car pulled into the driveway, expecting my mother, and having my heart break every single time a stranger emerged. If my own mother didn’t care about my existence, why would anybody else?
Freedom is pointless. Fighting is pointless. If Master freed me, where would I go? What difference would it make if I were free, with nobody to be happy at my return?
Master is the only thing in the universe that matters. He is the universe.
So I have to be Toy.
But that’s not what he wants from me either.
When he gives me permission to ask him questions, I try to ask him questions that will make him happy, like, “How can I please you, Master?”
But that makes him angry.
He is withdrawing more and more.
And then it happens. In the bath in the morning, after he washes me, he hands me the cloth and tells me to wash myself between my legs. He no longer makes me beg him to kiss my pussy—he doesn’t ask at all. He stops having sex with me.
A darkness fills me, a whispering terror of what’s to come. Master has grown tired of me. He will kill me soon, and…replace me, maybe? God help the next girl.
That is a terrible thought, a treacherous thought. Master is good and Master gives pleasure and is merciful whenever I deserve it.
But I can’t stop the thought. If I had the chance and could kill Master to save the next girl, would I?
Maybe.
Finally, after days and days go by, he leads me through a door that’s never opened before, and I know it’s the end. He’s grown weary of me and he’s going to kill me. I am not afraid, just numb and resigned. I glide behind him in a dream, wondering where I’ll go after I die.
> It will have to be somewhere better than this.
These rebellious thoughts are coming into my head more and more these days, and they are dangerous. Maybe that’s why he’s going to kill me. Because he can read my mind and he knows that my control is starting to slip.
It’s starting to slip because of him. Because nothing I do is ever, ever good enough for him, because even complete surrender and submission has not satisfied him.
But when he takes me into a room, it’s not what I expected. Visions of a butcher’s table and a row of knives swam through my head…not this.
It’s a room set up for martial arts and sparring. There are punching bags hanging from the walls. There are nunchucks and throwing stars and things I don’t recognize.
He takes off my collar and ankle chains. He points to cubicles that hold clothing, and directs me to put on an outfit of baggy pants, a T-shirt, and sneakers.
“I’m going to teach you self-defense,” he says to me. “Just think, if you get good enough someday, you could kill me and free yourself.” There’s a cruel, challenging glint in his gaze.
I’ll never be that good, I think to myself in despair. And that’s what he intended when he said it. My despair.
He’s trying to make me angry.
“You may reply, Toy.”
“Thank you, Master. I will never be that good, Master.”
“True, unfortunately.” There’s an odd weariness lacing his voice. What does he mean by that? Does he want to die? Once we’re dressed, he leads me over to the mat.
“The style of combat I’ll be teaching you is Krav Maga. It means ‘Contact Combat’ in Hebrew. It was developed by a Jewish man during the rise of the Nazis, and meant to very quickly enable your average civilian to defend themselves in a street-fight. It’s the primary self-defense system taught to the Israeli army, and due to its effectiveness, it’s spread worldwide. Although there are elements of boxing in it, along with many other self-defense systems, it’s not boxing. You’re not going to stand there trading blows until you tire out or your opponent lands a hit that knocks you senseless. The purpose of Krav Maga is to learn to quickly assess the threat, deliver a devastating strike, and get the hell away.”
Tamara, Taken (The Blue-eyed Monsters Book 1) Page 17