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.
Preston couldn’t resist the siren. He leaned forward and dried her collarbone with his tongue.
Abigail’s body went rigid at the softness of his caress. He arched her neck, allowing him better access to her throat. He nuzzled his way to her jawline and landed on her lips. They were but a centimeter apart. He traced her mouth with his tongue and probed her to open for him.
They were both naked. His arousal hitting her belly button. He leaned in, grazing his chest to her breasts, feeling as the soft hair on his chest tickled her nipples. Without breaking the kiss, Preston grabbed her ass and hoisted her against the wall. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around him. Her arms clasped around his neck as he impaled himself inside her, pushing her injured back against the wall.
She cried out.
It was then her body softened. Her back arched. Her thighs tightened around his hips. Her body moved to seek the pleasure it’d been denied.
Preston stilled to raise her hands above her head, and said, “Don’t come.”
“I…” Her shoulders quaked. “No. Ple—” Her lips turned downward. Her head bowed, and she gave in to the realization she wasn’t going to come on this stay. “Okay.”
He pushed inside her slowly, drawing his piercing down her slit, making sure he hit her clitoris with every thrust. With ten thrusts, he came, leaving her once again, wanton.
He pressed his forehead against hers, rotating his hips. Dark eyes met swollen ones. She’d lost the gray in them, replaced by red lighting lines. Her nose was stuffy, she looked like she had a cold. He nuzzled his fingers against her damped cheek.
In a moment of weakness, he asked, “Were you trying to erase our scene?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No. I loved what you did to me. I’d never try to erase tonight. I cleaned the room because that’s what you asked of me. I only ever want to please you.”
He pulled out of her. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he turned her to face the wall she’d smeared with her uncured cuts. “Good. Then you’d have no problem repainting this wall tomorrow.”
“Of course, Master Trice.”
“Crawl.” He snapped his fingers behind him.
There were two ways to reach Preston’s bedroom.
Through the hall and down the living room or through the living room, past the kitchen, around the library, and the exercise room.
Preston took the long route, making a quick stop at the bathroom for his slave to reexamine her cuts.
Finally reaching his bedroom, he jumped into bed. Seeing his wounded animal afraid by the door, he pointed to the floor. And like the good bitch she was, she crawled to the empty floor and laid down.
No pillows.
No blankets.
He turned off the lights and attempted to fall asleep. Her presence made him antsy. Through the glassed window, he could see her reflection. He saw how the moonlight accentuated her curves. How her breasts rose and fell as every breath took her closer to sleep.
