This seemed like before somehow, the dance of negotiations, while finding a partner who liked what she did. But it isn’t, Kim. You’re a slave. A fuckhole. A slut. She stiffened.
He nipped her earlobe, making her jump and raising the oddest tingle inside her. “Stay in the present with me, Kimberly,” he said, his voice so very different than earlier. Low and rich and smooth with a hint of a Spanish accent. As unexpectedly warm as a sunny day in the spring. “Answer me now. Do restraints bother you?”
“No. Not really.” Not like enclosed spaces, hoods, cages. Her stomach turned over, and her chest constricted.
“Something bothers you. What?”
As if she’d give him a weapon to use against her. To punish her with like the Overseer had. Her mouth compressed into a thin line.
“No?” He sighed and turned her to face him. As he regarded her, he massaged her upper arms, his grip powerful, controlled…warm. “I am going to restrain you and flog you. I will use my hands on you, perhaps my mouth. I know you don’t have a choice in this”—his eyes chilled for a moment—“but you might find it easier, knowing I won’t exceed those boundaries.”
He—he was right. He planned nothing she hadn’t enjoyed at one time—nothing she hadn’t survived since. No cages. The relief blanked her mind, and a thank-you escaped before she could pull it back.
One corner of his mouth tipped up. “I like hearing gratitude.” He ran his knuckles over her left breast. As always, since soon after her capture, she felt nothing. No pain, no revulsion, just…nothing.
His eyes narrowed. He stroked over her breast again slowly, this time studying her face as he did. Without lifting his hand, he stroked upward and over her shoulder. Her neck.
The skin on his fingertips was a little rough. His palm melted the ice under her skin the way the heat from the sun would dissipate morning fog on the water.
“You will need much work, chiquita,” he murmured, “but this is not the night.”
“What?” Shocked that the word had escaped her, she took a hasty step away, tensing in preparation for his blow.
Ignoring her mistake, he jerked his chin at the rack of restraints. “Pick out comfortable wrist and ankle cuffs, then return to me.”
She hurried, relief making her knees wobbly. He hadn’t hit her for speaking without permission. Either time. But what had he meant by work to do? She shook her head and concentrated on doing as he ordered.
Once the cuffs were on, she returned.
He nodded. “Hands laced behind your neck. Open your legs farther. Eyes on me.”
She followed his orders, spreading her feet apart slightly wider than her shoulder. Other slaves had been taught this position, she knew. Her experience had been…other. The restricted sensation from the cuffs started her stomach roiling.
“Very nice.” He checked the fit of her cuffs. To her surprise, he loosened one overly snug ankle cuff.
He eyed her for a moment. “You’re a lovely woman, Kimberly.” He strolled around her, inspecting her, and somehow, perhaps because of his light touch, she didn’t feel the usual nausea and fury. He explored the marks on her back where Lord Greville and his staff had whipped her bloody, then the bruising on her hips from when the Overseer… Her mind winced away.
Again his finger ran over the knife scar, giving her the odd sensation of tingling and numbness from damaged nerves. He frowned at the purple bruising on her foot left by the Overseer’s boot from when she’d spilled a drop of his coffee.
After running his hands over her hips, he touched her pussy. Bare. Smooth. She’d become adept at shaving in the past weeks. She felt the stroke of his hand, but it brought nothing but memories of other hands and cocks.
“Pobrecita,” he said under his breath and looked her straight in the eyes. “I am going to check you more closely, Kimberly. I need to know if there are any problems.”
More closely? Understanding hit in a dizzying wave when he moved to the table and squirted lubricant over his fingers. Oh God. She closed her eyes and simply waited. Don’t tense. I’m not here. It’s a good day to visit the beach. Grains of sand under my feet, the ocean breeze…
To her surprise, she felt only the heat of his body, the brush of his silky shirt against her breasts, his breath on her cheek. “Look at me,” he said, ever so softly.
I don’t want to. She raised her gaze. His face was close to hers, his dark brown eyes filled with such understanding she almost whimpered.
His hand cupped her mound.
No. She turned her head, only to have him give a warning sound from low in his throat. He’d given her an order. Expected her to obey.
She raised her eyes to his.
His lubricated fingers slid over her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time. He watched her silently as his fingers touched her clit, then separated her labia. He pressed one finger inside her, and she couldn’t help the instinctive cringing away.
“Shhh, chiquita.” His other hand cupped her bottom, holding her in place. He kissed her lightly as if to reassure her, then slid a second finger into her, pressing upward. She tried to close her thighs and realized his feet were inside hers, keeping her legs open. After a moment, he slid his fingers out.
Not done, though. He stepped back and took a latex glove from the box.
I hate this. Hate you. Hate you all.
“Bend over and spread your cheeks, girl.” His voice was cold. Cruel.
She blinked at the change, then noticed the Overseer approaching. Did the dom’s manner change to chilly because of the Overseer? The thought was…
“Now, girl.”
Her mind blanked as her body tensed. He’d touch her…there. Gritting her teeth, she bent, arching her bottom up and opening herself for his inspection.
A lubricated finger circled her rim. “She has been taken anally?”
“Oh yes. Unless a buyer requests an anal virgin, we feel it best to have each slave prepared.”
The dom’s thick finger pressed against her anus. She wanted to escape, and as if he could tell, he gripped her hip in warning. Then his finger breached the ring of muscle, sliding inside her. In and out before the shudder had even left her body.
“Mmm. Not bad.” He moved away to toss the glove into the waste. “I’d probably have to train with a wider plug to keep from tearing her up, though.”
The thought made her cringe, and anger rose to replace the fear. As if he was that big. But a quick glance at his slacks indicated he told the truth. He could hurt her. Badly.
Grasping her nape again, he guided to where chains hung from the ceiling, between the ones attached to bolts in the floor. He put her into an upright, spread-eagle position, legs restrained widely apart, then tightened the chains on her arms, ensuring she couldn’t move.
She closed her eyes, trying to get to the place where it wouldn’t hurt as much. Not subspace…hardly that. This pain she’d simply endure, going as far away as she could. The boat pushed off from shore, waves splashing on the sides, wind whipping her hair…
After a brief survey of the wall, he chose a flogger and a cat-o’-nine-tails and returned. To her dismay, he ran his hands over her shoulders, her arms, her torso, her legs. Bringing her back to the now, damn him. His palms were rough, his fingernails cut short.
Her body warmed under his touch. Her skin did; her core stayed icy. He repeated the process, rubbing the strands of the flogger over her. He’d chosen medium weight, deerskin leather, not one with knotted strands, thank God.
He flicked the ends, and they pattered against her back like fat raindrops. She jumped, then relaxed as the rain of the flogger continued, even and smooth. Almost comforting.
He moved to her front, hitting her lightly. “Where are you from, Kimberly?”
Doesn’t matter. I’m in hell now. She stared over his shoulder at the wall of whips and floggers.
“Kimberly?” he repeated in a deeper voice.
Her words stuttered out as if dredged from the ocean depths. “I…from Atlanta.” No, that was wrong. Mom’s in Atlanta. Why do I feel so lost? “I work in—”Savannah. The strands hit her breasts, and she jumped, feeling something unwelcome bloom inside her, something more than pain.
“You do have a little bit of a Southern accent.” He stopped and studied her for a minute. His eyes… How did he make them change from gut-chillingly mean to snuggly kind? He stepped forward, again close enough for her to feel the heat he radiated, and then stroked a hand down her hair. “Little slave, I’m going to ask you a question. Whatever you answer, there will be no judgment or anger on my part. I simply need to know how you want this to go.”
She frowned. Why did he keep wanting to talk? But she could answer a question—as if she had a choice. She nodded.
“Bueno.” He hesitated a moment, as if searching for words. “I think I can make you respond.” He curved his hand over her cheek and brushed her lower lip with his thumb. “Make you enjoy the flogging. Make you come. Or I can simply flog you until you scream in pain. I… That is not my way.” His eyes darkened, his jaw tight with anger—but not at her, somehow she knew. “You have had much taken away. To be forced to respond might be more damaging than enduring the pain. So I will let the choice be yours. Which would you prefer?”
