“You’re not playing doctor, you’re playing inquisitor!” she accused when she could. She considered. “Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”
He laughed. To her great mortification, she realized she could feel new wetness between her legs. Her muscles clenched involuntarily. The sight of his head between her legs, his tongue so near, had her aching. “Oh, come on!”
He stood up instead, watching her with a mocking smile. “Tell me what you’re afraid of,” he suggested. “Why’d you run from me? Does it have to do with this?” He leaned to the side, caressed her scar with his tongue. The raw eroticism made her catch her breath. The tenderness tugged at her heart. She could feel his mouth’s heat.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Please what?” His voice, a low whisper. His fingers drifted across her thigh to her center, grazing lightly. In their wake she felt the flare of menthol. When his thumb began to gently circle her clit, a steady glide that teased, she moaned.
“You know what,” she finally managed.
“Say it.”
“You. I need you.”
“You need what you fear.”
“Yes.” The tickle from a single rivulet of sweat ran down her chest to her belly, disappearing into the narrow shaved triangle of her pubic hair.
“But I haven’t given you anything much to fear.” He smiled. “Yet.” His gentle tone didn’t alter, but she shuddered, her pleasure spiking.
He lifted his thumb immediately, moved his hand to her throat. Then stroked down, his hand trailing sensuously over her throat, across the expanse of her chest, up the swell of a breast to rub her nipple slowly and rhythmically between thumb and forefinger. “At my mercy. But guess what?” He leaned in, sharing the nimbus of his warm scent and the hint of musk already so familiar to her on such short acquaintance. “I have none.”
His murmur, paired with his clever fingers, made her shudder again.
He brought his other hand into play, on her other nipple. He tweaked it, bringing a gasp from her. “Just testing the nerve endings of your breasts. Pressure. Pain tolerance.” He pinched hard with both hands for a long moment, and she cried out.
“Normal.”
“No. I’m not.” Her twisted fantasies couldn’t be normal, or healthy. But she was here. She wasn’t saying “red” despite his sadistic touches.
“Let’s try something new and exciting, Charlotte. Well, exciting for me.” He opened a drawer nearby, brought out two small clips shaped like the heads of reptiles. “They have little teeth, see? Like an alligator. I like to make my toys unique.” He snapped one onto a nipple with practiced ease.
She yelped.
“A little painful, isn’t it? Like the little creature has your teat in its tiny jaws. It won’t damage you, the tension’s adjusted . . . but you can say ‘red’ anytime if this gets too much for you. Personally, I think you can take a lot more. You need a lot more. Don’t you?” He snapped the second one onto her other nipple. The sharp, sweet pain shot through her body like lightning.
Her brain began to feel pleasantly buzzy. “I need . . .”
“Let’s focus on symptoms, shall we?” His professional tone and the sudden coolness on her perspiring skin brought her back. He was fetching a stainless steel tool from the counter. Something sharp? She craned to look.
“A Wartenburg wheel. A legitimate medical tool, not one of my creations. See? Just a small, spoked wheel with needle-sharp points. Professionals like myself use it to test skin sensitivity.” He ran it up her leg from knee to groin. She jerked, then stilled. Ticklish.
“You’re thinking it tickles. It’s supposed to. But the more firmly I press, the stronger the sensation. See?” This time he pushed it harder and moved it more slowly, letting her feel each one of the sharp points as it traveled down her thigh. “Hold still,” he commanded when she squirmed.
She did her best.
Something he said sank in. “You make these? Fetish toys?” She craned to look at her nipples. The unique clamps and delicate chains glittered like jewelry. “Cool.”
“Thank you.” He flicked the chain, punctuating his words with more biting sweetness. The ache between her legs grew to a desperate yearning.
The tiny wheel’s needles didn’t rest in any one spot long enough to truly hurt, but they pricked her with rapid-fire stings as Martin rolled it down her body. The more she tried to block it out, the harder he pressed, the stingier it got. A sweet itch seemed to spread from each point, pain turning to relief turning to pleasure. She lost herself in contemplation of the sharp sensations, examining the tiny hurts as if they were something outside of her.
She wondered anew how Martin could call her normal. A normal person would be screaming bloody murder for the discomfort to stop, not analyzing it. Certainly not transmuting the little pains into pleasure.
He stopped. “Normal.”
She hissed with frustration.
He laughed again, opened another drawer.
With a deft flick of each wrist, he withdrew and slipped on black gloves that clung like a second skin. He presented his palms: an array of small sharp points sprouted from each glove.
“This is one of my latest toys. When I release your leg restraints to turn you on your side, you will not resist or struggle in any way.” He did, and as he turned her onto her side, she felt the glove’s pointy nubs.
The clamps tugged at her nipples. The slippery skin between her legs ached. She’d lost all will to resist. Floating in a kind of euphoric daze, she merely waited for the next sensation.
The table’s paper bunched up under her body. “This may pinch for a moment. Or possibly more than a moment.” He proceeded to spank her.
Though his stroke wasn’t hard, the sting was fierce.
She struggled. He immediately pinned her with his left hand. “No.”
Yet when he started spanking again, the tiny spikes drilling into the skin of her buttocks, the pain had her howling within moments.
“Are my vampire gloves too much?”
“Too much?” She panted, lying on her side. Her ass blazed its pain. And something more. Her vision was blurred, her eyes hot and wet. It took her a long moment to realize they were wet with tears. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. You can’t hurt me. Nobody is supposed to hurt me.”
“Hurt you? I’m trying to help you.” He waited a moment, then spanked her harder. She groaned helplessly. “To reach you.” He used one hand on her ass and brought the other up to her chest to tap her breasts, jiggling the alligator teeth.
Between the bite of the clamps and the tiny needles of the gloves pricking her breasts, and the rough spanking, she felt enfolded in pain. Then nearly overwhelmed by it. “To solve the mystery of you, Charlotte.”
Though she tried very hard not to cry out, the spanking soon had her gasping, her tears flowing freely.
“Would you like to be helped, Charlotte? Are you ready to talk about it? Will you tell me why you ran from me? Will you tell me how you got this?” His sadistic glove scraped her scar lightly.
“No,” she breathed, desperate, full of a delicious tension. She didn’t want it to stop. She was wetter than she’d ever been. She felt inflamed and fierce with a desire to shock him, rock him, provoke him.
She needed more. What the hell was wrong with her that she needed more?
What more could there be?
12
Of all his five trained slaves, Kartane liked Talia the best. With her supple dancer’s body and long red hair, she never failed to catch his eye or raise his temperature. She was a tease and a brat, yet when the flirtatious vixen trailed her fingers over his flesh, then sucked in a quick feminine breath as if in fear of her own audacity, his body thrummed its response.
So when Talia sometimes elbowed the other slaves and lorded it over them with an arrogance unbecoming in a slave, he let it pass.
Talia was a bitch, but she was the best of the lot.
An alluring female. But not Charlotte.<
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His mood curdled. He didn’t want to think of Charlotte. It was that stupid new slave’s fault for bringing her up, making him miss his ex again.
Kartane reclined to watch his five women rush here and there, cleaning and making the too-large conference room more hospitable for a Gorean gathering. Soon there would be a sixth, then a seventh woman . . . then more. His warrior friends would eventually bring their own to these gatherings. This place wasn’t quite a paga tavern, but it would have to do until the Gorean movement caught on.
He decided to test his slaves.
“Wine!” he demanded.
While the others stood staring vacantly, Talia leapt to serve, taking up a bottle of wine with calculated grace and pouring carefully. Amazing how she displayed her servility so beautifully. Kartane stepped back from himself to observe the two of them doing what they did best. A woman serving, and him ruling over her. Dominate and submit. Taking all her training and applying it to serve her master. As nature intended.
Talia approached, the red silk of her dress swaying with her slow, seductive movements. She knelt back on her heels, knees widely spread in the dictated position of the pleasure slave. Holding the goblet with both hands, she pressed it against her body, pushing inward against her belly beneath her navel. Then she raised it to her face, touching her lips to its side, kissing the goblet lovingly with her eyes closed.
Then she extended her arms, lifting it. “I offer you wine, Master.”
He took it with a small grunt of acknowledgment, watching her narrowly as she bowed her head and retreated with as much grace and decorum as she’d approached.
Such beauty and fire. Such a well-trained slave. Like Charlotte could’ve been.
He turned his sudden frown on the other women, who began to clean faster under his fierce scrutiny. “Finish preparing this place, then kneel facing the chairs where your masters for the evening will be seated. Nadu position,” he added, knowing that maintaining the shoulders-straight, chest-out, belly-in rigidity of the kneeling position for hours would be a form of punishment.
It was no more than they deserved, the stupid cows.
He still wanted Charlotte.
The realization annoyed him.
He shouldn’t want her. He had slaves like Talia, and soon he’d have Amethyst, and then many more.
But for all his women’s pleading looks and tears that seemed as right and appropriate as the sun rising in the morning, it didn’t replace what he’d almost had with Charlotte. Had he given her up too soon? Setting an enslaved woman free went against the Gorean code. Mostly because the code didn’t account for slaves wanting to go free, not after fully tasting the glory of being a slave, of being protected and treated in a way that satisfied their biological needs. After the initial shock of becoming a slave, most women adapted, even thrived. The normal ones did. The rest, well, they generally weren’t considered worth preserving. Biologically flawed, after all.
But Charlotte hadn’t been flawed.
She’d been the one to bring him into S and M. To pain and pleasure and dominance and submission. She had a slave’s heart. But she denied her own urges.
Because he’d loved her, because he’d been so remorseful and confused, he’d let her go.
Maybe he shouldn’t have.
Their bodies had sung together so well, once upon a time.
Kartane’s gaze went to the four red-clad slaves. They knelt in an orderly line, branded thighs well on display, each woman positioned before a still-empty chair. Talia hummed as she tidied the wine and glasses, the undisputed queen of the bunch. Charlotte easily rivaled her in beauty and grace.
The idea struck him suddenly: Why not reclaim what he’d so rashly set aside? Why not simply take what he wanted? First Amethyst.
Then Charlotte.
What more could there be?
Even as she asked herself the question, Charlotte’s mind presented the X-rated movie images: a savage Martin ravishing her, merciless, hurting her, bestial in her fantasy. So unlike Cory in every way that mattered. Martin’s hard, driving use of her—as she pleaded for mercy—would send her over the edge.
“Please,” she begged. She couldn’t tell him about something so depraved.
He stopped, removed his gloves. Opened yet another drawer. Withdrew yet another teasing instrument of pleasure and pain.
Would he ever be done toying with her? She was coming apart at the seams.
“Martin, please. I want you so much.”
With a sudden brutality that shocked her, he reached between her legs, grasped her clit, twisted it between two large, smooth fingers. “That’s ‘Doctor,’ to you. Say it.” His fingers moved in a key-turning movement. Back and forth.
She couldn’t speak, all her awareness focused on the shrieking nerve endings between his fingers. Pain. Pleasure. Intense pain. So much pleasure. “Doctor!” she gasped. She was going to come if he didn’t stop instantly.
For a miracle, he did. She panted, bereft and relieved both. “Jesus.”
“No, just ‘Doctor.’ ”
It startled laughter out of her.
“Impatient patient,” he chided with a smile. “Open your mouth.”
“I’d rather you gave me an injection,” she tried again suggestively.
“Open your mouth.” This time he didn’t smile.
She stared, rebellious, but complied. Expecting a tongue depressor, or possibly a thermometer, she frowned in consternation at the length of hard rubber he forced into her mouth.
The thing nudged against first one cheek, then the other. He pushed it in until she started to gag. Then he withdrew it completely. “Very good.” He held the spit-moistened thing up for both their appraisal.
The gag was almost penis shaped, except for how it tapered at the tip, and tapered again at the base.
She saw Martin reach for another container alongside the small blue one near them. As he stroked the object’s wet surface, she realized he was adding to its slick coating. His large fingers returned to the jug of Vaseline, then, as if as an afterthought, to the Vicks VapoRub.
“Incorporation of patient participation is generally a significant factor in the resolution of her complaint. But in this case, I think the opposite applies. I think your cooperation is contraindicated. Isn’t that so?”
She felt a pleasurable frisson of panic. She looked at him, then down at the thing. She hadn’t liked being gagged.
“Time to take your temperature,” he said briskly. He bent between her legs.
It wasn’t a gag.
He wormed one of his slick fingers into her ass.
“Hey! Oh! Not there! That’s not . . . I didn’t think . . . I can’t . . .” She tried to close her legs, but his hands pried them apart.
“Either say your safe word, or cooperate. Or fight me. I’d prefer you fight.” He waited a moment, then brought his thumbs into play again, rubbing her clit as he violated her ass. It felt more invasive than painful, but she couldn’t help struggling. His thumbs brought a sudden, intense pleasure as he stretched her.
Her face flamed with embarrassment at what he did to her. It was so degrading. How could it feel so good? She couldn’t let herself accept his probing touch. She fought, trying to squeeze her thighs closed, to roll away from him.
“Naughty.” He slapped her clit, making her yelp with surprise.
Then he pinned her arms to the table with such force she knew she’d have bruises. He replaced his intrusive finger with the blunt, moist head of the object at her opening.
It nudged, threatening and exciting. It felt cool, and wet, and totally unfamiliar. Most of all, it felt far too large for where it was intended.
“You can’t! You wouldn’t!” She began to struggle harder.
He wouldn’t dare. Would he?
“Are you ready to tell me your dirty secret? Or does this go in?”
She stared at him, fear and lust battling inside her. She heard the tremor in her voice. “Please. Martin, don’t . . .”
Please don’t? Is that what she really meant? If it was, the proper word was “red” and she knew it. She panted, fearful yet rocked by lust. Tears rose to her eyes, unbidden. “Please, you can’t do this to me.”
Martin shook his head, mocking. “Wrong. In goes the thermometer!” He shoved the rubber dildo into her ass with a sadistic grin.
He pinned her as she made a galvanized motion of resistance at the outrage he inflicted on her.
He gave her a cheerful grin. “It’s easier to simply do as I ask. But I’m glad you don’t. You know why I’m glad, don’t you? Because I’m a sadist.” He paused, considering. “A fairer kind of sadist than you’ve known, I suspect.”
Charlotte barely heard him. The thrusting probe filled her rear, hard rubber stretching her inner walls to the point of pain. She twisted, trying to get away from it, to rid herself of the object.
He held her down. “No.”
She panted.
His grip remained firm. “How does it feel now?”
“How do you think? It feels . . .” But even as she tried to maintain her outrage, the sight of his amused smile and her own body’s responses undermined her.
It felt exciting. Forbidden. His calm dominance was a turn-on, too.
Martin wiggled it a little, twisted it back and forth. With each twist, his thumb brushed against her clit.
“Stop!”
He ignored her desperate plea. He worked it in farther. Suddenly, the largest section was inside her and she felt her sphincter clamp around the smaller, tapered part. “There,” he said with satisfaction.
She tried but couldn’t push it back out.
He’d succeeded in penetrating her. And in such a way! She barely knew him. She couldn’t understand how the deliberate obscenity of his action increased her attraction to him to a neardesperate level.
She looked at his stern look of concentration and wanted him with an aching need that shocked her more than the invasion of her body.
She shook her head, appalled at herself. Cory was right. She was just a demented sex slave. No wonder he hadn’t been able to satisfy her, even after she’d driven him to extremes. Nobody could.
Rough Play Page 12