by Addison Cain
“I doubt our customers feel the same way.”
“Actually, I’ve received a flurry of emails asking me to punish her in various ways for her disobedience. They are ecstatically waiting for the moment I take her ass.” Plunging the spatula beneath the chicken, Anthony lifted it and transferred it to a plate, immediately draping it in foil that crinkled loudly in the silence of the house.
“Why have you waited for that? You could have—”
“It’s her last virginity, Marcus. Rushing it would only remove an opportunity to break her at the right moment.” Anthony turned off the stove and oven, waiting for his dinner to be ready to eat. “When I claim it she will have nothing left. Nothing hidden from me, or any of our customers. It will lay her bare, and force her to recognize her situation. Wasting an opportunity like that is foolish.”
“I could break her without fucking her ass.”
He almost laughed at his brother’s bravado, but he knew laughing would push him too far… so he held it back. Not exactly a challenge since his laughter was supposedly never right, even when he was sincerely entertained by Marcus’ ridiculous bluster.
There were other ways to leverage the particular proclivities that his only sibling possessed. Perhaps the girl would respond to him, but Anthony had watched her maintain her stubbornness through agony and he held no concerns that a series of forced orgasms would cripple her defenses.
“You think you can break her? Get her to call you Master?” He dangled the temptation before his brother’s ego, and smiled as Marcus took the bait.
“Of course! That’s what I’ve been telling you—”
“Then we will see when you arrive. Let’s make a wager of it.”
“Fuck off,” Marcus growled. “I don’t want—”
“If you don’t think you can make her submit, then you may as well stay up there and monitor your house.” Anthony glanced at the time on the microwave, calculating how long the chicken had been resting, and then he moved to the pantry to pluck another can of soup from the shelf.
Tomato. How fitting. He was having tomatoes this evening as well.
“What kind of wager?” Marcus asked, and he reveled in the moment where the hook caught and his brother became just another one of his toys. Almost thirty years together and the man still hadn’t learned.
“Oh, nothing much…” He poured the tomato soup into a pot, heating it atop the stove, occasionally stirring it as he outlined the details of the bet. Before he was even done, he knew Marcus would accept.
He always did.
His failure would be almost as entertaining as the girl’s desolation if she managed to orgasm. Another crack in her willpower, something new for him to leverage as he spoke with her — it would almost make things easier if Marcus managed to give her pleasure. A new level of torment, a new low for her.
But she would never use the title with him.
It would take so much more pain for the girl to say Master and mean it.
“You’re serious?” Marcus asked, his interest clear.
“Of course. Do you accept the terms?” Anthony poured the soup out of the pot, directly into a wide bowl. On a whim, he went to the pantry and returned with oyster crackers, adding a small handful of them to the tray where her meal cooled. A gift.
“Fine. Yes. I accept, and I’m about to leave. I’ll be there tonight.”
“Alright.” Smiling, Anthony lifted the foil on his chicken and sighed. He’d need to take her down from the ropes, and watch her eat, which would take time. Tucking the tray of stuffed tomatoes and the pan of chicken into the still warm oven, he turned the heat on low. “Where would you like her?”
“The bedroom.”
“Of course,” he acknowledged, expecting nothing less from him.
“Don’t do anything else to her before I get there.” Was that nervousness in Marcus’ tone? Anger? Either one was equally entertaining. He was already second-guessing his decision.
Too late.
“I will take her down from the ropes, feed her, and put her to bed. Then we will see what you can do with her.”
“Good. I’m on my way,” Marcus snapped. The sounds of him moving things on the other end of the line were loud, irritating.
“Then I shall see you soon.” Ending the call, Anthony glanced at the tray of food and decided that a sugar spike would make things all the more entertaining. Pouring juice into a glass, he arranged it and glanced at her twitching form in the ropes again.
The time she’d spent suspended in bondage would leave her sore, but not too damaged. She would be confused by his actions in taking her down without further punishment, even more thrown off by the food and drink. Settling her into the soft bed without fucking her was going to set the girl on edge.
She would be waiting for something violent, something terrible. A fresh torture.
And then Marcus would arrive to use her.
It was perfect.
9
Beth hated the concrete room. Despised it. He called it the punishment room, but that wasn’t it. The shit he was doing to her wasn’t punishment, it was torture. From the first night he’d put her in there, she had known it was a room meant for terrible things, but the cold, the water, the chain, and the fucking shocks were only the beginning.
She had seen the metal fixtures on the walls and ceiling that night, but she’d refused to dwell on them.
Now, she knew first-hand what many of them were for.
The ones in the ceiling let him attach hooks that he could loop rope onto, winding it over her limbs in intricate patterns until she was finally lifted completely off the floor. Held up like an insect in a painful web where bulging knots dug into delicate flesh, where muscles cramped, where the cold sank deep with no opportunity to escape from it. To escape from him.
More a spider than a person.
It was an apt description.
Today was the second time he’d strung her up like that, and today she hadn’t fought him. All he’d had to do was show her the little zapping baton and she had knelt gracelessly on the cold concrete, eyes down.
What are you supposed to call me?
His voice was inside her. Echoing in her thoughts like ghosts wandering an empty house, and she wanted him out. Exorcised. Wanted to be free of him, but just when she would manage to focus on something else — a song, a story, a memory — he would appear. Like he could feel when she was escaping from his influence. He would hurt her, rape her, and then speak to her in that infuriatingly calm tone.
What do you say, slave?
Everything was inverted. How many times had she said ‘thank you’ for the things he’d done to her? How many times had he demanded she finish the gratitude properly? And then how many times had he hurt her again to punish her?
No. It was torture. Not punishment.
This was as much psychological as it was physical. Beth still had enough sense of reality to know that. Even when her world had narrowed to the concrete room, the empty hallway, and the pretty bedroom with all its own horrors… she knew what he was doing. Trying to condition her to follow his ridiculous poster of rules.
She wouldn’t follow them. At least, not all of them.
She was still a person. Still real.
But two things had become clear in her time with him. The bedroom was his version of a reward — a soft bed, sheets, a bathroom. The concrete one was punishment — cold, discomfort, and only a drain when she needed to relieve herself.
But in both places he hurt her.
He had taken her against the concrete floor just as viciously as he’d taken her in the bed on the first night. Had chained her to concrete walls just as effectively as he’d bound her to wooden bedposts.
You will learn to crave this.
Another echo of his voice in her head, and she covered her ears like she could block it out. Twisting in the sheets, she buried her face in the pillow, still waiting for him to return.
This was just a new game for him.
And that meant this room could not be a reward.
It was just a different vista for her torture.
He had cleaned up the room. Put everything back in its place. Replaced the poster with a pristine one. Erased the violence of the morning like it had never existed. She had wanted to destroy it all, but even the broken drawers were somehow back in the cabinet. It was a false sheen of perfection, just like his suits. And just like him… underneath the pretty veneer it was all rotting. Corrupted. Evil.
This is not a reward, she reminded herself. Said it again, and again, and again in her mind so that the softness of the mattress wouldn’t lull her into comfort.
Not like the reminder was necessary, Beth was terrified to sleep. Terrified she might wake up to a new horror, a fresh creation from his devious mind as he tried his best to make her obedient. To make her a thing.
Turning over again, she focused on the pale light spilling from the open bathroom door. He had turned off all of the lights when he had left her on the bed, pulling the sheets over her as if he were tucking her in, but as soon as the door had closed she had walked to it. Tested the handle and found it locked. Always locked. So, she had turned on the bathroom light, angled the door so she could see, and crawled back under the sheets.
The glinting glass from the cameras caught the light, but they had faded into the background of her mind. If she thought too much about them she would worry again about how comfortable she had grown in her nakedness — so she didn’t.
She refused to think about them and the faceless monsters behind them.
Refused to look at the spotless room, at the pristine linens that were free of the reddish stains she’d left on them. Instead, she focused on her wrists. The bruises, the dark spots where she had rubbed the skin raw against rope and leather, the places where she had bled in pinprick dots. Her ankles matched. Her knees and shins were mottled with bruises. Those were things he couldn’t erase. Couldn’t clean up.
How much can you take before you snap?
His voice again. A question he had asked her the day before, just before he’d spread the bar between her legs a little wider, forcing her pussy against the thin beam of wood she straddled. Pelvic bone crushing sensitive flesh as her body weight rested on it, arms bound behind her back, toes aching as she tried to lift herself the tiniest amount. It had hurt, and then hurt worse. There always seemed to be worse.
Pain. Always more pain.
The torment on the wood had been in this room, as had so many other terrible things. Soft bed or not, he planned to give her more of the same. Every single day.
She had no idea how much time had passed since he had taken her. How many days. No clocks, no windows, no daylight, no night. Just lights, on or off. Just the erratic meals, or hollow hunger. Just time spent alone, or time with him.
How much can you take before you snap?
How much can you take?
How much?
She didn’t know. The questions spiraled inside her, edged like sharp knives, piercing her with tiny nicks. Death by a thousand cuts. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take, how many more hours, days… but she wasn’t broken yet. Wouldn’t stop fighting until she couldn’t anymore.
To stop fighting, to give in, that would be the worst thing of all — and she wouldn’t do it.
The bed shifted, her arm tugged out from under the pillow, and Beth groaned as she fought to stay asleep. In sleep there had been an endless peace, like sinking to the bottom of a warm, dark pool. Serene and quiet. But she felt strong fingers press her wrist against something, and then the crackling rip of velcro tore her eyes open.
A dark shape above her, backlit by the light from the bathroom, but when he lifted his head he looked wrong. Shoulders too broad, hair too short.
“You’re awake. Good.”
No. His voice was wrong too. Panic flared to life inside her, finding new fuel as he pressed a knee to the bed to lean forward and wrap a black strip around her thigh. “Stop,” she half-demanded, half-begged the stranger above her.
Because that’s what he was, a stranger. A new threat.
She tried to raise her hands, but found that one was tethered to the thigh closest to him by a matching black strip. Her confusion allowed him to stretch the velcro and attach it to her thigh. “NO!” she shouted, desperate, sitting up to rip at the slick fabric around her other wrist, but he pulled her hand away, grip too strong to fight.
Had he sold her already? Was this it?
“Please, don’t…” she begged as he forced her arm to her thigh, joining it to the wide strap by the attached cuff, leaving her defenseless. No matter how she twisted her hands, she couldn’t break free, couldn’t bend her fingers enough to get a grip on the velcro to pull it open.
The man walked away from her towards the door, and for a moment she thought he might leave, but then the lights came on. Vicious, too bright. She flinched away from them, dropped back on the bed, clenching her eyes tight.
“Beth.” It was the surprising use of her name that made her look at him again. Stunned by the sound of it, because there had been so many degrading names spoken by the other one in the days he’d had her, but never her name. Only once, that first night, in this bed.
“Please…” She didn’t even know why she whispered it, why the word escaped her lips so soft and pathetic — it was ridiculous to think he would help her, he had just tethered her wrists to her thighs — but she still looked up at him with foolish hope.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked. Attractive like the other one, but more warm. More human. There was a subtle smile on his lips, a curve to his mouth that rang true as his eyes roamed over her skin.
She shook her head slowly, hoping to delay whatever was coming next.
“Interesting.” He pulled off his jacket and tossed it onto the chair in the corner. Then his shirt followed, and she held her breath. Carved abs, a sculpted chest, broad shoulders, and strong arms. The flicker of attraction to his body was short-lived, because he stepped forward to brush his fingers over the strap holding her right wrist down. “You have not submitted.”
Her body jolted, fire filling her mind with purpose. “I won’t.”
A chuckle rumbled up from his chest. “You will.”
“No,” she hissed.
“Are you sure?” he asked as he slid his hand under her head, threading his fingers through her hair until he slowly formed a fist. Sparks of pain lit up across her scalp as he used his grip to pull her into a sitting position.
She felt like a doll. Poseable and vacant, arms trapped at her sides. But she had already made up her mind — one monster or another — she wasn’t giving in. “I’m sure,” she answered, prepared for pain, but his fist in her hair only leaned her forward a little further… and then he climbed onto the bed behind her.
His knees rose up on either side as he settled against the headboard, and then he pulled her back against his firm chest. Hot skin on skin. It was the first time she’d felt it here. The other one always kept his clothes on, only unzipping his pants when he wanted to use her, but this one had his bare chest to her back, and… it was strangely comforting.
Which was wrong.
Nothing about this was okay.
“Don’t hurt me,” she mumbled. Almost a question, almost a plea.
“Don’t make me hurt you, Beth. You have so many decisions to make, so many options…” His strong hands brushed up her arms, squeezing occasionally as if he were casually massaging her.
“About what?” she whispered, shuddering as his hands slid to the front of her shoulders, pressing her bac
k to his front.
The man’s lips were against her ear when he answered, the barest hint of scruff on his cheek scratching her skin. “About what happens to you next.”
Fear trickled down her spine, ice-cold despite his body heat — and he was so warm. Even his voice was filled with heat, hunger, as his hands slid lower, tracing the outsides of her breasts before moving to her arms to follow them down. Then, he started the path over.
Squeezing, brushing, tickling when his touch grew too light.
Finally, she swallowed and made herself speak. “What happens next?”
“Up to you.”
“I want to leave.”
He laughed quietly, his chest shaking behind her, the low sound of his voice against her neck. “That is not one of the options.”
Jerking at the sleek, soft cuffs attached to her thighs, she spat, “Then what are my fucking options?”
His fingers tightened painfully on one nipple, twisting hard as the shocking pain of it made her back arch against him, useless cries escaping between clenched teeth. When he finally let go she was panting, fists clenched tight — and then he pressed a kiss to her neck. Brushing her hair out of the way, he did it again, and again. Licking, teasing nips of his teeth at the side of her throat as his thumb rubbed soothing circles over her tortured bud. “Don’t make me hurt you. Be respectful and I can make it so much easier.”
Beth was stiff, tense, trapped against his body, and her muscles locked even further when he wound an arm under hers and slipped his hand between her thighs. “Don’t…” she pleaded, but quickly bit her lip, hoping to avoid more pain.
“Tell me the truth…” His fingers delved lower, parting her lips to seek out her clit, teasing with delicate touches. “Has he ever made you come?”
“No.” Shaking her head, she leaned away when he started to trail kisses from her shoulder up her throat. It was too intimate, too gentle, too much like an actual lover.
Well, except for the cuffs, and the poster of rules hanging directly across from them like a fucking taunt from the other one.