by Linnea May
The only indicator of passed time is my stomach. I'm starving and the rumbling is a clear sign of that. It doesn't escape his ears, either.
"Hungry, are we?" he asks, casting me a smile that I would call loving if I didn't know any better.
"A little," I admit.
"A little?" he repeats. "That's bullshit. I'm starving, and I'm pretty sure so are you. What do you want to eat?"
I look at him with bewilderment.
"I told you, my doll can have anything she wants," he says. "I have so many decisions to make, I want you to make this one."
"Um," I stutter, dumbfounded.
I clear my throat, suddenly feeling awkwardly shy next to him. After all we've done together, why is this so hard for me?
"I don't know," I add. "I mean... what do you have?"
"Everything," he repeats.
"Everything? That's not possible-"
"I can get you anything, doll," he insists. "But I need to know what you want."
He lifts his hand and gently caresses along my cheek, sending sweet little shivers of excitement through me. Even after all of this, his touch feels electric, stirring me more than it should.
"However, my patience is limited," he says, his voice laced with familiar warning. "If you don't tell me what you want, I'll be eating alone."
"What do you want?" I ask, hoping he‘ll take the decision out of my hands.
But he just shakes his head. "No, doll. That's not how it works."
Damn. I should have known this would be too easy. But what do you tell a rich person like him when it comes to food? With his status, I'm sure he's used to fancy hors d'oeuvres, lobster, tiny Kobe steaks, or whatever else rich people like him eat. I'm pretty sure I can't enthrall him with my favorite dishes, macaroni and cheese and pizza. I'm so embarrassed, and my post-coital brain can’t come up with anything a little more fancy. Oysters? He loves sushi, so he might be into that, but I could gag at the thought of it.
"Time is running out, doll," he whispers. "And I'm starving. Let me know what we're eating."
"I-I-I'm really okay with anything you-"
"This is an order, doll!" he interrupts me. "Do you want to displease me? You know how I feel about disobedience."
"Pizza!" I blurt out, closing my eyes in shame. "I'd really love to have some pizza."
His reaction unsettles me. He places another kiss on my lips and squeezes me in his arm, so loving and affectionate that it instantly calms my worries.
"Perfect," he says, his voice laced with warmth. "I'd love that, too, doll."
Chapter 24
Ryan
There's no proper dining table in the play room. I usually find other ways of feeding my girl, depending on how well she has behaved. Some of them get fed like a pet, forced to eat out of a bowl I place in front of them, or only allowed to take food from my hands. Others behaved well enough that I allowed them to sit on the floor next to me and the food was served on a Japanese floor table that's so low to the ground that one must sit on the floor to eat.
My doll deserved the latter because she has been a very good girl.
But this is the first time I find myself sharing a giant delivery pizza with a girl. The last time I did this with any girl is so far in the past, I can hardly remember it. And I’m not meant to remember it, because it's part of a past that I try very hard to forget.
I can't take my eyes off of her, even though she's stuffing her face with pizza and casting aside any effort to impress me. She was so shy and tense just a few minutes ago that I feared she wouldn't be able to eat, but as soon as the pizza arrived, she seemed to forget her reserved behavior and started to dig in as if she hadn't eaten in days.
It's an alluring sight to me. More than I'm comfortable with.
"This is so good!" she exclaims. She‘s still chewing but already is holding up another slice to her face. I allowed her to wear a light silk robe for the time being, even though I hate that it hides her enticing body from my view. The robe hangs loosely around her narrow frame, occasionally moving to the side, revealing her beautiful breasts. I regret not having played with them more earlier. They are meant to be tied and tortured with nipple clamps. I can't wait to see her react to that. I'm sure she'll give me a reason to use them on her soon enough.
"I'm glad you're enjoying it, doll," I say. "You earned it."
She smiles at me. "I'm sure you're used to fancier dishes."
"What makes you think that?"
She awkwardly shifts on her seat, indicating that speaking the truth makes her uncomfortable.
"I mean with... who you are," she brings forth. "Don't people like you prefer to dine at five star restaurants?"
I let out a chuckle, shaking my head.
"Not at all," I say. "In my opinion, very few things beat a good pizza."
"You mean except for sushi?" she asks, winking at me.
"Sushi is a different kind of food. It doesn't serve the same purpose as pizza."
She nods and takes another bite from the slice in her hands. I love seeing her like this, her hair ruffled, make-up still intact but slightly smeared from our play, and her face glowing like only the face of a freshly fucked and satisfied girl glows.
She catches me staring at her, and I'm surprised to find myself embarrassed by that, quickly averting my eyes and reaching for another slice of pizza.
"Is this how it usually goes?" she asks. "I mean... the process when you have a girl here?"
I can sense pain in her voice. She doesn't like to be one of many, even though she clearly isn't. Everything about her is too special to file her under just another annual playdate, even though I'm paying her just like the others.
"What do you mean?" I ask to clarify, reluctant to give any answers that might complicate things.
"You know," she says. "The blindfold, making me walk around like that, and... the other stuff."
It's so charming how she can't get herself to speak openly about these things. I've never been too fond of filthy-mouthed girls, but have had to endure quite a few disappointments in that regard. Whores aren't exactly classy conversationalists. I love how innocent she is. She doesn't share the aversions I've seen with other girls, while still being anything but naive or stupid. A dangerous mix.
"Every time is different," I reply. "Every person is different."
"Mmhmm," she replies, sounding unconvinced. "Some are better than others, I'm sure."
She lowers her eyes, avoiding eye contact with me. Is she fishing for compliments? Or does comparing herself to the whores before her make her feel inferior?
"I like change," I say, circumventing the sensitive subject. "I get bored easily."
The green of her eyes pierces through me when she suddenly looks up to meet my gaze.
"Is that why it has to be a different girl each time?"
I simply nod.
"But why only once a year?" she presses. "If it's a different girl each time, why not do it more often? Isn’t that enough diversity to keep you satisfied?"
I huff. "You'd think so."
She straightens up, her eyes wide with curiosity. If she was a little kitten, I bet I could see her ears pointing up with attention.
"But it's not?" she probes. "Or did you lie when you said you only do this once a year?"
"Why would I lie to you?" I frown.
She shrugs. "To make me feel special?"
Her words anger me, not because of what she's saying, but because of what it does to me. I hate that she doesn't realize how special she is to me, no matter the circumstances. At the same time, I'm aware that I can't tell her either. She shouldn't know because it would make things a lot harder than they already are. I will have to let go of her tomorrow evening, and just thinking about it makes my stomach turn.
"Only weak people resort to lying if they want to make an impression on others," I claim.
"So you really are doing this only one time a year?" she clarifies. "You only have sex once a year?"
I hu
ff.
"Look at you talking, Miss never-had-sex-before," I say. "Why is it so hard to believe?"
A faint blush travels across her cheeks.
"Yeah, but that's different," she says.
"How so?"
She clears her throat, reluctant to reply.
"Because it's... you," she eventually dares to whisper. "And you're a man and all..."
"What a presumptuous thing to say, doll," I say, narrowing my eyes.
She looks alarmed, ready to spit out an apology, but I stop her before she does.
"Don't worry, you're not getting punished," I tell her, lifting my hand in a reassuring manner. "Just trust me when I say that I want it this way. I need it to be this way."
"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 satisfied. "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.