The room was everything Abigail imagined it to be and more.
Unlike the futuristic design of the living room, this room looked like it was taken from the early sixteenth century. It wasn’t due to the gold candelabras that impressively hung on the crimson walls. Or the large vintage chest drawer that resembled the color of Master Trice’s hair. The velvet chair in the middle of the room wasn’t the reason why it looked more like a medieval museum than a room built in the twenty-first century.
What gave the room an antique ambiance were the apparatuses decorating every corner. To Abigail, they looked more like torture devices than machines made for sexual pleasure. Having had to take a classic literature course about the early books in history, she remembered most of the names of the apparatuses.
The Breaking Wheel was used to slowly break the bones of criminals. There was also a torture rack that was used to stretch the limbs of its victims. A chair with the legs spread wide sat in the room, accompanied by a stock, a St. Andrew’s Cross, and a table with restraints from head-to-toe.
When Abigail looked up, she saw spiked points staring back at her. She was afraid that at any moment, the cage would fall and puncture her body. There was an abundance of barbaric apparatuses that were built of metal like the iron box with restraints on all corners.
She felt overwhelmed just as she did on the tour of his club days back. Her eyes were opened to a whole new world. One she’d only read about in fictional stories.
Her body quivered as she stepped forward in front of a wall that housed a variety of floggers, paddles, whips, chains, and other equipment she’d never seen in her life and couldn’t even guess the name.
Her hand came forward to touch an enticing paddle that looked like it was made of icicles but heard the clearing of a throat and drew her hand back.
She was a slave. Slaves dare not look. Slaves dare not touch.
Abigail stepped back. She had plenty of questions to ask Master Trice but knew it wasn’t her place. And even if it was, she didn’t want him knowing her ignorance of this life, though she was sure he already knew.
The only good thing she saw at being the second sister-submissive was she’d be able to inquire Lauren of the questions she wanted to ask him.
“We are going to start with the basic positions,” he said. “When you walk into this room you will sit in a kneeling pose in that corner. Go and kneel.”
She walked to the corner he pointed at and did as was commanded. Her butt cheeks rested on the back of her feet. Her thighs parted. Her eyes were cast down.
“Move forward, cross your hands, and open your mouth. This is how you show me you’re ready to please me.”
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.”
