Business

 

By L

 

Gogogadget-o@hotmail.co.uk

 

 

 

 

His eyes lingered at the bend of her neck for just a moment, stretched deliciously taut and exposed to him as it was, before he made his move.

 

Still kneeling, hunched and small against the tiles, she waited impassively. The suddenness of his presence, the heat of him against her, rocked her slightly – though she made no sound as his steadying hand gripped her shoulder and squeezed.

“Long enough.”

 

****

 

Lottie’s eyes have glazed slightly, her silent form prostrate against the grass, her hand still clenched in defiance, or pain. Despite the chains draped across her naked limbs binding wrist and ankle, she struggles on; a futile battle of steel versus will. He watches the red edge expand and glitter in the sunlight, until her skin can contain it no longer and the colour runs across her stomach and into the earth. He watches as a sheen of sweat develops across her forehead, her hands, as her silence gives way to pitiful moans. That quiet smile always belied what lay beneath. Teeth flash for a moment, the whip noise cracks against bird song, cutting off the senses to all but bright white agony. Her shrieks soon fade back into silence, she begs with her body.

            Only the ‘click’ of freedom can rouse her from the hopelessness. This isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last. She knows, whatever his motives, he will release her - yet she still feels the hopelessness; the deep, pervading sense of despair at being helpless and being His. The tight grip in her hair motivates her to speak, to ask again, to be ignored. Once pressed forcefully into the tree his hands move vice-like around hers, knees pinioning her legs to the roughness, and he kisses her. The teeth flash again, his smile bringing whimpers from her lips – the darkness behind his gaze deflects her own and she turns to the ground for comfort. Then he’s gone. Green eyes flick upwards, her tongue licks dry lips, hands clench again, and she stumbles forwards. Forgetting the pain now, how each step widens strips of it along her torso, her back, her ass, her thighs – gritting her teeth against the lacerations inflicted upon her feet – she runs. The comical lolloping gait amuses him and he lets her, for a time. He watches her run as his hands automatically find what he needs, then he pursues.                                      

 

            ****

 

Back inside. Surely to God she’s paid for her transgressions now. Surely whatever black motivations he responds to, whatever his need, it is done with. For today. He cocks his head to the left, as if listening to her thoughts. He nods. Surely not.

“Okay Sinead, tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell your Master”

“I have none.”

“Please.”

She pauses, confusing reigning, dancing across her features. Please? Was this a joke? A test? Is there a way to reply at all? You could tell him.

“Sorry.”

His mouth twists, the skin around his eyes tightening. Brow furrowed, he stands and regards her.

“I know.”

He picks up the cane and stalks around the table, admiring his knots, admiring her. He sits back on his haunches behind his bound possession, eyes following the line of her thigh upward. Her legs are spread wide, sinews pushing angrily out against her pale skin, the tension and shudder of her body ever present. The cane chases the trailing gaze grazing the inner side as far as her body allows. It halts at the obstruction and he strokes gently at the slit, gathering reluctant moisture for the journey ahead. Sliding upward again, slowing to push deep inside the furrow of her ass, rubbing against the sensitive hole, pushing more, feeling more. The tip of the cane struggles for a moment, forces entry. He starts at her pained groan, and frowns anew.

The air parts, the whistling blow landing squarely across the two cheeks. They quiver for a moment, and she grunts. Displeased, he repeats the action. Four, five times, and she’s groaning again – an insistent thing that grows with each ‘thwack.’ Ten, twelve times, and she’s yelling – a throaty sound warped by suffering, pitch distorting each time the rattan connects. The ache encompasses her entire ass, her upper thighs; new lines of pain being carved into both with every passing moment. He never relents, he never tires.

She doesn’t understand how she came to be free; it seems only seconds since the last assault. Yet somehow she is sprawled across the table, and somehow he is standing there still calm, still unruffled.

“Kneel.”

She kneels.

“Open”

She closes her eyes against whatever’s to come and opens her mouth slightly. He tilts her head backward, hand brushing cheek, thumb rubbing lip, pinching it. He motions her to stay put but she doesn’t see it. In the minutes of his absence, she never moves.

“Be still.”

A point of heat on her tongue, expanding, dribbling underneath to the soft tissue of her gums. Turning to fire. She makes guttural noises; growling as though it might scare away the pain. But anguish is no stranger to these sounds. A high, soft keening fills the room. Another molten dose runs sluggishly around her teeth, caking its heat to them. Making the pain irreversible. Still reeling from her abuses she doesn’t resist as he nudges her up onto the table and her back - his hands place hers at the far corners and then position her weight towards the centre. Her up-bent legs are soon spread by gentle fingers smoothing across the flesh, pressing them down to the surface. He taps against her foot, and it raises for him. Expert movements tie ankle to wrist, wrist to table leg. Thoroughly exposed, expectant of more, she languishes in her sorrow behind fake-bored eyes. She hopes this will impress him.

            He enjoys her discomfort, the strain in her back as small shoulders take the weight of her body and the tension of the tie. Despite his exertions, his hands are dry as he picks up the plug. Gripping it as its thickest point, fingers don’t meet. Not even barely. He wonders idly whether to let her suck it, spread her juices onto it, but he knows he won’t. Each day must bring new lessons else the student will grow bored. She looks it now. He rubs her ass, tracing the welts, finding the puckered opening closed and tight. He wriggles a finger into it, and she protests. Another dry finger pulls at the entrance to make space, her protestations reaching a new and panicked level. He thrusts, no warning for the third, and she squeals in tearing agony – the friction of his actions causing familiar abuse to become something unbearable. Now kneeling on the table behind her, his fingers flex and move, stretching further. The other hand squeezes the plug rhythmically, warming it, moving it toward its dark destination. Lining it up between his fingers, he slides the tip inside with relative ease. The fingers rip out, one hand wrapping itself around her hips as he raises himself above her, the other – palm flat – begins pushing, hard, against the plug. The screaming is heartfelt.

 

An hour passes.

 

 The instant of warning, the hissing of the whip, is not enough to prepare Sinead. Thin leather curls around the inner curve of her ass and it jumps to attention. He is deaf to her. A symmetrical strike, though her response is heightened by fear and knowledge. The whip carves its unerring path, snapping against the dimple at her lower back. He hears her shrieks this time, but only smiles. Waiting a moment, letting her know what’s to come, he touches her in a mockery of comfort. Or perhaps it’s a plea. He knows it will go unanswered, as it always does, and he is warmed by the thought.

            The plug is still buried within her, the widest end lost somewhere inside. Her gaping hole pulses, and he bites his lip. For the first time, desire coils up from his depths – heating his core. He pulses in time with her for a moment, then swallows it back down. Fury. The whip moves of its own accord, lightening fast, a blur of darkness. The only evidence of its passing is the red road of blood that bends slightly between the valleys of her ass-cheeks, the narrowest point twisting down into the convulsing hole. The noises she makes are generic; excruciating pain interchangeable with blinding pleasure. Again the whip is raised, and again it finds its target. The crimson lines weave together until both are lost beneath the red mess of it all, and he stops, panting slightly. The silence is awesome.

            Ear to mouth, eyes on chest, fingers drawing back lids. Unconscious, but alive. He ponders her stubbornness, doubts gnawing. If she cannot say? But he knows the truth of it, they both do. Beneath the veneer, beneath the resistance, he is convinced of it. And she will tell him as much, one day. She will be humbled, and the apology will last a lifetime.

 

****

 

 

Her need awakens with her mind. The thirst is unbearable, the flaking wax a foul taste and unwanted reminder of the day. She is home. Pushing herself up against the bars, she spreads her legs before her, rubbing away the fatigue. She was wearing heels this time last week. She had her own skirt. She had a life. Remembering this was worse than remembering the pain. Worse than experiencing it, in some twisted and inexplicable way. A way that mattered. With a sigh, Sinead rolls onto her side and waits.

 

Hours pass.

 

 

 

****

 

 

 

He returned to find her still unconscious, sleeping fitfully. He thumbed through the papers found in her briefcase, checking them a fourth time. The proof was right here, yet she was resolute. Stubborn as a mule. Foolish. They’d come to him for his expertise, and it was willingly given. Yet…His eyes glinted darkly as he looked upon her, impressed she’d lasted so very long. Impressed and desperate. The stipulations of the contract played over in his mind; he had another week to crack her in two and clean up, else his employers – understanding, respectful as they might be – would be unhappy. But his desperation had a different source. Kneeling by the cage, his hands rested gently on her shoulders, face pressed close the bars. Inhaling deeply, he felt his desire reignite. A sickly, metallic scent rose from her hair, her face, her body, and he drank it in. A low noise grew in his throat. The terms of the contract were binding, yet for this woman – this obstinate wench – he felt his control slipping. He shouldn’t have her…

 

The chloroform’s a dark wetness on the cloth. Maybe it’s overkill, unoriginal, but he enjoys it. Or rather, the memories its faintly sweet smell evokes. Within the cage her breathing is slow and even; she lies asleep and unaware, and he’s closing in. Perhaps it’s instinct, or some small sound alerted her – but she’s awake now, and scrabbling against the metal. A hand shoots out and grabs her face, pulling it away from the bars. The cloth is pressed over her nose and mouth, and she is held. It takes longer than usual, but the struggling eventually fades and her body drops to the floor. He flexes the ropes, testing their strength, anticipation playing across dark features.

 

 

…But he so easily could.