Twenty-One

by D. Victoria BonAnno

  Finally, she spotted something just inside of the cage, a small vial of frosted blue glass. Twenty-One scooted over to the cage door. It was closed. Her hands twitched behind her back. The tug of leather reminded her that she was bound.

  “What are you waiting for?” asked Faith, giving the chains another tug. Twenty-One’s nipples stung, such a cruel sensation for such a small movement. “Open the latch.”

  Twenty-One leaned forward. The latch on the cage needed to be flipped up and slid over, like that of a dog’s cage. She mentally thanked her Mistresses for leaving the padlock off the door and took the latch between her teeth. It took a little more force than she would have guessed, but after a moment, she was able to lift the latch. A sudden self-consciousness turned her skin pink. She must have looked ridiculous, opening a cage door with her mouth.

  “Excellent!” said Charity, applauding from the bed. “Good girl!”

  Twenty-One’s heart swelled. She pulled the cage door open, the tug of the chain little more than an inconvenience, and retrieved the little glass vial with her lips. She nearly sprinted over to her Mistress, who extended her hand to receive the gift.

  “I was hoping she’d find that,” Faith purred, coming up beside Twenty-One and trailing her fingers idly down her spine. “It’s my favourite.”

  Charity nodded. She opened the vial and tipped some of its contents into her hand, a slick, glistening oil. She looked up at Twenty-One, who glanced down immediately, reproaching herself for the accidental eye contact. But this only solicited a laugh from her Mistress.

  “Spread your legs, slave,” she said. “And come closer.”

  Twenty-One swallowed hard, but obeyed. Charity poured more oil into her hand, coating her fingers, and gently spread the folds of Twenty-One’s sex. The slave sucked in a breath. The oil was warm on contact, and grew warmer immediately. Charity circled her apex, coating it in oil. It felt as though her Mistress’s fingers were embers, growing hot and hotter, until her sex became sweet, aching fire. It tore a moan from Twenty-One’s throat, threw her head back. Hot, tingling, it was as if her sex had swelled, longing for her Mistress’s fingers, for any contact at all.

  Charity withdrew. “Go.”

  Twenty-One forced herself to move. The heat in her sex did not relent, and now the smallest movements of the chain held a new delicious torment. Tears stung her eyes. She walked in a circle, unable to focus enough to choose a direction. She could think of nothing but the seething sensations in her breasts and her sex. She looked at Faith, at the curve of her mouth. She wanted to open those lips with her tongue, crush her breasts against the tight black blouse, feel the pleats of Faith’s skirt against her thighs. Faith’s smile told her that her Mistress knew exactly what was on her slave’s mind. She jerked the chain and Twenty-One cried out, pain and pleasure merging for a terrible moment.

  “Eyes down,” said Faith, laughing. “And focus.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” Twenty-One was unable to bring her voice above a murmur.

  She trotted over to the dresser. Nothing on top of it. She felt her own wetness mixed with the oil begin to run down her inner thigh. She barreled ahead, increasing her pace, crossing the room and passing the stone still Demetrius to get to the nightstand. Yes, the drawer was ajar. She went to her knees and wrenched the drawer open with her lips without a moment’s hesitation. She uttered small frustrated sounds when she discovered that it was not a rose in the drawer, but a small golden ball, only a few inches in diameter. She dipped her head into the drawer and struggled to get the ball between her lips, not caring about how silly she may have looked as she carried the ball in her mouth over to her Mistress. She did not even care to guess what the ball meant for her. She thought only of the maddening heat on the most delicate part of her body, of any release at any cost.

  “Oh, Charity, I think she’s ready for our little game to be over,” Faith giggled as Twenty-One dropped the ball into Charity’s palm.

  Charity ordered the slave’s legs apart. “Too bad she hasn’t found the rose yet.”

  Twenty-One came to herself at the touch of Charity’s hand on her sex. She balanced the ball on her fingertips, brushing it against the wetness between Twenty-One’s legs.

  “Oh, Mistress,” Twenty-One whispered. “Please, I can’t-“

  “Quiet,” Charity ordered. The golden ball nudged Twenty-One’s opening, colder than it had felt in her mouth. “Let me in, slave. And you may not come.”

  Tears spilled over Twenty-One’s cheeks. She had come far in her training, able to come on command even when her sex was not touched. She had not come without permission since the one time for which she had been punished. She would not fail when she had come so far. She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. The ball slid into her slowly, and the sensation of her sex receiving it, tightening around it, made her gasp. She felt pressure build with the feeling of the ball inside of her, cold and hard and strange, a pressure which promised forbidden release. She sobbed, digging her nails into her palms behind her back. She would not come without permission. Not again. Never again.

  I will obey.

  “Good girl,” Charity whispered. “Excellent control. Now, find me the rose. You were there already, you just missed it.”

  Twenty-One clenched her jaw, “You just missed it.” She looked at the dresser. Nothing had been on top of it, but the golden ball had been in the nightstand drawer. She had to find a way into the dresser without her hands.

  Moving had become agony. The oil continued to torment her. She felt the ball inside of her with every step. It seemed so much bigger than she knew it was, solid and heavy. She feared it would drop out of her if she took a wrong step, and she would undoubtedly be punished for that. It was strange to have an inanimate thing within her, unyielding and unresponsive to her sex enveloping it. Faith had tightened the slack on the chain; even Twenty-One’s breath caused the clamps to pull.

  She stepped in front of the dresser. The drawers were lacquered black, smooth and shining. It would be difficult to grip with her teeth, but she had no choice. Twenty-One bent at the waist, squeezing her legs together to keep the ball from slipping, and struggled with the round knobs. She barely found a grip with her teeth. Faith tugged impatiently at the chains, sending small shockwaves of pleasure from Twenty-One’s nipples to her groin. The flogger came when she still couldn’t get a grip, and Twenty-One squealed against the heavy blows, but not from pain.

  “Use your teeth,” said Faith. “Bite harder.”

  Twenty-One whimpered and big the dresser knob, gnawing at it with her molars. She almost laughed in relief when the drawer slid open. A long-stemmed rose, blushing pink and fully bloomed, sat in the drawer.

  “Lucky girl,” laughed Charity. “I don’t think she’d be able to handle opening another drawer.”

  Twenty-One lapped at the rose with her tongue, catching it on a thorn before trapping the stem between her teeth. It didn’t matter. Her Mistresses’ laughter didn’t wound her. She didn’t care how ridiculous she looked as she scampered over to Charity, lay the rose in her lap, and knelt on the floor with her legs clenched to keep the ball within her. She was beyond shame, beyond tears. She was one relentless, pulsing need for touch.

  The twins descended on her, cooing their praises through whispers. Their sweet mouths left searing kisses on Twenty-One’s skin, their hands roamed her hair, her neck, her back. The sensation of the clamps releasing her nipples nearly pushed her over the edge. She opened her mouth to Charity, tasted her, gently sucked her tongue. She leaned into Faith’s teeth as they grazed her neck, leaned into the endless caresses. Such soft, sweet ecstasy.

  “Oh,” Twenty-One whispered, her mouth forming words of its own volition. “Oh, yes, please, yes, I love you. I love you.”

  “Enough.”

  The world stopped. Faith and Charity melted away. Twenty-One moaned, longing to retrieve their embrace, but she knew they would not spite him. They would not disobey. They were slaves themselves to that
voice.

  She felt the heavy thud of Demetrius’ boots against the floor, saw the twins rise out of the corner of her eye. Her limbs trembled. Her skin had begged to be touched, and now that she was abandoned again, it was unbearable. The tears returned, and her sex felt impossibly hot, impossibly wet. She would go mad if she was given no release. She prayed that that was not her Master’s will.

  Demetrius set his boot on the back of her neck. Twenty-One sank down immediately, her forehead against the floor. He kept his foot on her neck, pressing just hard enough to dig her forehead into the hardwood. Twenty-One remained as still as possible, her pulse in her ears. Silence hung in the air, holding a familiar, dangerous charge. Finally Faith spoke, her voice soft and uncertain.

  “You’ve trained her well.”

  “She’s as obedient as any of the others,” Charity dared to add. “Don’t you think?”

  Twenty-One kept her breath as quiet as possible.

  “Oh, yes,” Demetrius replied, his voice louder than Twenty-One had expected. “She played this game very well, didn’t she, our eager little slave.”

  Twenty-One swallowed hard, her throat tight, skin prickling with dread. She had not heard that tone in his voice in a very long time; that tone that didn’t match his words. She had played the game, she had succeeded, or so she’d thought. Had she done something wrong?

  “Go see that the attendants have their charges in bed,” he said to the twins. “We have a big day tomorrow, after all.”

  Faith and Charity left without a word. The door clicked shut, and Demetrius fell into silence once more. Twenty-One felt his eyes on her, felt them digging into her as his boot dug into her neck. She remained still, her breath shallow. Her tormented sex throbbed in time with her heartbeat, stirring desire even as fear crept along her spine.

  Demetrius lifted his boot and stepped back.

  “On your knees,” he ordered.

  Twenty-One lifted herself up. The twins had not removed her bindings before they had gone, leaving her arms tight behind her back, her hands resting against her buttocks. She straightened her spine in the best posture she could muster, spreading her knees apart in typical form. The golden ball, still inside of her, sank toward her opening. She snapped her legs closed immediately.

  Demetrius’ low chuckle cut through the quiet like a razor through silk.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “The twins do enjoy their little torments, don’t they?” He took a step toward her and ran a finger across the back of her shoulders. “Do you like the feeling of that ball inside of you, Twenty-One?”

  Twenty-One swallowed again. “Only if it pleases you, Master.” she whispered.

  Demetrius’ languid fingers caressed her neck. “Oh, it pleases me, ma chère, yes, it certainly does.”

  He crouched down behind her, his knees on either side of her waist. The heat of his bare chest felt almost solid on Twenty-One’s back. She fought the urge to lean back into him. To touch her Master without permission…but Demetrius’ arm roped across her waist, and he cupped her sex, and all thought dissolved into the same terrible need she had been tortured with from the moment Charity had coated her with oil.

  “Master…” she whispered.

  “Sh, sh, sh,” he chided. “Give me the ball, chérie. Open your legs.”

  Twenty-One’s cheeks flushed. Holding the ball inside of her had been a natural inclination, almost involuntary. She had to focus to release the muscles she was not even certain she could control. The ball dropped slowly. She breathed deeply to relax her opening enough to allow it to pass into Demetrius’ hand.

  “Such a good girl,” Demetrius’ voice held a low hiss that did not feel like praise.

  He brushed the ball across Twenty-One’s collarbone. It was warm and wet, leaving a streak of heat from the oil on her skin. She drank in his touch, the ball and his free hand stroking up and down her arm, but her Master’s tone gave her pause. She did not understand, but she would not question. Demetrius’ leather mask brushed her left ear and she heard the rush of his breath inside of it. She shuddered, her sex throbbing.

  “Such a good girl,” he hissed again, dragging the ball back and forth along her clavicle and down over the tops of her breasts. “You behaved so well for the twins, didn’t you? The way you scrambled to find those little toys for them, prancing for Faith’s flogger like a prized pony. And you were so eager to please your Mistresses, weren’t you? Oh, yes, you drank up their attention, didn’t you?”

  His words had descended into a rumbling growl, his left hand squeezing her arm past the point of pleasure, harder still. His fingers dug through flesh to bone. Twenty-One yelped and Demetrius burst into movement. He heaved the golden ball across the room. It collided with the dresser with a deafening crack and came racing back toward them on the floor. Demetrius seized Twenty-One by her hair and wrenched her up from her knees. She screamed for him, terror turning her legs to liquid. Demetrius hurled her onto the bed and pinned her with his hand on her hair. He unlaced her arm bindings with his free hand with feverish dexterity. Twenty-One panted against the sheets, trapped between fear and need. She did not understand what her Master was thinking, whether or not he was pleased or infuriated with her. Questions bloomed and died on her tongue. Had she played the game correctly? What had she done wrong?

  But the bindings were gone and he was hard against her buttocks. His hand came and went from her sex before she had time to enjoy it, coating himself in her oiled wetness. He spread her cheeks and pressed against her anus, an opening yet untouched. Fear seized her, but it did not matter. He was inside of her, in an entirely new way, filling her with an alien pressure. She screamed into the pillow, pain overtaking her senses as he forced his way deeper inside, but the pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Thought gave way to his slow, brutal rhythm, and the strange and frightening pressure became sensuous, warm, sweet waves of heat cresting and breaking with the rocking of his hips. She ached for him to enter her tormented sex, and she would have begged had she not buried her face in the bed sheets. Demetrius moaned, striking a chord in her bones, and eh slid the length of him in and out of her slowly and deliberately. Twenty-One fought to stop her hips from rocking to meet his thrusts, fought to keep herself still. She was not allowed to move. Her mercurial Master teetered on the edge of rage, she felt it; the coiled restraint in his grip and in his thrusts. She did not know why he was angry, but she would not question, and she would do her best not to tip the scale. But soon even her desire to obey ebbed, weathering away with each slow thrust. Demetrius’ fingers appeared between her legs, circling the hard ember of her apex, and all the torment of her game with the twins culminated in that single little nodule.

  “Oh, God,” Twenty-One breathed into the sheets.

  “What is your purpose, slave?” Demetrius’ voice was rough and steady. He pulled himself out of her completely, waiting.

  “To serve my Master,” Twenty-One answered, pleading.

  Demetrius dipped low, pressing his body into her, bringing his face to hers. “And who is your Master?”

  Twenty-One dared to look at him. He met her gaze, close enough to kiss, his inky black hair streaked over his white skin.

  “Demetrius,” She barely mouthed the word.

  He leaned harder into her back.

  “Who is your Master?” he repeated.

  Twenty-One tumbled into the icy grey storm in his eyes, and somehow she knew she would never find her way out again.

  “Demetrius,” she breathed.

  Demetrius thrust into her with a final stroke of her apex, hitting her very core, and the world became light and ecstasy.

  Chapter 29

  November 28, 2011

  Dublin was surprisingly green for a city so close to Columbus. Gatz had expected a much more urban landscape. She and Billman had passed patches of woods and even a nature preserve along the Scioto River while they made their way to Old Dublin, where Ms. Renata Ramirez resided. Billman insisted on driving despite his insatia
ble need to look at every single building, tree, and parking structure they happened to pass. Luckily, he braked like a Hollywood stuntman, or they would have plowed into the car in front of them at every stoplight from Beachwood to Columbus. He also chain smoked, sucking down each cigarette like a teenager about to be caught by his parents. Gatz spent most of the two and a half hour drive with her nose pressed to her cracked window, sucking in the clean oxygen she could glean in this ashtray on wheels.

  Her nerves were raw at this point, having spent two months on what had started out as a simple missing persons case. What a clusterfuck it had become, with druggie moles and otherwise non-credible witnesses, a tight-lipped subculture leaking unsubstantiated rumours about human trafficking, and little evidence that a crime had even occurred in the disappearance of Chloe Leroux. Had her father not hired a private eye who had stumbled across evidence of bribery between the Wood County Police Department and Demetrius Heart, Gatz and Billman wouldn’t even be here. But the bug they had given Oryx bouncer Raphael “Rafe” Raynal had proven fruitful. Billman was eager to run the names of the individuals Rafe had seen that night at Heart’s home and coax one of them into questioning. Gatz, however, had had a gut feeling about the story Mariane McCandal had told her about the assault on Heart and his alleged assailant. She had run the name Amanda Ramirez and found a missing person’s report for both her and her brother, Anthony Ramirez, filed only months apart in 2008. A brief but bitter phone conversation with their mother was all it took to convince Billman to drive down with Gatz for an interview. This could be the door to the warrant they needed to search Heart’s home.

  Renata Ramirez lived in a gated community in the affluent area of Old Dublin. The homes were large and identical. Gatz supposed the residents did not have to lift a finger to keep their manicured lawns immaculate.

  Ms. Ramirez answered the door well-dressed and far too drunk for 3:30 in the afternoon, though Gatz could only tell by her breath. She smiled like a suburban socialite should, offering the detectives seats and refreshments in her designer living room. Gatz couldn’t help but notice the harsh lines around her tired eyes. She had the air of a woman trapped under the weight of tragedy. But maybe Gatz just interpreted her that way because she knew of the woman’s missing children.