by Linnea May
"But why?" she continues, still not ready to let it go.
My eyes lock onto hers and I let out a sigh, communicating that I've had enough of this conversation.
"Because that is what makes me happy," I say. Subject closed.
She presses her lips together as if trying to keep herself from asking anything more. I can tell she's not happy with my answer, but she senses that asking anything further wouldn't be a smart thing to do.
I'm not ready to share the truth with her, and I'm convinced that I've already said too much. She doesn't need to know about the black ghost of addiction that once haunted me. It's been gone for years, but I feel it creeping up on me every time I do this. Every time I fuck, every time I play, every time I come close to a woman. It's still there, ready to take over as soon as I lose myself for even a moment.
I can't let that ever happen again.
"Whatever," she whispers, turning her eyes away from me and back to the pizza. "It just seems odd to me."
She pauses for a moment, the expression on her face changing before she continues to speak.
"Besides," she says. "Who says I'd be happy with having sex only once a year, now that you've given me a taste of what it's like?"
She winks at me, trying to come across like a naughty little tease. I have clearly awoken new kinds of urges inside her that she didn't know existed before.
But her words leave a discomforting ache in my chest.
Because I know I won't be the one to meet those needs.
Chapter 25
Laura
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the pain. It's hard to pinpoint because the ache throbs through my entire body. My arms hurt, my legs hurt, my throat hurts - and the area between my legs pulsates with burning soreness.
I'm completely naked, wearing nothing but the collar around my neck. My sore body is wrapped up in the softest sheets I've ever slept on, and the way the sheets are crumpled up next to me suggests that I didn't spend the night by myself.
I sit up, lazily rubbing my eyes as I try to find my bearings. He's not in the room, but I know he'll be back any moment. He hasn't left me alone for longer than a few minutes since I arrived, and the only reason he ever left the room was to get food.
Is he getting breakfast? Is it even time for breakfast? I have no way of knowing because the windows remain covered, not allowing any guesses about the time of day or night. I've heard of people losing their sense of time under these conditions, but I never knew what it felt like. There's a strange feeling of being lost, without anything to connect to. Scary.
I hear the lock on the door turning, and I instinctively tense up for his return. Ryan, my master, is in fact carrying a tray when he makes his way back into the room, balancing it on one hand while handling the door with the other.
"You'd make a great waiter," I tease. My voice is hoarse and the words come out croaking and lower in volume than intended.
He places the tray on the low floor table we ate at last night. Every trace of our dinner is gone, but I can't remember him clearing the room. Did he do it while I was sleeping? Was someone else in here?
"Don't get cocky with me, doll," he warns, casting me a mischievous look. "You're sore today, so anything I'll do to you will feel twice as bad as it did yesterday."
He approaches the bed, climbing onto the mattress beside me, his blue eyes searching mine. This is the first time that I see him wearing anything besides a suit unless he’s displaying his muscular chest. He's dressed in a soft cashmere pullover and matching black pants, and he smells and looks a lot fresher than I'm certain I do. He must have showered already. His hair isn't neatly combed to the side as it usually is, but instead it frames his face in boyish tousles that make him look younger.
"I'm sorry," I say, letting instinct take over. "I must look like shit."
He casts a warm smile at me.
"You look like you've been fucked and played with all night," he says, somehow confirming my suspicion. "I like that look on a woman."
I feel my cheeks blushing at his words, and while my instincts tell me to avert my eyes and lower my gaze in a coy motion, I stay put, bathing in the warm waves of his dark blue orbs and let his sweet words wash over me.
"Come, let's eat," he says, leaving a loving peck on my cheek before he rises and walks over to the small table.
I unwrap myself from the bed sheets and cast him a questioning look before attempting to cover my nakedness.
"May I wear the robe, master?" I ask him.
He looks at me, his face laced with surprise.
"Yes," he replies. "But only because you're such a good girl for asking."
I slip the robe over my shoulders, but don't tie the belt. He's watching me as I walk over to the low table, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Watch out, or I'll just have you for breakfast, doll," he warns playfully.
"Who says I would mind that?" I flirt, sitting down on the floor next to him. I'm immediately reminded of the pain he inflicted upon me yesterday, as my bruised core and skin come into contact with the hardwood floor beneath us.
He laughs at my pained grimace, but doesn‘t comment. The tray he placed on the table holds a small selection of breakfast items, some buttered toast, scrambled eggs and - to my great joy - crispy bacon, all arranged neatly on two little plates next to a tiny bowl of fruit salad. I hadn't noticed before, but there's also a carafe of coffee and two mugs, both of which he must have brought in earlier.
I reach for the carafe and place one of the mugs right in front of him before pouring his coffee. He's watching every single move I make, his eyes never diverting. His attention still makes me as nervous as it did in the very beginning, and I can’t help that my hands are shaking as I pour.
"Good girl," he praises me when I'm done. "Serving your master without being asked to. You'd make a good domestic servant slave."
I huff and raise my eyebrows.
"With all due respect, I highly doubt that," I say, filling my own mug. "I'm not a good homemaker, at all."
He winks at me. "Maybe you just never had the chance to prove yourself as one?"
"That's definitely true," I mutter, sighing. "I've always had to work. A lot."
"Always as a waitress?"
Our eyes meet in awkward silence, as if we're checking each other. Was it okay for me to talk about myself, about my life outside of this? Was it okay for him to ask me about it? He always insisted that we push reality aside, not even allowing me to call him by his name or letting him address me by mine.
Right now it seems as if he's wondering about all of that himself, and the question lingers solemnly in the air between us.
"No," I say, my eyes fixating on his. "I've held many different jobs."
"Like what?"
"Several of them were waitressing jobs in restaurants or with catering services," I admit. "But I also did proofreading and tutoring when I was in college."
He raises his eyebrows, casting me a curious look.
"College, huh?" he says. "Where did you graduate from?"
I feel as if a cold clamp closes around my chest, choking my breath out as I'm filled with remorse and grief. Talking about my failed attempt at college is still hard for me, even after all this time. You'd think that more than two years would be long enough to leave even the worst of times behind and be able to speak about it without having the pain return with such vicious force. I've pushed the memory as far away as possible, but every time it comes up, I'm overwhelmed with the same pain that filled me back then.
"I... didn't graduate," I say.
"Oh? Why is that?"
I lower my eyes to the food in front of me, shoveling some scrambled eggs into my mouth instead of giving him a reply right away. He continues eating, too, but his eyes are on me, heavily weighing on my consciousness.
"I had to quit," I simply say, shielding the truth from him.
"I kind of figured that," he says, not sounding sa
tisfied. "But why did you have to quit?"
I look up at him, meeting his eyes with what I hope he perceives as determined strength.
"Someone needed my help," I say. "It was more important to me than college, and I had to be there for her."
"Her?" he inquires.
"My mother," I reply. "She... got sick, very sick. I wanted to be with her and I couldn't do that while I was living across the country."
"That's very good of you," he states in a matter of fact tone. "Is she doing better now?"
I swallow, fighting back tears. My mother died more than two years ago. She died from cancer, mainly because it was diagnosed way too late. We had no health insurance at the time, and living on the brink of poverty didn't exactly help matters. For my entire life, my mother had scrimped and saved up what little she had so I could go to college, even though she knew the only way I’d still be able to afford it was if I received a scholarship. I did, and I went, but I forfeited everything when I decided to drop out of college to help her with her battle.
There was nothing I could do for her, no matter how much I worked, prayed, hoped, cared. The best I could do was lie to her. I lied about dropping out of school, I lied about the debt that was piling up as we fought our way through her illness and she became too sick to handle anything. I let her believe that I would be okay, and that she wouldn't have to worry about me.
I wanted her to die in peace.
"No," I say eventually, my gaze darkening. "No, she didn't get better."
He sighs, grasping the meaning of my words. I almost flinch away when his hand reaches over, closing around mine.
"I'm sorry," he says in a low voice, heavy with empathy. "I'm really sorry to hear that, doll."
"It's okay," I say, lying. "It's been a while. I'm doing okay."
Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and he casts me an apprehensive look, as if he was trying to see the lie in my eyes.
"I'm sure you will be," he concludes. "My doll is a warrior."
His words are so intimate and honest, as if we've known each other for years. After all he's done to me, it strikes me with a strange sense of pride that he sees me as a warrior. It's encouraging either way.
"Maybe I am," I whisper, smiling at him.
Chapter 26
Ryan
I'm an idiot. Sure, every time I have a girl in here, I talk to her. Even with the state I'm in, I can't fuck and play twenty-four hours nonstop, and I don't want to. I need breaks as much as they do, and it’s way more fun to fuck a person than a limp fuck toy with no personality.
But why did I have to go there with her? Why did I have to ask her questions about her past, her life? We could talk about the things we did together, about how it felt to be spanked and fucked again after dinner, how she liked that toy in her ass, how she felt about being tied to the bed frame again when I bound the leather cuffs around her wrists. She's still wearing them, just like the collar.
After dinner, I tied her to the St. Andrews Cross, finally giving her tits the attention they deserve by squeezing clamps around them while I played with her sore clit. I forced two mind-shattering orgasms out of her like that, just enjoying the sight of her floating on a high of aggressive bliss. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and when I freed her from the cross, she was too weak to walk by herself.
I carried her over to the bed and then I fucked her, rough and hard. I fucked her with vicious need, taking everything I could from her as she groaned in sensual agony, unsure whether it was pain or pleasure that took the lead.
I know I was rough with her, I always am. But Laura, my doll, really took it out of me. I've never fallen asleep next to one of my girls. Never. I've never woken up next to any of them. This, again, was a first for me.
And it scares the hell out of me.
But, of course, I could only think of making matters worse by having that unnecessarily intimate conversation with her this morning.
As soon as we were done eating, I gave her a few minutes to freshen up. However, when she walked over to the bathroom to take a shower, I couldn't let her go in alone. She squealed with surprise and excitement when I grabbed her wet body and fucked her mercilessly under the shower, pressing her up against the tiles as the hot water streamed over both our bodies.
She's tight, swollen, and sore from all the rough handling. I might have to resort to another option for our last round.
Time is running out, the end of our date approaching with dreadful certainty. My doll is standing in the middle of the room, her hand at her back, standing still but breathing heavily, as I secure her beautiful body in a complicated rope pattern.
"I don't think I'll be able to work for the next few days," she whispers, sounding pleasantly upbeat. "You're destroying me, master."
Her words flatter me just as much as they harden my yearning cock.
"You won't have to," I tell her. "You won't ever have to work that job again, unless you want to."
"Oh, that's right," she says. Her voice is laced with sadness at the reminder.
"I was going to quit anyway," she adds. "Soon."
"To do what instead?" I ask, while fastening another knot along her back, and then bringing the rope back around to the front. I deliberately caress her hard, pointed nipples as I pass the rope through between them, drawing a soft breathless moan from her lips.
"Move," she breathes. "I'm moving away from the city soon."
My chest tightens, leaving an unwelcome bite in my heart. She's leaving town? Soon?
I shouldn't care. It was clear from the beginning that I would only see her once, for one night. Why does it matter if she's living close by when I won't see her anyway?
But somehow, it does.
"Moving, huh?" I say, trying to appear unfazed by her announcement. "To where?"
"Back to California," she replies. "With my friend. We want to start a new life, spend more time in the sun."
California. She's not only leaving the city, she's leaving the state, this coast, and moving all the way across the country.
"New England isn't exactly known for its sunny weather," I comment, finishing my handiwork at her back. I pull at the rope, causing her to jerk back before she catches herself. She sighs as the rope cuts into her flesh.
I remain standing behind her, my gaze traveling along the backside of her body, taking in the sight of her bruised skin and the hemp rope cutting into her flesh. There's so much more I want to do to her - but so little time.
"Why California, though?" I ask. "That's a pretty significant move."
"It's where I went to school," she says. "I liked it there."
"I see."
I place my hands on her shoulders, taking a deep breath as I try to calm the choking pain suffocating my chest.
It doesn't make a difference. I'm not going to see her again, I'm not going to fuck her again, I won't engage with her in any way after this is done. That was never the plan.
But I know that my thoughts have been drifting during the night with her. Ideas crawled into my head. Ideas so dumb and dangerous that I should be happy about not being able to follow through with any of them.
What if I didn't fuck her, but met her once in a while, as one would meet a friend? What if I learned to calm the overwhelming beast inside me and not let those cravings destroy me again without cutting her out of my life?
What stupid thoughts.
I need to remember who I am. I am not fucking boyfriend material. I don't sit around like a dumb idiot, sharing fucking love poems while having an innocent cup of coffee and holding hands. The idea is fucking ridiculous.
I should be glad that she's moving away. This will take matters out of my hand. It'll make it easier to go cold turkey once I'm done with her.
"On your knees," I whisper in her ear from behind, applying a gentle push on her shoulders. We still have a few hours together, and I should concentrate on that instead of dwelling on these stupid fantasies like a fucking sissy.
She follows my
command, sitting down on her heels with her chest pushed out and her hands tied at the back. Her green eyes find their way up to mine when I position myself in front of her, my cock throbbing with anticipation as I look down at her.
"Let's make this count, doll."
~ One year later ~
Chapter 27
Ryan
"Mr. Hawkins, are you with us?"
It's not Lemon's voice that interrupts my daydreaming, but he's the one who nudges me in the side to redirect my mind back to reality. I force my eyes back into the room, meeting some of the many eyes that are glued on me. We're sitting around a giant round table, about a dozen men in suits and one woman, the only one wearing anything other than black or gray, sporting a red blazer instead. Her stare is the most intense, her gaze unforgiving and the folded hands in front of her a clear signal of her attempt at portraying dominance. I'm not surprised. She's no one’s daughter, lover, or wife, but just a woman who fought her way up the corporate ladder in a world that doesn’t welcome her. I've been in this environment long enough to understand her struggle more than she might realize. If she made it to this table that means she must really have it in her, and even though she’s only a subordinate, I have more respect for her than the two young CEOs of the company we’re about to acquire.
But right now, I wish I could just tell her and everyone else in the room to fuck off.
I've been in a bad mood all day, and this fucking meeting is just making it worse. I told Lemon that he shouldn't expect too much out of me today, but of course, that hint went ignored. I shouldn't be surprised. We're about to acquire another company, the biggest acquisition this corporation has ever been involved in. Of course, they need me to be involved in this, to take the lead, to tell them what to fucking do. Men like me can't afford to not be "in the mood" for this shit.
I'm reminded of that harsh truth as I scan the impatient looks being cast at me during this redundant meeting.