“You are em?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered the forceful looking gentleman who was standing by the window looking out.
Her eyes drifted around the vacant room… more walls papered in old and dingy shades of green and rose, dark woodwork, hardwood floors; the drapery the only element to soften the stark look. Yet, even the drapes seemed stark—if not stark, severe and threatening in a shade of burgundy so dismal it looked malicious.
The forceful gentleman approached her, immediately reaching for her neck, and throttling her in his powerful grip. “Close your eyes.”
She could do no less behind this threat.
A second later the effort was unnecessary as a blindfold came down to cover her lids and close out any trace of light. The fit was snug, confining, like the air around her. In the passing moments her clothes were stripped by efficient hands—she imagined this master’s hands as they worked quickly.
Such an odd intimacy, alone with the stranger who held her beating heart, her loins, her thoughts, her fear in his masterful hands… to mold, reshape and satisfy.
Naked now, except for the tall high heels, Emily struggled to keep her balance as the master prodded and positioned her where he wanted her to stand.
He grabbed her hands, binding them together with rope in front of her, and then raised them above her head. Every movement was threatening, and her eyes watered with tears behind the dark blindfold. She was nearly on her toes when he strung her high, then forced her higher still, doing as Justin believed he would, dressing her feet in stilettos so severe that she could never walk in them. Thankfully, she wouldn’t have to, at least not right now. Emily could only surmise that he reveled in the look of the female body augmented by the extreme footwear—like a classic Eric Stanton comic come to life. The shoes would heighten the stretch, elongate her natural lines and accentuate the shapely curves where her hips broadened to push out her ass, and above where her torso boasted the bounteous contours of her breasts. Her nipples pulsed with heat, becoming thickened and erect like two proud beacons.
The first flicks of the whip were delicate as if the man were painting and her body was his canvas. When the initial cuts struck her thighs, she jumped but she didn’t shriek. Moving his aim to her back, he struck where her sturdy shoulders could withstand sharper blows, receiving them as bursts of delicious sensation and not pain. Circling her body, he continued delivering cuts in a random fashion too difficult to predict. He’d gently flick the whip’s tail in her red hair, ruffling it like feathers, only to back off and snap the tail directly at the center of her ass. After a time, he alternated his tools, flogging her until her entire body front and back was a rash of heated warmth. He smacked a paddle against her ass, took ice and melted it on the tips of her nipples so she shivered to her crotch, then pressed a second cube on her clitoris. She shrieked, stamping her stiletto heeled feet in a fast tap-dance.
When he stopped to take a breath, feeling nothing at all was as much torture as too much flogger or the intense knife-blade accuracy of his whip. His movements back and forth from implement to implement were genius. The pauses were breathtaking and anxious as she waited for him to begin again.
She did not know his name, had hardly seen his face, would surely not recognize him if she saw him on the street. But he knew her, every nuance of her body’s reply to the feel of his leather, the wood and the brilliance of ice.
Soon, the sounds of tribal music swelled inside the room and in her head, more loudly as the intensity of the whipping/flogging/spanking increased. The pounding beat consumed her, until she was mindless without a place to put her thoughts inside her crowded brain. The vibrations grabbed her guts, while melodies played in some minor key reached emotions undisclosed until this moment. She was in tears, not from pain, but joy and sadness. Melancholy swooned through her, then unspeakable gladness.
The rapture ceased when the cuts became too hard and fast to handle. Then for some minutes she floated far away.
The pain stopped. Pleasure began.
He circled her again as the music quieted and she could hear his shoes scuff the floor. She listened for other breathing bodies, for voices, for the movement of other masters but there were none. Emily remained alone with her anonymous whip-loving master, taking beating after beating. Her shoulders ached from stretching but were pure heaven in sensation. Her ass was scorched and her thighs ripped red hot with the most painful punishment. Sometimes she wiggled her fanny to taunt his blows, or parted her thighs to feel the whip, or the talons of a flogger curl between her legs, loop up and sting the tiny piece of flesh where the end dug into her skin.
The thrashing ended with a rain of furious blows, dozens to her back and ass, to her thighs in front and along the soft surfaces of her breasts.
No more screams, but tears and groans from deep, where the music began. She joined the notes that sang inside her.
By the time the master finished, there was little longing left… instead, emptiness as if she’d lost something—and perhaps she had. She had no connection with the man; it was all blows, little passion, just a routine whipping with a private outcome she couldn’t share with this man—perhaps there was no one who understood what she was feeling.
Once the bonds that wrapped her hands were loosened, and her blindfold was discarded, Emily’s eyes adjusted to the foreign sight of the room where she stood in utter shock to discover that she was wrong about the session with this master. They were not alone. Dylan Kincaid was sitting in the corner, appraising the scene and her. Though his posture was laid back as if he’d been conversing with friends, toward her there was a scathingly, judgmental scrutiny.
The whipping master turned to him. “She’s a good study, easy to read. Not particularly orgasmic, but that may come in time. I whip them first to find out how they react. Her distress was a fair sight to behold.”
“And the sounds like magic,” her former trainer replied.
“It’s a good idea to let them scream all they like on a first beating. After that, they can be taught voice control, taught to hold in their objections and breathe through the pain.”
“And that will be easy for her,” Dylan concluded. “She’s a perfectionist, and will endure when her pride is at stake.” He said this almost cruelly as if he were teaching her; though there was a beautiful sound to the severity of his message. The twin sirens, fright and thrill were after her again.
Arriving home that afternoon…
“I hear that you did well,” Justin declared as em walked through the door.
“Thank you, sir. You did see the video?”
“There wasn’t one,” he replied.
“Oh, I was sure there would be after the other time.”
“Unnecessary,” he assured her. “I was certain of your response, and my Dom friend has confirmed it.”
“And Dylan Kincaid?” she asked.
“He was there?”
“Yes. I assumed you knew.”
“No. But it’s not surprising, my circle of friends are close.” He turned away from her, leading her into the living room, asking, “So, how are you now?”
“I’m mellow, sir… giddy almost floating.” Her heart did sing, and her body had never been more at one with everything else about her.
“I’m glad of that, em. Come, we need to talk, now’s the perfect time to discuss important matters.”
Emily slumped to the floor at the side of his chair, looking up at her husband, unsure and anxious about the perplexing look on his face. Her wariness was not without foundation. He was kinder than he’d been to her in some time, though it was obvious that he had some important purpose for this conversation.
“It has taken some time for me to understand my feelings for you in light of our changed relationship.”
“I understand that, sir.” She’d heard this line of thought before.
“I’ve struggled with your being a slave. My life seemed reasonable until you made the proposal—and I resented it. I’m s
ure you’ve felt that resentment.”
“I wasn’t sure if it was resentment or the necessary distancing of yourself from me. But I can understand both.”
“And the distancing was important, too—and still is. I have, however, come to an accommodation that will suit us both. I started divorce proceedings today.”
No idea could have been more foreign to her than this one, even though there was some strange logic behind it.
“You’ve what?” she finally had the voice to blurt out. Her anxious heart beat faster still, while the unbelievable thought of divorce was settling into her jarred psyche.
“The marriage will only get in the way of our aims, em,” he went on to explain. “As much as I’ve tried to make this work—the marriage and the mastery—I’m not content with it. I imagine eventually the marriage would have failed—whether you pursued slavery or not. I suppose this has just speeded up the process of getting our lives right. There will be fewer lies when we don’t have a worthless commitment getting in the way.”
“But I never saw it that way,” she jumped in like a scared child.
“I believe that, em. But what you feel in this case doesn’t really matter. Even if you want to forget the whole slave thing, it’s still time for a break. I couldn’t go back to our old life, and I’m sure you couldn’t either. But, should you stay in the new arrangement, the feelings of slavery will increase—I assure you of that. You will have the bereft and yielding reality you seek. You’ll know the truth of giving yourself to a master, the thrill of being mastered, humbled, punished, disciplined…” He saw the faint flicker of a response in her body. “Do these words arouse you as I say them?” He smiled because he knew the answer before she spoke.
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s what I needed to see. The change will make a difference, em. Your submission will be far more real without the trappings of our former life. I can take away the physical things as I’ve already done, I can rearrange our house, have you sleep in the sewing room, but the only way to dislodge you from the idea of our marriage is to end it. There are some masters and slaves who can mix marriage and slavery, but I can’t.”
He left her with nothing to say; and the gap of silence following seemed to stretch to infinity—immeasurable and concrete.
“I know you’ll feel the same way once you have time to think about it. But…if that is not so, you can rescind this game we’ve been playing. You can walk away from everything, if that’s what you need to do.”
“And if I don’t walk away?” she finally spoke. “Where am I then?”
“You remain my property. I train you as I have been. You remain my slave until I decide otherwise. It’s not your worry, though your decision to remain a slave must be decided on your true need for slavery, not your desire for me. Once you make the decision, you dive hard and fast. There won’t be time for looking over shoulders, or turning back. It’s the point of no return. Think about it, em.”
His hand reached down to graze her cheek, to brush away her red hair from her eyes so he could see into her soulful stare. He returned kindness for her offering of trembling innocence. The message had been abrupt but courageous. She might cry her eyes out during the long night awaiting her, or sleep soundly. He couldn’t be sure what thoughts were behind the wounded, melancholy, but strangely soulful expression on her lovely face. He remembered her this way in the first days of their courtship when she was a more innocent woman, and much younger. The last several weeks he’d not bothered to get inside her head—he’d been aloof and unwilling to consider how she felt. He’d been abrupt and distant and he knew how that hurt her—his explanations for his behavior had been reasonable, both for a man and master. But perhaps he’d been too brusque with her, throwing off her feelings as if they were debris. He’d never seen a more guileless slave—not the ones he’d owned in thirteen years as a master, nor at any time in the Guild files. He’d pressed, pushed her, reviled her decision in his mind, attempted to wish it away, but he was ignoring the truth of the woman before him. At every turn she’d answered properly as a slave, even when she must have been filled with wonder and even concern. She trusted him through the incidents in the library, at Phillip’s and with Dylan Kincaid and the master who’d wielded the whip against her naked body. She trusted him even when her world was spinning and the old forms were disappearing. But then, she still had the marriage to hold on to. Had that been a cloak to protect her? Did her mind think that way? And would she trust him now that he was taking that from her too?
Emily was shaking as he lifted her to her feet and led her up the stairs to the room they once shared. He stripped her there, making her stand near the bed while he slowly removed her clothes. Her nakedness was beautiful, her flesh more young looking and vital than he’d viewed it before. A part of him still loved her, but more of him was at work to create more than a wife…they called it slave, chattel, property. He lusted for her the transformation. He felt more alive than he’d been when beating kari in her game of control. What could he make of em—his mind reeled on with the possibilities.
Emily trembled feeling Justin’s hands on her, so tenderly, easily running over her shoulders, dabbling her skin like rain, before starting again with the same tender gestures. He circled her neck with his hands, then pressed his palms along her skin to her sides.
“So few marks,” he said. “That’s good. I’d like to be able to beat you without evidence of the damage so overt. Some women mark too easily and do not afford me that pleasure.”
She remembered looking in the mirror after her session with the whipping master, seeing her loveliness marred with streaks of red. Though the red was already fading when she finally saw the evidence, her skin was still warm to the touch, and there were several places where the surface was roughed up like rug burns.
She wanted Justin to beat her just as the other master had. She wanted to feel the physical pain caused by him—feel his wrath, his cruelty. This was important to her fantasy. She’d already felt his emotional brutality and the chilly winds of his critical gaze and judgmental eyes. But she wanted more. Soon. Shivering warmly now, Emily realized that her master was bestowing on her a tenderness she should enjoy for she might not feel it again for some time.
His kisses were hot, unlike the ones she remembered in their other lifetime—just weeks ago, it seemed like years now. A new passion burgeoned from him.
After assaulting her mouth with a wet deep-throated kiss, he nibbled her neck delicately, and traced a line of tinier kisses down her arm to her hand. In his hand hers seemed small but exquisitely formed.
“Part your legs for me, em.”
Doing so, she felt his hand move quickly to the sweaty places of her sexual home, to her pussy that clenched happily to have him fingering her there, then to the anal hole that had been made ready by his friend, which was now more welcoming of his attention. He leaned in to her and she to him while he worked both places into a climactic frenzy.
He stimulated her breasts with his left hand, kneading them like dough, her nipples taking the brutal sensuousness of his firm squeezing fingers. He ran the tempest in her high, until the storm required a release. But at that moment, he pulled away from her, dragged her toward the bed and pushed her back against the comforter. Mounting her, the first jabbing thrusts of his erection made her scream fitfully but without distress. She reached above her, as if trying to find the headboard to cling to, but it was too far away. As though she wanted to be bound, to be held captive with ropes and chains, and then taken in every orifice. She gave him everything he asked: a clenching pussy, her opened mouth and the willingness of her newly conditioned anal channel. They moved together for one solid hour before they climaxed; then began as a second orgasm started to build. He came the first time in her mouth, shooting seed over her face and in her hair.
But this was just the beginning of his passion. Roping her hands together, he fixed them to the headboard, em lying face down. Then he thrust a pillow under her h
ips to raise them for another assault.
em’s ass burned from a vigorous fire of wood—like the fire on kari’s ass when Justin spanked her in the toy room with em watching. As his fingers went for the puckering bud of her anus, she breathed deeply and relaxed like a true slave while he rimmed the tight rosette and finally worked his way inside with nearly half his hand.
“Someday, I’ll have my whole hand here,” he said as a warning.
She wanted that. She wanted him that much within her; she hungered for such intimacy. She could prove to him her willingness, the thoughtless abdication of her body. Despite the confusion in her mind and the fear he’d raised in her that night, she wouldn’t stop.
She’d give him anything he wanted, obey any command, agree even when part of her would beg to disagree. Divorce—what a strangely beautiful thought to become so insignificant in her master’s life—just another slave to use and discard.
His fist pressed harder into the cavity. By millimeters his thick hand crept closer to his goal. He’d back off long enough to fuck the channel soundly, then press in again in hopes of seeing his hand disappear inside. She bore it well, discovering an appetite for degenerate pleasure urging him with her physical messages to keep on.
Justin greased his hand again, greased her ass as well, and then started down the pathway one more time, asking for surrender, demanding the submission of her soul. She gave, gave willingly, with her inner mind begging the completion. But he backed off, unwilling to rip the hole with such violence—not this time. Replacing his hand with his erection, he took his newly born slave up the ass, riding her hard with long, jabbing strikes.
“Yeeeeeeeeessssssh!” She shifted beneath his body, grabbing for the stalk with the powerful muscles, wishing it deeper and getting that wish fulfilled. “Yesssss, fuck me hard, sir!”
His Latest Acquisition Page 13