Master Trice’s voice came from afar. She pictured him sitting on the impressive chair that made him look like the king he was, watching as she moved her body in the ways he liked. He showed her more than ten positions, all making her flex her bones in ways she hadn’t done since gym class.
“You will show me your submission by making these poses. I expect you to know them all by tomorrow. Otherwise, you will be punished.”
“Yes, Master Trice.”
She knew it was impossible to remember the fifteen poses he taught her in no more than five minutes. She’d have to spend the night practicing them if she wanted to please him. And she couldn’t practice while she slept next to him. He was setting her up for failure.
“Attention,” he commanded, walking to her. She straightened her spine. Her chin held out. Her eyes stayed down, just as he’d taught her.
“Good, whore. Now, stand.” On wobbly legs, she stood. Her master was ready to play, and she was more than a willing participant.
He gathered her hair in his hand and pulled so hard she was sure she’d have a bald spot. He dragged her to where a piece of wood floated from the ceiling with chains. It looked like a swing with holes.
Master Trice lowered the chain so that the squared swing touched her throat. He unclasped the strap and the piece of wood split in two. He wrapped both pieces around her neck and it turned back into a square. He used a spreader for her ankles and spread her legs far apart.
A yellow rope was used to tie her hands together, resting on her navel in a praying form. He stepped back to admire his handy work. Abigail felt him circle her like a lion does his prey.
“Let’s take a walk down memory lane, shall we?”
It was a rhetorical question she knew not to answer.
Whoosh! She heard the sharp sting of leather by her side. It kissed the light hairs on her arm. When had he gotten a whip?
“Answer me, whore!”
Whoosh!
Her heart sped dangerously up her throat. She was sure Master Trice could see it beating through the thin layer of skin on her neck.
“Yes, Master Trice.”
“Much better,” he spat.
Lazily, he ran thick leather strings over her arm, up her shoulder, and circled her back. The flogger tickled her clammy skin and pert her nipples to attention. The teasing was killing her.
“You walked into my club uninvited. You got the password incorrect. You fantasied about having another man inside you who wasn’t your master. You’re disrespectful. You made me wait and exposed yourself to my staff.”
He recounted every minuscule thing she’d done, even the ones she’d done solely to please him. The more he spoke, the angrier he became. She was sure the veins on his arm were popping out and the grip on his flogger was ready to slash skin.
“Tell me, whore, how many lashes do you think you deserve?”
“As many as you’d like, Master Trice.”
He took a breath, and she knew his eyes closed with contentment. His arousal was thick and strong in his pants. “I’d like fifty. Count!”
Submission wasn’t a synonym for weakness. Men and women who took part in this world weren’t mentally ill. Great strength was needed to allow someone full control of their life. And if society paid attention, they’d find how compliant the world really was.
The first contact the flogger made with her skin felt like Christmas morning to a child. The anxiety of staying up all night, trying to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus as he delivered gifts. And the euphoric moment when the once empty tree magically sprouted with gifts.
Happiness made her eyes swell. She was exultant as she screamed, “One!”
Her master stopped a minute after the first slap as if enjoying seeing the skin change shades. The more Abigail waited for the second whoosh! the more the area burned like a forest fire. She found out the sting wasn’t the ache that pained the most, it was when Master Trice stopped that the tears ran.
The tenth sting felt like a drop of water in a lake, creating ripples of waves that spread throughout her entire body. He was forceful, coarse, and didn’t wait long before inflicting the fifteenth strike.
She screamed as he hit the same area over and over again. He didn’t utter a word through the whole exertion. Her shrieks, his heavy breathing was the only music in the room.
“Twenty!”
He brushed her back and ass like a painter drawing strokes of pinks and reds, precisely though vaguely enough to look effortless.
He whooshed! over her upper back, on either side of her spine, leaving welts on the cheeks of her ass. As he hit the ridges of her hip, the leather strings wrapped around her torso.
Master Trice was, indeed, a cruel man.
He let the strings wrap around her upper inner thigh and raised it just enough, so the strings kissed her clit when he gradually, languidly pulled the flogger back. She tried to close her thighs and grind on the handle, but it was impossible with her restraints.
Every whoosh! brought her closer to the edge. Her clit grew bigger, vibrating against the lips of her pussy. She’d long forgone the screams for pleasurable moans.
Just one more. It was all she needed to come. But it was too late and when the sting was gone, so was her brewing orgasm.
“Fifty.” Her cheek rested on the wooden square. The beads of sweat that had collected on her forehead made Abigail look like she was wearing a pearled crown. She was spent, tired and so aroused, her wetness was sliding down her thighs.
The whip landed on the floor with a loud thud. Her head rose to attention as her lips pulled to a smile and her ass drew back, ready to be assaulted by Master Trice’s cock.
Her legs were jelly, so when he plunged two fingers inside her, she struggled to keep her balance.
“Please.” She didn’t know what she begged for—to flog her some more, to fist her, to make her come, to do all of the above.
“You’re dripping. See how easily my fingers fit inside you,” he said as he shoved another finger into her. “Do you know why that is?”
“Because...” she found it hard to speak when she was this close to falling off the cliff. “Because you own me.”
“Because I own you,” he agreed, pulling his fingers out. She whimpered at the loss of contact. “Too bad you won’t come today, isn’t that right, whore?”
What? No. She began to shake her head. She needed the release. She was right there on the edge of the precipice waiting to fall.
The whips and chains weren’t the torture. A denied orgasm was. And the bastard saved it for last, making her believe after such pain she’d find pleasure. He was going to deny her as long as he saw fit. It didn’t feel like a game anymore. It was a test she couldn’t fail but knew she would.
If Master Trice said she couldn’t come, she couldn’t. Those were the rules. She didn’t know how she’d be able to hold back, but she would try as best she could. That was how she showed him she was his. That was how she showed her submission, not by posing but by obeying his every command, even if it tore her apart.
“Isn’t that right?” he gripped her cheeks. Tears slid down her face at what she knew wasn’t going to come. Literally.
“Yes, Master Trice.”
Abigail looked up if for a mere second. Trice was a beautiful man, but nothing compared to how he looked at that moment. A streak of sweat slid down the side of his neck and rested in the hollow of his throat. She leaned in, wanting to run her tongue over his collarbone, but couldn’t reach it.
His hair was a mess of waves almost as if he’d combed his fingers through it. A short wave rested on his forehead just where his widow’s peak was. She again found the urge to touch him, but it was impossible.
He moved behind her. The chains that held her head slid forward like the tracks of a rollercoaster. She wasn’t standing upright anymore. Her back was curved so Master Trice had better access to her entrance from behind.
She heard him maneuver his belt buckle and zipper. Swallowing all
the oxygen in the room, she willed herself not to come. Yet, she couldn’t hold back her whimper as she felt his hot cock at her entrance.
Trice leaned forward, brushing his length along her labia. He ran his nose up and down her neck. “You better not come. You do not want to test me.”
She wavered but managed to nod.
He teased her in the worse possible way, sliding his firmness along her clit. She felt something hard on the head, like a silver ball. His cock arched around her. He moved in warning. In a see-what-I-have-and-what-I-will-do-with-it warning.
No way. No fucking way would she not come.
He didn’t ease his way into her. He thrust fully inside her with a low groan that elicited a loud yell from her.
Abigail closed her eyes and imagined the scene happening behind her. His large hands gripping her injured hips. His head dipped back as inch by inch he pulled out only to fill her whole again.
She wanted to push back but couldn’t. She wanted to enjoy it but couldn’t. She wanted to come but was denied. All she could do was take whatever Master Trice offered. And what he offered was nothing but unadulterated pain.
He didn’t let her adjust to his girth, pulling out and thrusting back in. Her walls expanded as he pushed further inside her. She moaned loudly when she felt the silver bar on the tip of his penis inside her. In a place no other man had ever reached.
She couldn’t hold it any longer. She began to enjoy it. She started building, higher and higher. Her walls closed around him, milking his own orgasm.
“Don’t fucking come!” he warned. “This…this is how you had me since Saturday. On the brink of coming, but you teased and fucking teased.” He rammed into her.
“Ahh.”
“Beg, whore,” he growled.
“Please.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Try again.”
“Please!” He thrust in and out of her. Repeatedly hitting that spot. “I can’t. Please. I can’t hold it anymore.” She sobbed and screamed.
Master Trice didn’t care, he continued to thrust to the rhythm of her screams. And when he touched her cheek and felt it moist with saline, he came with a guttural groan that resonated throughout her entire body.
And then he stilled.
“No.” She felt empty, frustrated, cheated.
He pulled out of her harshly.
Master Trice pulled his pants up and adjusted his slacks. He came forward and untangled the rope in her hands. They dropped by her sides as if they weighed nothing. Then he removed the shackles on her ankle. Her knees gave out, but the wooden square held her up. He unclasped those last, enjoying her choking sounds.
Abigail fell to the floor like a deflated ball.
He was already at the door when he said, “Once you’re done cleaning up this mess, you will shower. Use the medicine in the bathroom to sterilize your cuts.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It had been an hour since Master Trice fucked and whipped Abigail like the slut she was, yet she hadn’t gone to his room.
Where the fuck was she? She better not had fallen asleep on the floor of his den or in the bathroom. If he found her resting on the living room couch, she was going to sleep on the balcony.
He stroked his forehead with long fingers. Fingers that still smelled like her even after his shower. He needed to calm down, but this woman was testing his patience.
Why did she take so long when she had a bed waiting to be filled? Preston looked at the floor beside his California king bed.
To call it a bed was preposterous, even he’d agree with that. The marble floor was cold and rigid. It was no place for her to sleep, especially with a storm outside. But he daren’t take her to the sub bedroom where she belonged.
As much as he wanted to admit she was no different, she was. She’d taken his pain graciously, accepting every whip with revered rigor.
Did he feel remorse for inflicting such vigorous punishment on a virgin? No. Not at all. She had it coming. Now she knew never to tease him again.
He closed his eyes. He breathed in her scent that despite his scrubs, still lingered on his body.
He couldn’t shake her yells from his mind. They were harmonious. And when he’d finished whipping her and slid inside her, he’d done it with ease. She was so fucking wet. His cock fit perfectly inside her as if her pussy was used as a mold for his cock.
He was proud of her for not coming or using her safeword. He was sure she’d failed the task when he felt her clench around him. He didn’t want to come that fast, but her body made him.
He knew he’d watch the tape over and over again for the upcoming week as he waited to punish her again. It was going to be his new favorite film. The house would be so quiet without her screams. Preston found himself dreading her departure and she hadn’t even left.
Where the fuck was she?
He looked at the clock.
11:30 pm.
Not an hour anymore but ninety minutes. That’s it. His patience had run thin. He pulled down the covers and went in search of her. When he found her, she was going to get punished again.
Maybe that’s why she hid because she hadn’t had enough.
Hiding.
Was that what she was doing all this time? Hiding from him—from her master who owned not just every corner of the house but every inch of her body?
He figured she’d still be in the bathroom but wanted to make sure she’d cleaned up after herself, so he made his way down the dark hall.
Preston unlocked the door and was pleased with what he saw. The room was tidy and looked like their scene never took place. Had his slave done this on purpose? Did she want to make it seem like he’d never fucked her? Never hurt her?
His hands turned into fists, ready to punch something—someone. The insolent whore. She was going to get it now. She had to know this would earn her some beatings. How dare she make it look like he hadn’t just claimed her?
Preston turned on the balls of his bare feet and went straight to the bathroom. He’d been thoughtful enough to bring the temperature of the shower blazing hot to penetrate his slave’s skinned cuts and stop any unwarranted bacteria to grow. Now, he rethought his tactics.
He heard Abigail before he saw her. The soft weeps that escaped her mouth went straight to his dick. With a quiet hand, he pushed open the door and witnessed the cause of her sorrow.
Abigail’s back was to the mirror as she tried to apply the medicated cream on a welt close to her spine. Each time she reached for it, she missed, scratching her fingernails against other slashes.
Jesus, where the fuck was Lauren? This was her job.
For the first time in the fifteen years he’d been a dominant, Preston felt the need to care for a submissive. A rebellious foot crossed the threshold but stilled. Preston ran a hand through his waves.
No.
No.
No.
He wouldn’t do it. She was no different than any of his previous subs.
After all, it was because of Abigail that Lauren wasn’t here. It was her turn to suffer now. Master Trice and Lauren had endured it for far too long. So, he stood in the shadows like the monster he was and watched from a distance.
She wasn’t utterly destroyed, otherwise, she wouldn’t be standing. She could care for her wounds on her own.
Another whimper left her lips. Another droplet of blood slid down her spine to the apples of her ass. He pushed the door a little wider but chastised himself in the process.
If she was going to learn to respect him, he needed to stick to his guns. And his guns advised him to step away and debase her further as the merciless man he was. He backed away and closed the door. If he closed it, he could pretend she wasn’t there. He could pretend she didn’t call for his help. He could pretend seeing her like this didn’t stir the past he’d buried deep inside him.
Preston detoured to his office. He’d use the time to make new designs for Francisco. Walking into the room, he played
his father’s favorite classical record and seeped into work.
Sated by the classic laïkó, Preston sat on his leather tufted stool and pulled out his tracing paper. He rested his arms on the drafting table and adjusted the light so that it shined over the paper as he began drafting plans. He had an array of tools and being tech-savvy, he knew of the newest architectural devices out there. But he was old school and enjoyed the feel of paper and led covering his fingers. Once he finished a design, he’d then transfer it to the computer. He enjoyed seeing the changes from print to virtual to cardboard models and real-life buildings.
It wasn’t that he now had an audience that sped his heartbeat but who was in the audience that made his hands tremble. He continued sketching, not giving the intruder any indication of his awareness of her presence. But then his trembling hand became defiant, moving this way and that way, and the plan turned into a woman with big thunderous eyes.
“What is it, whore?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, I did not mean to interrupt. I was looking for your bedroom.”
His eyes went to New York. At night, it looked more like a Christmas tree than a metropolitan, housing homes and schools for its community. “It’s been two and a half hours. What took you so long?”
She scoffed as if saying, really?
“I’m sorry, Master Trice. I found it hard to care for my wounds on my own, seeing as you intentionally hit the parts of my body I can’t see nor reach,” her voice dripped with sass. He not only found it rude but amusing, borderline cute.
Cute? Had he whipped her, or had she whipped him?
To an outsider, the meticulous way Preston placed the pencil down was nonchalant. The way he reached for the lamp and switched it off was of a tired man who was ready to call it a night.
But to Abigail, it was a tally marking five.
He flew from his chair like an eagle. Abigail’s eyes widen more than usual. Real fear sparked in them. She backed against the wall, inhaling a sharp breath when her broken skin hit the plywood.
Her body glittered against the lights of the city, making it seem as if she was covered in pearls.
Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1) Page 7