Page 170 of The Enslaved Duet
It was my Master, the weight of his gaze on my body like hands at my throat and on my hips, spurring me to submit harder, please him better.
It wasn’t about The Trials, about proving to anyone else that he was the best Master and I the best slave. I still didn’t know exactly what he wanted from me outside this reunion of flesh, but I was too relieved by his dismissal of Ashcroft, too overwhelmed by my continued thirst for him to focus on anything but the rich intent in Alexander’s gaze.
Whatever his end goal was, this scene was about beginning to re-establish the expired trust between us in the most elemental way he knew how—by showing me with his cutting words and cruel hands how far he could take my body into pleasure so powerful it splintered into exquisite pain without taking me over the edge into true embarrassment and hurt.
It was a game and also not a game because his talent was a calling, and my response was as intrinsic as the natural turning of the tides. It seemed so trivial to the men watching us, judging us, but in the small bubble of close air that surrounded my Master and myself, nothing had ever felt so poignant.
I was finally back where I belonged.
Finished with his Shibari masterpiece, Alexander appeared before me, his body partially shielding me from the audience at his back. I knew it was deliberate, as was the marked absence of a blindfold. He wanted me to feel seen because the beauty of my submission to him was worthy of notice, but not be totally exposed because the sight of my intimate folds and creases was for my Master’s perusal only. He wanted me to see, but only so that I would watch the way his eyes changed from smoking gas to liquid cold waters straight to punishing stone.
He was accentuating our connection even in a room full of people I abhorred.
I stared into those pewter grey eyes and watched as his firm, full mouth pressed into a grimly pleased line.
The touch of his fingers to the outside of my groin startled me because I had been so enthralled by his gaze, and I shuddered as he drew a path down the sensitive crease where my thigh met my pubis to the tender skin of my inner leg. His skin was colder than the frigid air, as if he was carved from ice, and as his fingers slid down my inner thigh, goosebumps flourished in their wake.
I swallowed thickly as he pulled his fingers away and brought them between us to show me the way they glistened wetly in the light.
“So wet and I’ve yet to really touch you,” he taunted me as he smeared my juices against my breasts like I was a human rag. The degrading touch sent a sharp throb of pleasure through my core. “You love being used by me, but let us not forget, this is a punishment.”
Sharper than bee string, harder than a slap to the face, Alexander’s palm connected with the fragile inside of my thigh. Pain burst in small shards through my senses, fracturing then pooling in my groin.
I moaned and squirmed in my roped-off pose.
“Keep still while I beat you,” he said, and while his words were an order, his tone was bored, as if my obedience was route. “You know you deserve this,sposa in fuga.”
Runaway bride.
His Italian words reverberated off my heart like a gong, and the look of stern displeasure superseded by genuine hurt on his aristocratic face prolonged the echo.
Before I could comprehend how his regret might have changed things, his hand found my opposite thigh again in a biting slap.
Then again. Back and forth between each thigh, his palm heating the skin in rhythmic increments; the sharp initial slap, the dull burn, then again, the slap harder, the burn deeper, tunneling through my legs like new nerve endings.
I rocked into his thrusts unconsciously, tipping my hips to give him greater access to me, hoping wantonly that his hands might find my cunt.
“You are leaking all over the place,” he noted, his palm smacking damply against the evidence. “Perhaps I’m not making my point properly.”
His eyes snagged mine, his pupils blown wide so that the grey only thinly framed the wide abyss of dark want at their centers. I could read his arousal in the kick of the pulse in his throat, the way his Adam’s apple scraped against the skin when he swallowed thickly around the surge of desire cresting through his belly. The scarce evidence locked under his cold control made me pant even harder.
Then our connection broke as he angled his hand up instead of across and landed a cutting slap directly over my cunt. I almost collapsed to the ground as pain went spiraling into whorls of pleasure inside me, but Alexander’s hand on my pussy stilled me, cupping the wet flesh so intimately I could feel the slight chafe of his callous against the sensitive skin as strongly as sandpaper.
With his other hand, he pinched my chin and leaned close so that his black eyes dominated my vision. “You are going to keep completely still as I turn this pussy red and raw with my hand. I know you’ll want to come, my beauty, because you love it hard like this, but you are not to orgasm until your Master wills it. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Master,” I breathed as his fingers played at the wet entrance of my sex, dipping just inside my flesh, the three points of his fingers stretching me with their width.
I tried to grind down on them, but then they were gone, my hips twisting into empty air. My groan was loud, prompting the men I’d forgotten were watching us to laugh quietly at my obvious lust.
I thought it was probably a rare thing to see one of the slaves so blatantly enjoying the ministrations of their masters. A very small dark and forgotten corner of my psyche perked up under their regard. I was a vain woman after all, and I’d always loved male attention, even when it was tainted with avaricious lust. Maybe even especially then. The exhibition was strangely tantalizing, not because I felt the men deserved to see the intimate beauty of my union with Alexander, but because a dark part of me loved to be treated like this by my Master.
Like his wanton, needy slave.
He spanked me until my pussy throbbed harder than my heart, until I keened and begged shamelessly for his cock to fill me up and take away the ache.
Then, when I couldn’t take any more, there was the thick stretch of large plastic cock burrowing into the swollen folds of my pussy. Alexander carefully pushed me down on it with a firm hand over my hip, the other holding the toy still between my legs, unmoving so that I had to be the one to fuck myself down on it. He wouldn’t take me, he told the crowd and me, unless I could prove I was worth the fucking.
So my hips churned as well as they could in the tight bindings, the lightly abrasive rope cutting over my hips the way Alexander’s punishing fingers used to, the slight chafe arrowing straight to my sex, increasing the tempo of its throb. I was panting and sweating with the effort to fuck that thick toy, whimpering slightly because it was justnotenough to get me off, even with the added sensation of Alexander’s cool metallic eyes cutting into my skin like the edge of a blade. There was a wet, sucking slide that sounded clear through the room from my efforts, and it lacquered my skin with the blazing heat of a blush.
