Fear etched on her face, Alana spread her legs again. She looked ravishing, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed, her nipples dark against the cream of her flesh.
Mark adjusted his painfully erect cock in his underwear and took a step back. “I’m going to beat your pussy with the hairbrush, Alana. Because you’re so new, I’ll only give you ten strokes this time. But if you close your legs or resist in any way, you’ll forfeit the right to come. Understand?”
Alana swallowed visibly but finally nodded, her violet eyes wide with fear.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Yes, Sir,” she said in a tremulous voice.
Holding the handle, he lightly smacked her denuded cunt first with the bristles to sensitize the delicate skin. Predictably, she yelped with each strike. At the count of five, he turned it over and struck her with the unforgiving wood. The smack resounded against the tiled walls, followed by Alana’s plaintive cry. To her credit, she managed to maintain her position, legs spread wide, hands clenched into fists on either side of her body.
Mark was counting to himself, and he brought the tenth stroke down much harder than the preceding nine. As he expected, Alana screamed and slammed her legs shut. She didn’t yet have the discipline to resist her own impulses. That would come with time.
“Oh, dear,” he said with mock sympathy. “You closed your legs, you naughty girl. No orgasm for you.”
She was whimpering steadily and rocking slightly forward and back, her arms now wrapped around her torso. Zero discipline. He had a lot of work to do. But first, he needed to fuck her.
He pulled down his underwear and kicked it away. Grabbing the oil bottle, he squirted some onto his fingers and coated his cock with it. Reaching for her waist, he pulled her forward onto his cock, entering her with one hard, perfect thrust. She wailed, fear and pain in the sound, but this only spurred him on. She might be in hell at the moment, but he—he was definitely in heaven.
Chapter 5
How had the week flown by so fast? In the six days he’d held her captive, Alana was progressing well, at least in terms of her behavior. She obeyed his dictates, for the most part, though she did have to be reminded from time to time, either with words, or with his whip.
He no longer had her wear the heavy chain collar, except occasionally during a session in the dungeon. He found it got in the way when he wanted to fuck her—it was too clunky. Instead, he placed a leather dog collar around her neck from time to time, to remind her of her status. Someday, when she earned it, he’d buy her a true slave collar—one she wore not because she had to, but because she wanted to.
She had stopped begging him to let her go, and had given up on the idea that she would soon be rescued. She barely spoke at all, except in answer to a direct question. This was okay, if a little lonely at times. For now, it was enough just to have her near him. When she was better trained, he would allow her to speak more freely.
Though he longed to have her of her own free will, he’d come to understand that process might take longer than he’d expected. The thought that it might never happen was unendurable, so he put it from his mind.
Still, what they shared was better, far better, than nothing. Alana Hunter, long adored from afar, was here, in his home, in his arms, whenever he wanted her. She belonged to him, if not in spirit, at least in body. For now, that was enough.
She remained a hot topic on the news, of course, with wild speculation about all sorts of possibilities, from a routine kidnapping with a requested and exorbitant ransom only a matter of time, to her having run off with a secret billionaire prince from somewhere in the Middle East. Popular opinion on the many social media forums was beginning to edge toward her being dead, which was what Mark hoped the authorities would also come to conclude.
He was careful never to let her out of the house. On the occasions when he had to leave her to run errands or check his mailbox at the post office in the nearby village, he always chained her on the bed by both wrists and ankles. He gagged her, too, on the very unlikely chance anyone might stop by. No one knew where he lived except the utility companies and the UPS guy, and he intended to keep it that way.
Though the police held press conferences and pretended they were following leads, so far there had been nothing to connect him to her disappearance. Even though there was some grainy camera footage of the car he’d bought for the sole purpose of her abduction, the stolen plates had, as he’d hoped, completely thrown them off the track. His real car, the one registered in his real name, was in the driveway. The sedan he’d purchased for the abduction was safely tucked away in the old barn behind his house, and there it would remain for the foreseeable future.