The Keyholder

by Claire Thompson

  “Please what?” Jack said, grinding his palm against her clit as he fucked her with two fingers.

  “Oh, oh, oh, oh,” she gasped.

  “Please what?” he insisted, wrapping his other arm around her torso to hold her in place.

  “Please don’t stop, Sir. Please, oh god! Oh, please. Please, Sir, make me come!”

  Jack rubbed and teased the girl’s swollen sex, his other arm binding her in place against him. He wanted to fuck her, but knew the limits. He contented himself with the pleasure of his power over her, as he made her shake and tremble in his arms. “Now,” he whispered as he felt her shudder. “Come for me, sub girl.”

  “Oh god!” she cried, bucking against him. “Yes! Robert! Robert, oh Rob—” She stiffened suddenly, biting off the word, though it continued to echo in the room, grown suddenly cold. She twisted out of Jack’s arms, and he let her go.

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” she said, her face red with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s okay,” Jack said abruptly, rising from the tub. “It happens.” He reached for her shoulders, spinning her away from him, ostensibly so he could remove the cuffs, but mainly because he didn’t want the mix of emotions moving through him to be revealed to this girl, this sub for hire.

  Chapter 6

  I’m thirsty. So thirsty.

  Oh fuck, it hurts. Oh fuck. Fuck.

  Stop focusing on the pain. This can’t go on forever. And when you get down, you get a hot shower. He promised. A hot shower. Maybe something hot to eat. Something cold to drink.

  Oh fuck, it hurts!

  Eva screamed.

  She hated to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he hurt her. She’d meant to stay quiet, but the pain spilled out in a howl. The clover clamps cut into her labia, the chains pulled taut to force her nether lips apart. But it was the clamp he’d just applied directly to her clit, its razor sharp teeth biting into tender flesh, which wrenched that cry from her.

  She was suspended upside down, her legs splayed wide in their chains, her bound arms numb behind her back. Cold, gooey lubricant was squirted over her spread pussy and then she felt the hard, invasive press of a thick phallus at her entrance. Master Phillip pushed the huge object inside her and flipped a switch, sending shuddering pulsations radiating through her core.

  “Open your eyes, slave,” Master Phillip commanded. “See what I’m offering you.”

  Food? Water? Would she be able to drink while upside down?

  Eve forced herself to obey. As her eyes adjusted, she saw her captor looming over her, his muscular legs inches from her face. As he stepped back, she saw he was naked, his erect cock fisted in his hand.

  “We’re going to play a game,” he announced. “I’m going to jerk off and shoot my load on your face. If you can catch my jizz on your tongue, then I’ll let you down. And to make the prize even sweeter, the more you swallow, the longer your nice, hot shower will be.”

  Though the effort made her dizzy, Eva struggled to lift her head. She opened her mouth as she stared at his heavy balls and the underside of his shaft. If he really came on her face, she should be able to catch at least some of it in her mouth. She had to—that was all there was to it.

  But what if he rigged it so she missed? There was always a “flip side” to his games. He took special sadistic pleasure in setting her up to fail, and then claiming with mock sorrow that he had no choice but to punish her.

  “On the flip side,” he intoned, predictably, “if you don’t manage to catch at least a little of my nectar, then I’ll piss in your mouth, and that’ll be all you get to drink until tomorrow. And of course, no shower, which would be a shame, since you stink, pig.”

  Rage bloomed, white and hot, in her chest. How she hated this man—this beautiful monster with his black heart and maggoty soul. She nurtured her hatred as she swayed in her chains, taking what strength she could from it. Rage was so much better than the apathy and passivity that claimed her more and more often lately. Fury was far better than the bleak, vast emptiness when she found herself accepting she would never get out of this prison, never escape this madman, except through death.

  She couldn’t let herself go there. She had to keep hope alive, however small the chance of breaking free. The key lay in when he let her out to clean downstairs. When she was free of the confines of this room, at least she had a chance of escape, however slim.

  She had to find a way to be alone, at least for a little while, when she was allowed out. She had to make him think he’d broken her. He had to be truly convinced she had turned into a brainwashed, zombie sex slave. She had to make the deluded, sadistic egomaniac believe she had bought into his madness, and embraced it as her own.

  He pushed down on the vibrating phallus he’d shoved inside her, forcing an involuntary grunt from her. Her labia and clit, mercifully, were now numb, though she knew she’d pay the terrible price later when the clamps were removed.

  Master Phillip had begun to tug at his cock above her, his hand moving rapidly over his shaft. Eva lifted her head higher, swaying from the effort. She tried to focus on his cock, calculating the nearness of his climax by the tempo and urgency of his groans.

  Judging the moment close, she opened her mouth as she struggled to position herself to catch the flow when he came. He gave a sudden cry, and a ribbon of white goo spurted from the now purple head of his engorged cock. Eva twisted her neck in her effort to catch the droplets as they fell. They splattered along her cheek and on her nose, and her heart lurched with anxiety.

  No! Don’t give up.

  He always did at least two streams of come, sometimes three. She contorted, her mouth agape as the second ribbon of goo erupted from his cock. The salty jism landed on her lips and graced her tongue. She resisted the urge to spit, or to swallow, instead keeping her mouth open to prove she’d accomplished the task.

  A few more drops landed on the bridge of her nose, some of it nearly getting into her eye. It didn’t matter. She’d done it! Now he would let her down—he would let her shower. He would give her food and water. He would let her rest. He would leave her alone.

  “Good girl,” Master Phillip said, crouching down in front of her. He tapped her lips with the head of his still-gooey shaft. “You did it. Now, clean me off and then I’ll let you down.”

  Eagerly, Eva sucked at her tormentor’s cock, licking it as best she could from her awkward position. “Thank you, Sir,” she gasped. “Thank you, Master Phillip, for allowing me to taste your come, Sir.”

  Master Phillip chuckled. “You like that, huh, little girl?”

  I’d rather eat shit, you fucking deluded bastard.

  “Oh, yes, Sir,” she managed, putting every bit of sincerity and coquettishness she had left into the words. “Thank you, Master.”

  “Well, you’ve earned your shower. There’s just a few little matters to attend to first.”

  Standing, he flipped off the vibrator and yanked the dildo from her body. “This will hurt, slave Eva. Do you know why you have to suffer?”

  “Because I’m your worthless cunt, Sir. Because it pleases you to make me suffer, Sir.”

  “That’s right, slave. Now take what you deserve.”

  Eva stiffened, determined to bear it, determined to stay silent. The clamps were released from both labia at once. She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted the blood on her tongue, but she hadn’t made a sound.

  When the clamp came off her clit, the pain exploded like fireworks inside her brain.

  Eva screamed.

  Chapter 7

  Jack loved the squish of wet clay slicking beneath his fingers. It was at once primitive, raw and sensual. The piece he was working on had been inspired by his recent experiences as a keyholder, and he was eager to put his vision into physical form.

  When he was working, time lost its meaning, and all that mattered was working the clay. The process was intensely physical—shaping and digging into surfaces with his fingers and palms, teasin
g, striking, slamming and coaxing the clay. His touch lightened as the soul of the piece began to emerge, caressing each curve with the focus and obsession of a lover.

  While he would be forever in Charles and Nora’s debt for their unstinting hospitality over the past month, it was fantastic to finally be in his own space, able once more to lose himself in his art, stopping only when physical need forced his attention elsewhere.

  He became vaguely aware of a sound—something musical and insistent, but it fell away as he focused on the curve of a thigh. A thumping sound pulled at his attention once more, and this time he lifted his head, his concentration at last shattered by the noise.

  Someone was knocking, quite loudly and insistently. Wiping his clay-smeared hands on his smock, Jack covered his work and hurried across the large loft space, moving from the studio portion to the living area. “Coming!” he yelled.

  He looked through the peephole and saw Charles’ face looming, fishlike, in his line of vision. Shit, was it that late already?

  Jack pulled open the door.

  “There you are,” Charles cried, reaching out to clap Jack on the shoulder. “We were about to give up. Did you forget?” Charles carried a bottle of champagne in his hand. Nora and Harry Fuentes stood just behind him, both holding white boxes, Harry’s a pizza box, Nora’s something from a bakery, tied with string.

  “Oh, man, I’m really sorry,” Jack said, stepping back and gesturing for them to enter. “I didn’t—”

  “You didn’t realize how late it was, I know, I know,” Charles interrupted with a laugh. Turning to Nora and Harry, he added, “I told you he was in there. He used to do this back in college, too. When Jack’s creating, the world just falls away.” Facing Jack, he said, “I bet you forgot to eat today, too, am I right?”

  As if on cue, Jack’s stomach rumbled audibly, and they all laughed, Jack included.

  “Guilty as charged,” he admitted. “That pizza smells fantastic. Come in.”

  “Chocolate éclairs, too,” Nora said, holding up the box.

  Jack grinned. Nora had learned while hosting him what a sweet tooth Jack harbored, one she shared. “Yum. There’re plates and stuff in the kitchen. I don’t have champagne flutes, but I do have wine glasses.” He waved toward the small galley kitchen that occupied a corner of the loft.

  “Wow, Jack, it turned out even better than I imagined,” Nora said, turning slowly as she took in the finished space. “I bet the light is incredible during the day. All those windows!”

  Jack nodded happily. “It’s exactly what I wanted. I get sunlight from all sides, depending on the time of day.”

  “We’ll set up the dinner. You go clean up,” Charles said, eying him.

  Jack looked down at himself. He was covered in clay dust, his fingers still caked with wet clay. He was wearing only his work smock and a pair of old blue jeans, his chest and feet bare. “Right,” he said. “I’ll go wash up. See you in a jiff.”

  When he returned from a quick shower, the pizza was on the table, along with plates, napkins and wineglasses. As he entered the living area, Charles, bottle at the ready, popped the cork. He poured the champagne into the glasses, and Nora handed one to Jack and another to Harry before taking one for herself.

  Charles lifted his glass, and the others followed suit. “To one of my oldest and dearest friends, Jack McQuade. Congratulations on taking possession at last of your gorgeous loft and studio.”

  “And to one of my newest friends and an excellent Dom, welcome to New York. We’re glad to have you as a fellow keyholder,” Harry added.

  “We miss you, but much happiness in your new space, Jack,” Nora added. “It’s perfect.”

  They all drank, draining their glasses. Charles refilled them with what remained of the champagne, and Jack brought bottles of water to the table, along with some parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes for the pizza. As they ate, the focus of the conversation was on Jack’s work. Nora, especially, seemed interested in the actual process of sculpting, and what it involved.

  After dinner, Jack made coffee and they each had an éclair, even Charles, who usually refused sweets. As he sipped his second cup, Jack looked across the table at Nora. She was a beautiful woman, with thick, shiny auburn hair that fell to her shoulders, dark blue eyes, a long, aquiline nose and a pouting, rosebud mouth. She was lithe and graceful, confident in her body, comfortable in her skin. She radiated that indefinable submissive serenity Jack had been striving to capture in his latest series of sculptures.

  As if sensing his gaze, Nora looked up and smiled brightly. “Hey, can we see the studio?”

  “Yeah,” Charles added with a grin. “Let’s see what had you so distracted we practically had to break down the door to get your attention.”

  Jack pushed back from the table. “Sure. Follow me.” He led his guests into the studio and lifted the large canvas he’d dropped over his work to reveal the partially finished nude.

  “Oh,” Nora breathed.

  “That looks a lot better than the big lump of clay that was here when I helped you with those boxes the other day,” Charles added with a grin.

  “Dios mio,” Harry said with obvious appreciation. “This is fucking amazing, brother. You’re like a real artist, huh?”

  Charles laughed, Jack grinned, and Nora protested, “Harry, are you serious? You’ve never heard of Jack McQuade’s work? Jack’s only like one of the most renowned sculptors in North America.”

  “Hey, sorry,” Harry said with an apologetic shrug. “I don’t know anything about art. But I can definitely see why you’re famous, man,” he added, his eyes moving over some of the pieces Jack had on kiln shelves around the studio. “This stuff is really cool.”

  “Thanks,” Jack said with a smile. “And no apologies necessary. I’m afraid Nora’s exaggerating just a little.”

  “No, she’s not,” Charles said, in that tone of his that said that was that, end of discussion. “So, tell us about this latest piece. I’m really liking what it’s shaping into. Very sensual. Very…” He paused, as if searching for the word.

  “Submissive,” Nora supplied.

  “Precisely,” Jack said, pleased. “In fact, I calling the piece Grace, but it’s not a woman’s name. It references submissive grace, and that’s what I’m trying to capture in her lines and curves. Here’s the maquette for the piece.”

  “The what?” Harry said, as they all moved closer to examine it.

  “It’s the French word for a small-scale model of something,” Charles supplied, since the term was used in architecture as well as art.

  “Could I hold it?” Nora asked.

  Jack handed the small sculpture to Nora. She ran her long, slender fingers over the curves of the kneeling nude with the touch of a lover, her eyes shining. Jack’s heart gave a sudden, painful squeeze as he watched her. Would he ever find someone as loving, sensual and submissive as Nora for his own? He didn’t covet Charles’ sub girl—but he couldn’t deny he longed for what they shared. Was there someone like her out there for him, now that he was finally ready to seek her out?

  “So, Jack,” Harry said, distracting Jack from his thoughts. “I have a session booked in the harem room at Hawthorne Dungeon at nine with two lovely ladies I know from Club de Sade. They’re not pros,” he added, anticipating Jack’s question, “just two sexy girls I scene with from time to time. I told them I’d bring along another Dom if he was available, and I had you in mind. Nora and Charles are joining us, and Nora’s going to dance for us. What do you say? Can you tear yourself away from all this sculpting stuff long enough to enjoy a private scene?”

  Jack started reflexively to say no. He wanted to get back to his work. He had a show coming up at the end of the month, and he’d hoped to be further along than he was. But he stopped himself. New York was home base now. He’d been here several months, and he’d barely gotten out. He kept telling himself he was ready to meet a woman he could claim for his own, but if he stayed buried in his studio, how wou
ld that ever happen?

  Nora and Charles were smiling hopefully at him, and Harry was giving him an encouraging grin. “Sure,” he said. “That sounds like fun. Count me in.”

  ~*~

  Nora was tired but happy, the high from her erotic dance performance in the harem room still giving wings to her feet as she quickly showered in the sub lounge while Charles and Jack waited for her in the harem room. The two sub girls had gone on to the club with Harry, Jack declining their invitation to continue the party. Nora hummed softly to herself, her body thrumming with anticipation of their lovemaking, once Charles and she returned home.

  Before the dance, she’d enjoyed watching Harry and Jack put those two young women through their paces, engaging them in predicament bondage with one another by way to tethering them using two sets of nipple clamps, the chains extended between them. The men stood behind each girl with a cane, painting lovely red stripes over their bare asses, and each time one girl twisted and jerked beneath the cane, both girls’ nipples were painfully tweaked. Neither sub was particularly well trained, and there was plenty of jerking and yelping going on.

  Nora had been perched on Charles’ lap as they watched the increasingly intense scene unfold, and when his fingers had slid beneath her short skirt to find her bare pussy, she’d been unable to stifle the moan of pure lust. He’d teased and titillated her just to the edge of orgasm as they watched the girls in their erotic dance, their nipples pulled taut by the clamps and chains between them, their cries underscored by the whistle and crack of rattan against firm flesh.

  “You will not come,” Charles murmured sexily into Nora’s ear as his fingers slid into her wetness. “Not until we get home, and not until you’ve had a good, hard spanking.”

  Those words alone nearly sent Nora over the edge, but she managed to control herself. Though she adored a good whipping and craved the sharp sting of the cane, there was nothing she loved more than Charles’ hard, perfect palm crashing down on her ass. He would start slowly, warming her flesh with light slaps, his fingers sometimes straying between her legs to tease her already rock-hard clit. Slowly but surely the spanking would intensify, until each smack pushed her hard into the mattress, until her skin turned to fire, her cunt to pure molten lust. He would take her through the stages of pleasure: mounting pain, resistance, begging protest, acceptance and finally her full embrace of the experience as her spirit soared free.