“So help me, God, whore. I am trying to sleep!” Preston shouted in the absence of the day.
His slave hadn’t stopped complaining about her newly inflicted lashes for hours. She’d spent the rest of the morning crying. Even as she painted the walls of his office she wept. What normally took a professional thirty minutes, took her four hours.
He’d known she wouldn’t get the job done. The walls were too high for her frame to reach the top. The tenacious whore thought otherwise. Her brushes hurried and her bruised bones stretched as she tried to reach the top with the roller brush. She failed every time. Each time drops of white paint stuck to her hair, making it look like he came on her face.
At least she entertained him.
Master Trice had been nice enough to place a sandwich on his desk for her to eat when she finished. Every minute that passed he’d taken a bite. By the time she was finally done there were but for crumbs on the plate.
In his house, slaves only ate if they behaved. Something Abigail hadn’t done since he met her. However, she was a champion. Even through her screams, she took whatever he gave her. But she took too long painting the walls she’d ruined in the first place.
So, did she eat?
No.
Not at all.
The only water she drank came from the showerhead or bathroom sink. And if Abigail really wanted to test him—which she was close to doing—he’d shut the water and have her drink from the toilet.
He’d really been brutal with her. He’d never hurt a submissive that soon after fifty flogs. And then he’d used a cane. A cane that bruised her already broken skin. And she took it all almost as if she’d enjoyed it.
Most of his submissives lasted one month, with the exception of Lauren who managed to make it five years. Master Trice stopped punishing her long ago, though. He used her more as a way to help ease the slaves into his lifestyle. Of course, that all changed when Abigail showed up.
He had no one to take his urges out on but her. Lauren was always there when he needed her. Ready to please him. Yet, Preston didn’t feel any affection toward her. She a consolation prize when he couldn’t have what he really wanted. At the time, he wanted Abigail.
Now, he had her. He didn’t need Lauren. Abigail had proven she was more than capable of caring for her wounds. But if he dismissed Lauren, then Abigail would think of herself like the queen she wasn’t.
He needed Lauren to help ruin her. If only she could get herself healed on time.
Preston twisted in his bed and looked down. The fluorescent lights from the streets reflected against Abigail’s fetal-like position. Her spine stuck out as she shivered.
She hadn’t mentioned the comforter, something Preston was grateful for. He didn’t want her thinking he had a soft spot. He told himself that if she thanked him for it, he’d punish her for mocking his gentleness.
However, her not acknowledging his kindness also made his blood boil maybe just as much as it did when he heard her speaking to his mother.
His mother.
To talk that woman down out of anything she put her mind to was nearly impossible. Now, she had the marvelous idea of having lunch with his fucking slave! And not just any lunch. Lunch at the only place in New York that brought him serenity.
The audacity of his slave astounded him. Was she like that in real life too? Did she disrespect her boss, who was also her mother?
Preston had done his research. He knew everything about Abigail Bennett and seeing as she knew nothing of him, not even his name, he held all the cards. Knowledge was, after all, power.
Another sob.
Another stream of blood rushed to his cock.
She looked skinnier than before. Could she have lost weight in a day? It seemed impossible. Abigail looked destroyed just as Master Trice wanted—promised.
What did he feel for doing so? Bad? Sorry? Like a sadistic asshole?
Nope. Never.
Master Trice never apologized for his dues.
He felt accomplished.
Her cries turned into hiccups until Abigail was choking on her own breath. He thought of what it would feel like to allow himself to care for another human—to care for Abigail. Then, if only for a second, the thought got replaced by an obscene one. What would happen if he let her choke?
“Stand,” he ordered.
Her shoulders raised in fear. Her knees were to the point of giving out as she used them to stand, pushing off the iced floor. She knew where the comforter laid, so why didn’t she use it?
“Get in bed.”
Indecisively, she stilled for a moment. After reasoning with herself, she slowly climbed into bed. One knee at a time, giving him enough time to reprimand her for getting into his bed.
Preston got instantly hard with the way she crawled to him. She looked like a mountain lioness, readying to attack her prey. Her long, thick hair tickled his shins. Her soft hands massaged their way up to his thighs.
She settled on his upper thighs, too far from him. With a grip on her left hip, he hoisted her higher up his body. With both bodies lacking clothes, he felt his erection on her stomach. If he moved just enough, his piercing would touch her clit.
He breathed in, resting his head against the headboard of his bed. How he wanted that to happen. But his pleasure could bring her pleasure too. That wasn’t what he wanted. It wasn’t what she deserved.
Preston knew he’d never tire of her. Every time he fucked her felt like the first. She had something none of his previous submissives had. Though what it was, he wasn’t sure, but he intended to find out.
If any other dominant saw her, they’d think she was tamed. Her poses were accurate, of a sub that had been doing it for years and not mere hours.
She knelt with grace. She bowed with finesse. She served her master as a servant did its king.
Placing a finger under her chin, he told her, “Look at me.”
He admired her gray eyes and how they contrasted with the dark hues of her hair. The tip of her nose was bright red, reminding him of a famous reindeer. A streak of tears slid down her swollen cheek. Preston caught it with his thumb before she could swallow the saline drop.
Abigail nuzzled into his hand, running her nose up his palm and resting her cheek. She looked so peaceful like she’d finally found her home.
He couldn’t keep his hands off her. If he stopped touching her, he was sure he’d stop breathing. He couldn’t stop breathing because he needed to taste her once more before he died.
“Kiss me,” he ordered.
She leaned forward, placed her hands on his stomach, and planted a teasing kiss on his pec. Running her tongue over his nipple, she kissed her way up his sternum. All the way to his throat. His neck. His chin.
She lingered above his lips for a second, waiting for his objection. Preston had none, enthralled solely by her sorcery. Abigail had truly bewitched him and like a lustful sailor, he’d crashed against the rocks.
What dumbfounded him the most was how the caress calmed him. It simmered his boiling blood. It felt like she was worshipping him, thanking him for the precious gift he hadn’t known he’d given away.
She kissed him. Softly. Her lips swallowed his bottom lip. He groaned into her mouth, digging his nails into her injured ass. Involuntarily, she winced and pulled away. He imprisoned her mouth again, guiding her pussy to rock against his girth.
Their tongues started their own choreography. A sensual Argentine tango where he led, and she followed. Her hands settled in his hair, tugging lightly. Her hips moved to his accord. Abigail’s weeps turned into orgasmic moans. She was so close—so close to releasing what Preston denied her.
He pushed her down, away from his lips. With the back of his thumb, he cleaned the residue of their passionate kiss.
“When I said to kiss me, I didn’t mean here—” he pointed to his chest “—or here—” he pointed to his swollen lips. “I fucking meant here!” He gripped his cock harshly.
Grabbing a handful of her hair, he pushed her further down his body.
“Open.”
Her cheeks hollowed. His cock twitched around her plump lips. He wanted to push her all the way down, make her choke on his dick. But he tamed himself. There was no way he’d allow her more control than she already had over his mind and body.
His face grew red, a vein denting his forehead as she lowered as slowly as she could. The minx! He couldn’t help it. His ass rose off the bed and his dick pushed entirely inside her. Preston felt himself at the end of her throat. Her gag reflex turned her face damp. Her nose rested on his pubic bone.
Preston locked eyes with her. Her body trembled as she adjusted to his size and managed to breathe through her nose. Her breathing tickled the soft curls on his lower stomach. With his hand on the back of her head and his eyes burning into hers, he rotated his hips.
Hearing the sound of metal clanging the enamel of her teeth, brought him close to the edge. He pulled her hair and brought her back down just when her mouth opened to breathe.
“Look at me!” He shouted when her eyes closed. What an image to behold. If he had a camera with him, he’d snap a picture. “You are nothing but a set of holes to be used for my pleasure.”
With a deep cry, he came, raising his hips and filling her with his come. Her throat worked to swallow his pleasure. She raised on her knees, waiting for her next task.
“That was your reward for painting the walls.” He kissed her forehead and whispered, “Don’t say I didn’t feed you.”
