What the hell does that mean? When I’m finished? Like dead? I glare some more, unsure what words I can use to inflict enough damage to force him to answer questions. Or even what damn questions I want answering anymore.
“Fuck you.” It seems that’s all I’ve got, that and my body moving into him, the damn thing still humming with the impending explosion that wants to hit out at him, something, anything. It’s consuming me, making my whole frame vibrate along with my hands. I grab at them, twisting them about in my fingers to control whatever energy wants to leave them.
“No,” he snaps, his body suddenly in front of me, his own hands slapping at mine to stop them twining with each other. “Let it out.” What? I yelp as he pushes me with enough force that I trip backwards across the empty floor, barely keeping myself upright. “Or kneel on the damn floor. Make a fucking decision before I do it for you.” And now it’s me standing and staring, unable to process which option is better as he lowers his head slightly, reminding me of him crouched over that woman. “You count it down. Ten to one.” Count? To what? What’s he going to do at one? I snatch a glance at the open doorway, not knowing what I’m hoping for and not really understanding why I’m looking. “You do remember how to count, don’t you, Alana? Ten.”
“Oh, I’m not damn well doing this. This isn’t a school ground.”
“Nine. Floor or argue.”
“I just want some honesty, Blaine.”
“Eight. I’m not saying them aloud anymore.”
I back away a step, my head looking around for the doorway, and then casting back at the floor in front of his feet. “It’s easier than you think.” That’s what he’d said, but I wasn’t this angry then. I was desolate, upset, alone, and all because of him. Now, I feel energised and enthused, confident again. Arrogant even. Oh shit, what number are we on?
I look up at him again, sharply, wondering what’s coming at number one and trying to understand why my knees are giving way regardless of my anger. He looks so damn beautiful. Why? He’s everything I’m confused about. But the way his peaceful mouth lies in its flat line, the way his shoulders seem to flow into every other muscle, charging them, highlighting the calm before the storm, it’s a display worthy of art. I could write the lyrics to a song by just looking at him, angry as I might be. He’s so in tune with who he is. So fucking superior about how everything should be, rightly so, it seems.
My knees have lowered me to the floor before I’ve realised it’s happened, my head dropped into the position he put me in last time. Not that he physically did. I did it myself, but I did it because I heard his sigh when I achieved the correct posture for submission. It had felt so strange, so at odds with my instincts. Yet within minutes it had felt like an old shadow had returned, blanketing me with a shroud of comfort. My arms had lain just as they do now, my thighs widening slightly, just as they do now, and my hands against them, uncomfortably at first and continually shaking, until they finally stopped and I heard that sigh from his lips. It was as astounding to me then as it is to me now. It’s reassuring. Calming. Soothing. Enough so that my own sigh lets all the tension go, throws it away, not caring for any questions I had anymore.
“How do you feel?” he asks, his frame lowering in front of me until he’s mirroring me again, just as we did before.
“Calmer.” It’s the best response I have to give at the moment. I’m not at ease, nor completely comfortable, but it’s more relaxing than the screaming venom that wanted to leave my mouth minutes ago.
“Good.”
And then he stands up and walks away, leaving me staring at the floor. I eventually close my eyes and listen to the rhythm of my breathing rather than dealing with the commotion still raging inside. I did that this morning, too, as I looked at the floor. I let his gaze guide me into it. It dried the tears up completely, and made all the noise disperse. Long slow breaths, just me and my own noise. No one else’s to deal with. No other sound interfering, no notifications or chaos, only the occasional crash of a wave, which seems to ease the rhythm rather than interrupt it. I feel the tension start to evaporate. It leaves my skin bit by bit, as if it’s pouring from my muscles and seeping out through the surface of my skin, quieting the noise further with every exhale.
Music starts somewhere. It makes me twitch, the tone of it at odds with my current calm. It’s gloomy. Melancholy, but alive somehow. I’m not sure what it is. Not quite classical. Not operatic. Just a piano, its notes dull and long, rhythmic. The flats in the song make it feel eerie, haunting. It’s warm, though. Not cold or sharp. And I can hear the breathing of the pianist as he plays, and alter my own to match his.
“If you’re a good girl, we’ll do your dates at some point.” I could almost laugh at the words, knowing that none of that means anything anyway. Instead, I smile slightly, allowing the calm in his tone to envelop me further as I feel his hand wrap into my hair. “You’re sure you don’t need to sleep?”
Maybe. Who knows? I’m both exhausted by my near death experience and my argument, and energised by the unruffled composure this positioning provides. And I’m suddenly completely at ease with both.
I shake my head as he begins to wrap his hold tighter, not knowing what he’s about to do but somehow understanding it’ll be done for the right reason, whatever it is. I have to trust. I have to. He gave me the option to fight and I folded to my knees instead, not out of fear, but because my mind wanted to. He’s saved me twice now. He’ll do it again if I need it.
The yank on my scalp doesn’t come as that much of a surprise, nor does my body being slowly dragged across the polished floor. It doesn’t bother me, or make me feel scared. It doesn’t even hurt, the pressure on my scalp having been applied to its entirety to cause the least pain. I just lie here, letting the sound of his bare feet lull me further into my silence as I watch the ceiling above me go by. I feel small, insignificant, weightless. I feel like there’s nothing but air inside me, keeping me light as a feather, as if I’m actually gliding across this surface to wherever I’m going.
I end up back in the room I was in earlier, my frame still prone on the floor, which makes me stare at the ceiling again as the lights dim.
“I’m going to see how much you can take,” he says, his beautiful face arriving in my eye line. Is he? Okay. I’m so peaceful I couldn’t care less what we’re going to do. I knew the last time he manhandled me I’d be alright, knew my body could cope. I got lost in what he did to me, enjoying myself even though I can’t remember much of it. I will this time, too. “This is the best time for your pain threshold to be tested.” Is it? Fine. Everything’s just fine. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nod. Yes.
Chapter 5
Alana
T he lights drop further as the minutes go by until only a dim glimmer of daylight streaks across the ceiling. It’s as gloomy as the music I’m listening to, and as peaceful as the sound of his feet padding across the floor quietly around me. I focus on both, letting the sounds join into one as I realise he’s moving to the beat of the sound, making it more rhythmic rather than more chaotic. It’s mesmerising in some ways, as lulling as his eyes when he gazes at me. I’m not scared or anxious, neither am I inclined to move in any way. I’m just here, relaxed. Calm after my outburst.
A quiet cranking sound starts behind me. It’s mechanical, scratchy in my peaceful state. It interrupts the gentle ebb of melancholy, making my anxiety rise again, and I feel my fingers grab at nothing, hoping to feel the ground beneath me maybe, find some solidity to hold onto. There’s nothing there, though, only the polished floor I was dragged across. There’s no skin there, no muscle, no strength to latch with, join on to. And then my body’s lifted as if it’s as weightless as I felt ten minutes ago, his arms moving me to somewhere.
“What are you going to do to me?” I ask, suddenly a little unsure of what’s coming.
“Hurt you.” My mouth opens as I look at him and he lies me down on a padded bench. “Test you.” Anxiety
races through me as his words finally begin to seep into my mind and reality comes back in earnest, but I can’t find the word ‘no’ anywhere. It doesn’t want to come out. It’s somehow retreating regardless of my attempt to get it through my lips. “You’re going to let me play with you without the ability to ask me to stop.” I frown at him, wondering what he means as he holds up a strap. “There are no safewords with me, Alana. You have to trust me to know when you’re done. I don’t want to hear your voice.” He raises the strap higher, showing me the entirety of it. It’s a muzzle of some kind, a large ball behind a leather mouthpiece. I frown at that too, suddenly understanding what he means. I won’t be able to say no at all. He lays it on my stomach, letting me stare at it as he begins walking around me, softly putting my wrists into cuffs I hadn’t noticed before. “I want you to ask me to put it in your mouth. Gag you.” I’m not sure what that means.
“Why?” The question slips out, almost mused rather than asked. I don’t know why it does, but I can’t stop it. Maybe I don’t trust him as much as I think, or maybe I just need to know what it does for him to not hear me. I tilt my head at the black leather, wondering what’s wrong with my voice.
“That’s why. That question. I don’t want you questioning me anymore,” he says as he clicks the final cuff around my ankle and stands at my feet, his frame filling my eyes and his torso seeming bigger than life itself. I gaze at it, somehow making my breathing join with his as his chest inhales and exhales, then crawl my eyes up towards his face, longing to search his eyes for truths. “You’re going to give yourself over with no capacity to stop me.” I suck in a breath as I watch his eyes narrow and his hands land on my ankles, slowing pushing them apart, the bench appearing to separate between them. “In fact, I want you to beg me to put it in that filthy fucking mouth of yours.”
My own eyes narrow, not that I’m able to fight whatever he’s tied me into, but the thought of not being able to speak, to say stop if I need to, to scream for help? “Stop searching for help, Alana. There’s none here apart from me. We’re alone.” Apart from him. Help. I squirm, my body trying to get comfortable with the thought, or maybe it’s my mind. I don’t know. “Start begging.”
I squirm again, barely able to comprehend the thought of not being able to question him, let alone scream for help should I need to.
“But…”
“No. I want no buts, no whys, no anything other than, ‘Please put that gag in my filthy mouth, Sir’.”
The sound of Sir coming from his mouth makes me glare back at him, annoyed that he’d make me use a term I only ever use out of disdain. “I’m waiting, Alana. Make it good.”
My fucking fidgeting continues, my peaceful security obliterated under his scrutiny as he looks down at me, his hands applying barely any pressure to my skin. And his stare penetrates all my fears, making me fretful. I force myself still, unhappy with my nerves and trying to remember the silence I had minutes ago, but it’s like the calmer he seems to become, not one ounce of happiness on his face anywhere, the jumpier I’m getting.
“I want…” What do I want? I want to scream if I need to. I want to shout at him, speak. I want to let my fears out, not hold them in. He raises a brow at me slightly, his body relaxed and completely in tune with what’s around him, me included, it appears.
“What do you want?” I want my peaceful back. I close my eyes to him, asking myself that very question, because that’s why I’m here now, isn’t it? I put myself in his hands, submitted. Told him this is what I want. And I so want the quiet back that I had when he dragged me in here, his fingers guiding me along the floor without any permission from me. I want fields filled with endless thoughts, ones that I make, not ones that other people force me into. “Just ask me for it, Alana. Beg.”
“I want… I want you to put it in my mouth.” The words come out as shakily as my breathing feels, driven forward by the tremble in my fingers as I keep gasping at nothing and squeeze my eyes tighter shut.
“Tut, tut.” I snarl at myself, shaking my head and trying to pull up the courage to mean the words he wants to hear, rather than a simple citation of them. I can’t fool him anyway. There’s no lying here. He wants the guts of me, the very heart of my fears, so he can pull them apart. He said that about me when he said he’d help. “Try again.”
“I want you to put it in my filthy mouth, please, Sir.”
“And again, Alana. Look at me as you ask.” I open my eyes as he finishes the sentence, allowing myself the freedom to just look and stop questioning him. He’s right, but I feel so afraid of letting him have all of me, of tearing up my insides with no promise that he’ll be there for me at the end. There’s nothing here, is there? “Ask.”
“Please, Sir. Put the gag in my filthy mouth. Silence me.”
There’s a smile that comes after that. It’s one I’ve never seen before, more chilling than I’ve ever seen, but yet still laced with the same hope he gave when he first kissed me. It’s like a sunrise, or sunset, making everything else in the room dissipate. There aren’t any words in reply, just his body moving to the side of me, his hand dragging up my thigh as he goes until he lifts the gag from my skin and offers it towards my mouth. He doesn’t ask me to open my mouth; he expects me to do it of my own accord, and I do. My lips widen as I gaze at him, wondering what will come next and maintaining my stillness. Stillness—that’s what I want here, as he moves the leather into my lips. That’s what I’m going to get with him if I trust him. I know that much. I know he’ll find it in me one way or another. Perhaps he’s not offering the love I know is here, but he will help. Whether through self-satisfaction or support, I don’t know, but I am beginning to care less and less.
The strap tightens as he lifts my head to accommodate it. It ratchets snugly, and then squashes my cheeks inwards further as I try to stretch my mouth around the ball. It’s hard plastic, giving me room to move slightly, but I can’t speak or squash into it. He moves away again, the clattering of metal immediately sounding as he reaches into a drawer and then turns to face me.
“The beauty of pain comes from you allowing it inside without fighting it,” he says, his hand slowly pushing one of my legs wider then twisting something until my knee lifts a little. “If you fight it, it becomes debilitating to your senses, overwhelming you past your mind’s capabilities.” I flex my hands in the cuffs, trying to get a glimpse of what he’s holding. “Pain is something your mind needs to enjoy before you can truly appreciate the hedonism of it.” Is it? I narrow my stare at his waist, part enjoying the muscle tone but still more interested in the metal I heard. “Do you think you can compartmentalize the pain I’m going to deliver, like you have everything else in your life?” I frown, wondering how he knows that. “You can’t contain and be free, Alana. You have to let go. When you’re with me, you have to let go.”
I stare for a few minutes more, watching the way he moves around me, his fingers applying pressure here and there, tugging me occasionally into a new position. It’s calming somehow, lulling me back to how I was before this started, even if my mouth struggles with the ball in it. “You’ve used the amphetamines to speed you up and keep you organised, I assume. I’m going to slow you down again. You’re going to learn to value your time, to enjoy it.” The more he speaks, the more his tone ebbs into me. It’s like velvet, smooth and meandering as he muses his thoughts, his hand never leaving my skin. “Do you like that thought?” I don’t know. I don’t know what I like other than the sound of his voice like this. It’s stunning as it deepens and growls the endnotes, pacifying whatever argument or fear I had, making me feel secure again as I lie here. “Does your cunt need me to hurt it, Alana? Ask me to hurt you.” How? I can’t speak. I stare at him as his eyes turn and slowly bore back into mine, my mouth moving around the ball, my body fidgeting again because I can’t get the words out. He smiles and lifts his hand above my stomach, about five inches, and just hovers it there. “Reach for me,” he says, his smile broadening as I frown again. “
Squirm. Show me your need for my hands.”
I lift slightly, my body rising into him, my muscles straining to get higher regardless of the strange embarrassment at his words.
“Weak little brat. That effort deserves a caging.” My frown turns to a glare, desperation making me try harder to get to his hands as I shunt about. He suddenly slaps down on my stomach, sending a sharp sting straight through me. It makes my eyes water, my back scrabbling around to get away from the sensation. “Try harder,” he snarls, his hand back to hovering again, taunting me. But no matter how hard I reach, how hard I push my body towards him, my hips thrusting upwards, I can’t reach. He won’t let me. I fight, every inch of me forging upwards, desperate to get to his hand so he can calm me again, but nothing makes me get there.
My body eventually slumps in defeat, hardly able to move for the exertion I’ve put it through.
“See, your mind gives up first. It makes you unable to continue because it’s focused on not relishing the feeling.” I don’t know what that means, and the panting I’m doing through this fucking ball irritates me, enough so that I close my eyes in frustration. It’s only when he moves and I hear the metal again that I open them and find him between my legs. “Pain is a good thing for brats like you, Alana. You need its focus to realign yourself.” Oh, for god’s sake, what the hell does that mean? I shake my head as I watch him lift his hand again, hovering it once more. “Let me help you reach what you need.”
Pain instantly assaults me between my thighs, the tearing kind, making me lever so far off the bench I think I’m going to fall. Whatever it is pinches in to the side of my vulva, inflaming it with an agony that makes me scream into the ball. “See?” I can hardly draw in air, let alone see. My eyes are wildly searching for any escape from the pain, and my back’s arched and twisting to get away, swift intakes of breath trying to stem the pain assaulting me. And then another sharp stab of pain joins in on the other side, wrenching me further away from the padding, my feet and shoulders keeping me aloft, pushing me upwards. A muffled scream sounds from my own lips again, saliva pooling and making me swallow rapidly as I snort air through my nose. “You’re so beautiful when you try. Look, focus.” I suck in more air, using the pain to forge more strength to my muscles, and squint towards him through watering eyes. He’s blurred, the outline of him merged like a shadow, but I see the hand resting on my stomach as I squirm. It makes me halt my tempestuous struggle, somehow finding stability in his hold rather than concentrating on the pain. “You reached me, Alana. Proved yourself.” I whimper into the ball, both pleased with myself and embarrassed at what’s happening to me. I’m like a fucking child, begging for a damn compliment. “Keep showing me.” I frown again, not knowing what he’s after, then see him lick his lips a little as he rubs his hand lower towards my crotch. It makes me widen my legs without thought, the pain down there near forgotten as I focus in on his eyes and let them guide me. “Good little brat,” he muses, rubbing my stomach again and then lowering. The sensation makes me crazy as he carries on, my back still holding me aloft, my arse slowly sinking back down to the bench so I can widen even further. It makes me ache, the intensity of the pain turning dull as something tugs and pulls at me. I need something inside me. Something hard, something driven in to make the throbbing subside. I need him and whatever he chooses. Hard and heavy. His hand, his cock. Anything to make the void feel filled.
The End (Stained Duet Book 2) Page 7