by EdenBradley
The stairs are bare wood, hard beneath my feet, and I can feel the temperature dropping as we go down and step into a narrow hallway. It’s dimly lit, and at the edge of my vision I can see the framed artwork decorating the walls. We pass several closed doors on either side, and as we move past one I hear a muffled scream. But I hardly have time to think about it before we turn into one of the rooms and the door shuts behind us.
It’s a simple room in terms of the lushness of the house upstairs. Bare wood floors, although they are gorgeously polished. The furnishings down here are still Victorian in style—a dark green velvet sofa flanked by two large brown leather chairs with high backs, an ottoman in front of each. But this is the Training House, so of course there is a long table against one wall covered in brown leather or vinyl, a spanking bench to one side, upholstered to match. A spreader bar hung with leather cuffs dangles from the ceiling, and there is an open armoire holding floggers, paddles, lengths of chain, other implements. I don’t have time to make it all out before someone comes in behind us—the Master’s driver, I imagine from the heavy, masculine footsteps.
“I just got the message. How very nice.”
He has a harsh Cockney accent, which seems incredibly sinister for reasons I can’t explain to myself.
The driver moves past us, and as he settles into one of the wing chairs, I can see he’s a large man—tall and beefy. He looks as much like a bodyguard as he does anyone’s driver. He probably is. He’s wearing a dark blue suit that makes me think of a Mafia hit man. And of course, me being me, this makes me weak with both fear and desire. He’s handsome in a sort of raw way—a square jaw, a cruel line of a mouth, brown stubble on his nearly shaved head. His hands are enormous.
“She’s down here until morning with you, Gilby. Do let her sleep a bit, but chained and on the floor.”
The big man smiles. “Master Damon’s standard orders down here. I’ll see that she’s taken care of.”
Robert takes the handle of my leash and presses it between my lips, and I know to take it in my teeth. He walks from the room and shuts the door behind him, and I am left with the Master’s driver. Gilby. And although I feel certain the Master will use me more roughly than anyone else in his household, this man’s size intimidates me. The fact that I have no idea what he’ll want to do to me intimidates me. And we are in the basement of the house, with no one to see. Just this stranger and I, and another stranger screaming down the hall. What a madhouse this is. What kind of man would work at a place like this?
I am restless, wondering, beginning to overanalyze everything, knowing I will never have the answers I seek. I am not supposed to know anything, to be able to really guess. That’s all part of it. I know that. It’s one of the things I must learn to give myself over to, but that’s the hard part for me, no matter how badly I want it. I make an effort to center myself, to sink into the situation, rather than disassociate from it, which is the natural reaction for any human being. But we are not just “anyone,” those of us who sign the slave contracts. Who agree to live in the madhouse.
For a long time—seemingly forever, but it must go on for fifteen minutes—Gilby leaves me standing in front of him, simply watching me. Crossing one ankle over his knee, he taps his fingers on the arm of the leather chair, but I know better than to glance at his hand. I’ve passed these tests before. And failed just as many. I keep my gaze trained on the floor, but apparently that’s not good enough.
“What are you staring at, Girl?” he growls. “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s impolite? Especially in the Master’s house. Bad Girl.”
He gets to his feet, a wall of a man in front of me, and my stomach drops. I have three seconds to be scared out of my mind before he scoops me up and sits me on the edge of the padded table, where he removes my cuffs. My poor shoulders and arms are still aching, and my mouth is feeling the strain of holding the leash between my teeth, but that is not my main concern. No, it’s him, this enormous man with the wicked expression and unknown desires. He places his beefy hands on my shoulders, and I pull in a gasping breath. But to my utter surprise, he begins to massage my arms, my shoulders, my hands—a lovely, deep massage that makes my sore muscles sigh in pleasure, which I don’t dare do myself. It’s unsettling, this little moment of kindness. I don’t know what to do with it. I look up to him in gratitude. Catching his gaze, I see right away that this was a mistake, and the slap comes hard and fast, the leash flying from my mouth. My cheek burns, and my gaze goes to my lap.
“Damn right, Girl,” he says. “You don’t look at me, you don’t talk to me, unless I tell you to. And no matter what I do to you, there’s no screaming, hear me? Not a peep out of you, not even a moan of pleasure.” He gathers both my breasts in his hands and squeezes hard. “There will be pleasure, if only because you’re such a little pain slut, I can tell. And you’ll like it when I fuck your ass. You’ll like it and you’ll want to scream, little slut.”
Je t’aime, ma petite, my mind madly translates.
He leans in closer, until his breath is warm on my cheek. He whispers, “I have a huge cock. No lie. No bragging. It’ll make you want to scream when I work it into your dainty little ass.”
Oh yes. Just like my fantasy upstairs in my room.
I want to squirm on the table, his words making me shiver in lustful anticipation. In anticipation of being stretched until I tear, maybe. In anticipation of showing him how much I can take. I shouldn’t be so proud, but I am. I also know this place will work the pride right out of me.
His hand darts out and he grabs my right breast in a painful grip, using it to pull me down onto the table, then his rough, hurting hands are on my waist, turning me over onto my stomach, then pulling me up onto hands and knees. By the time my ass is raised in the air I am wet with wanting and ready to sob.
His hand goes back to my breast and he pinches the nipple so hard I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. He is a beast of a man—I’ve never met anyone of his size and strength—and this doesn’t bode well for my poor ass.
Yes, please.
My mind is emptying out, the analytical side gone, completely shut down. And I’m grateful for it. Grateful to him.
“You love it, don’t you, little slut?” he asks.
I want to answer that I do. But his hand slips between my thighs and finds my cunt slick with need.
“Ah, yes. You fucking love it.”
Pinching my clit, he pulls on it, elongating it, and pleasure whispers over my skin, my pussy clenching. Empty. Unconsciously, I arch my hips and he pulls his hand back.
He clucks his tongue. “You really should not have done that, slut.” He shoves my cheek down onto the table, and I breathe in the leather along with my fear. “Stay.”
My mind is tumbling into that dark place I go sometimes. A place where everything sort of fades away, even the fear and pleasure of the moment, because I’m too scared to even begin to imagine what is about to happen. But I don’t have long to wait, suspended in the emptiness that has become my mind. I can feel the heat of his big body at my side, then his hands prying my pussy lips apart, holding them wide. Something solid presses against my waiting hole, and I don’t know what it is, except that it’s big. Automatically, I widen my thighs.
“Good slut,” he murmurs as he begins to work the solid thing into me.
And God, it really is huge, whatever it is—big and smooth and I think it’s made of wood. I’m soaking wet and growing wetter by the moment, but it’s too big for me, I’m sure of it.
I start to cry a little, trying to swallow the tears down, squeezing my eyes shut tight. I hate to fail.
He shoves harder, and it feels like my insides are burning, the tissues stretching impossibly. And it’s a huge turn-on, pleasure and pain and even the tears. Maybe more so because of the tears. Yes—I know it’s true. I love the tears as much as the Master does.
“Come on. You can take it. Don’t make him pull out the lube or you’ll pay for it later
, Girl.”
I open my eyes to find the Master sitting in a chair across from me, his legs crossed, his hands steepled, his dark blue eyes glittering, a cruel smile on his exquisite mouth. And it is as if my body, my mind, explode in pleasure. I’m so overcome I nearly speak to beg him to stay.
I inhale, try to let my body go loose as I exhale, then do it again. And Gilby works the damn object—whatever it is—into my dripping cunt. With his other hand he grips my hip and begins to rock me onto it, back and forth, slowly at first, then as my body becomes accustomed to the thing, harder, faster, until he really is fucking me with this enormous makeshift dildo as the Master watches, and this is probably the hottest moment of my life. Until the Master gets up and approaches me, and my pussy weeps with desire.
He grabs my jaw in his strong hand, hard enough to hurt, forces my mouth open and presses three fingers inside.
“Suck, Girl,” he demands.
I do it greedily, savoring his fingers, licking the tips, sucking hard, sliding my mouth up and down until my jaw aches with the effort. Until I’m crying again, the tears washing over my cheeks, over his hand. He is fucking my mouth as Gilby fucks my aching, hungry cunt with the rigid object, and I no longer even care what it is.
Soon I need to come so badly, so badly, but I don’t have permission. More tears.
“Good slut,” Gilby says, the roughness of desire low in his throat. “You fucking hold it back. You don’t get to come while I’m in your little cunt. Maybe when I’m in your ass. If you please me enough. You’d better hope you can take it. That you can fuck me with your tight ass the way you’re fucking this billy club with your tight cunt.”
My head comes up, the Master’s fingers slipping from my mouth, and I know right away what I’ve done. He shoves my face back down onto the table, slamming my cheek into the leather surface. He slaps my cheek hard, one burning strike before he reaches under me and takes one nipple in his fingers and twists it until I have to bite back a scream. Yet at the same time my sore, battered pussy opens more for the club, and I want it. I am grateful for it.
“Didn’t know it was a billy club?” Gilby asks with a small chuckle. “But you like it, little slut. You fucking love it. Now fuck it real good for Gilby. Show your Master how much you like it.”
His hands on me go still, and I begin to move my hips, working my pussy down onto the wooden shaft, sliding up, then down again. I try to take as much as I can into me, biting back my climax as the Master leans over me, his hold on my poor nipple tight and hurting while his other hand crushes my cheek to the table, controlling me utterly. And I breathe him in, and oh God, I almost come then, but I don’t. I am reveling in knowing I’m doing what I’m told. That I am a good Girl.
There is something of the performer in me as I imagine the expression on his face, and Gilby’s. As I think of how I must look, my body bucking and plunging onto the wooden club. The way the lips of my pussy must be plump and pink around the thick shaft, everything slick with my juices. I’m a little too in love with the idea, maybe, but I hear the Master’s quiet grunt of approval as he presses my face harder into the leather-covered table. Pleasure ripples through my system at this tacit approval, driving me on. But soon it seems like an impossible task to hold myself back from coming, and I am afraid. About to come. Afraid.
Gilby’s big hand grips my hip, stopping my motion, and he pulls the billy club from my body.
“Still,” the Master commands me.
I hear Gilby moving around as my heart thunders, my poor, abused, too-empty cunt aching. Wanting. It’s only a few moments before he returns. The Master releases my tortured nipple and takes a step back before Gilby shoves me down onto the table, then pulls me so my legs hang off the edge. Very quickly he binds me to the table with rope, the slick little knots holding my legs spread wide, bound to the table legs. He does the same to my arms, the ropes tight around my wrists. My legs are shaking, but the ropes and the table take care of my unsteadiness. The choke-chain helps in its own strange way too.
I love this about being restrained—it’s as if I am being held safely in the arms of the ropes or the chains or the cuffs. Or Saran Wrap or bondage tape, or whatever it is anyone binds me with. It calms me. I take in a breath, try to relax as I push it out, the way Master Graham taught me. It seems like a thousand years ago, even though it’s only been a little over a year since he began training me.
Is it terrible that I can barely think of him already? That his memory is fading in the wake of the unusual and extreme conditions of the Training House, and my fascination with the beautiful Master? As I wait for whatever the cruel Gilby will do to me next?
Cruel. And crude. Yet elegantly so, in this fantastical setting. Yes, elegantly crude. I can still hardly believe it’s all real.
But Gilby’s voice brings me back to the moment.
“My fat dick is going into your ass soon enough, little slut. Into that sweet pink hole. It’s waiting for me to fill it. To fuck you until you can’t help but scream, despite the fact that I’ve told you not to. Think about that, Girl.”
And I do, even though the Master grabs my face in both his hands and squats down to look into my eyes, which is mesmerizing and beautiful and nearly unbearable. It makes my throat hurt to swallow the sobs—sobs that build and swell simply because his gaze is locked on mine, because even in this state of heavy subspace and rawness, I see something just as raw in his blue eyes, and it makes my heart ache.
Gilby begins to cane me, and it fucking hurts. I can tell it’s Lucite or some other man-made material. I feel the welts coming right up on my skin, the sting unbelievably sharp. He goes at the tender flesh of my ass cheeks, down the backs of my thighs, my calves, which would make me dance in my bonds if there were any give to them. But there’s not. There is no escape from the pain.
There’s no escape.
The thought makes me smile through the pain—a pain so vicious I’m not sure I can stand it. Yet at the same time my brain is pumping out endorphins and dopamine and God knows what else—and all the more because the Master is there with me, holding me, looking into my eyes as it’s happening, which is some beautiful mind fuck in itself. I’m dizzy and my traitorous pussy is weeping with desire. And all I want is for Gilby to keep caning me, to fuck my ass, no matter how huge he might be. To tear me apart while the Master watches.
When the caning stops and I hear the faint snick of a zipper, I know it’s time.
Chapter Four
There is no preamble. No warning. Just his thick fingers sliding into my cunt, then swiping the moisture back and onto my anus, pushing briefly inside. Then his huge hands part my ass cheeks and his condom-clad cock is at the entrance, the swollen head enormous against that small, pink pucker.
Oh God.
But God can’t help me now. No one can.
No one can help you.
My body goes loose and warm, and I tumble into those words.
Yes.
The Master smooths his palms over my cheeks, and his touch is unbelievably gentle, which only makes me expect something far worse. From him. From Gilby. But for several moments in which I feel as if time is suspended, nothing more happens. Just Gilby’s big cock resting against my ass, and the Master’s hands stroking my face in a way that makes me begin to cry again very softly.
Gilby pushes in, slowly at first, which surprises me, until he’s past that first tight ring of muscle. I do my breathing, but he’s so damn big I know ultimately it will be no use.
I cry a little more when the Master releases my face. If I blink I can see that he is still standing close by, which makes my heart soar. It’s Gilby fucking my ass, but it’s the Master’s presence that commands me. It’s the Master I am falling in love with.
“Oh, yeah,” Gilby mutters. “The little slut is tight as a virgin. I like it tight. It means it’ll hurt all the more. It means it’ll make you want to scream, slut. My fat cock will make you need to. Let’s take care of that.”
He cla
mps a hand over my mouth and shoves his huge cock into my ass, driving it in all at once. I make some rough noise deep in my throat as my insides burn, but it only makes him push deeper, harder, until it’s like a heavy drumbeat pounding my body from the inside out. He starts a jabbing, punishing stroke, and as soon he gets his rhythm, he begins caning my thighs again. There’s too much going on and I can’t process it all—pain and pain and the pleasure of being abused this way and the even greater pleasure in being watched by the Master, whom I worship already. The pleasure of having my ass fucked by the biggest cock I’ve ever felt in my life, and Jesus, I’m going to come, or maybe pass out, or maybe both.
His hand over my mouth is cutting off my air a bit, but I love it, my head light as he fucks me, as he hits my poor, tender flesh with the cane, creating welts upon welts. And God, I love being fucked this way, in my sore ass, sore inside and out. I’m overloading like mad, my head spinning, my cunt contracting, pleasure deep inside me, shimmering outward, like some arc of electricity, like light itself. I feel sensation shining through my body, as if I am translucent. As if I could light up the sky. And my orgasm is some screaming animal, loosed from its cage, as my ass tightens on his plunging flesh. I scream beneath his hand, then everything goes black.
When I come to, he’s untied me and I’m on my back on the table. My insides hurt. So does my skin. But my brain is floating, weak with pleasure and that strange, almost detached love I feel for anyone who plays me well, who can make me lose myself like this.
Blinking, I slowly realize a fire has been built in the hearth—I can hear its crackle, feel its heat. I dare to glance around, and see the Master’s wide back, and I realize there is nothing detached about the love I feel for him at this moment. Nothing.
Save me.
Punish me.
Love me.
I bite the inside of my lip hard, needing the pain to carry me away, but it doesn’t work.
Fuck.
The Master is on the phone. Gilby is nowhere in sight.