CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Pet
Days turn to what mustbe weeks in my new cell. The hours stretch on and on in a monotony of tears, welts on my body, orgasms, long, luxurious baths with my captor, and food—which I want little of.
My mind delves into decay, an endless cycle of boredom and depression. I cry all the time. I wish I could stop. I wish my tear ducts would run dry like the rest of me has, but it’s the one constant I can count on. That and the flutter of fear mixed with anticipation low in my belly when my door announces an arrival with its cheery little beep, and Ares enters the room.
His visits are the one part of my day that take away the boredom. Dread and excitement war with one another when he stands in the center of my room and summons me to his side with a click of his fingers. I’m sure the old me—whoever she is—would be disgusted with my compliance, with how easily I submit to my Sir, but she’s still missing, lost somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind. I do what I have to in order to make life easier. I give in to him. I crawl on my knees, suck his cock, endure his welts on my body, and allow him to fuck my ass, and I come when he orders me to because Ares’ belt can be very persuasive.
One day, I’ll be free. I’ll steal back my freedom, and he’ll be the one on his knees, begging me not to kill him. For now, I’m his good girl, his submissive, his pet. Though sometimes—whether out of sheer boredom or loneliness—I’m his very bad girl. Some days, I provoke him just to feel the bite of his belt against my flesh. I crave it. Like right now.
I slide out of bed and drop to my knees, crawling to the center of the plush carpet, I kneel and settle into the child’s pose. I offer him my ass, my pink slip riding up over flesh covered in blooms of purple and yellowed bruises. Just the way he likes it. I know he’s watching on the monitors; he’s always watching, and I’m betting right now he’s hard as a rock, because he’s not an idiot, and neither am I. It’s a game we like to play. We both know it ends in welts on my body, his welts.
The second I touch myself, he’ll come storming in. He’ll beat me, call me his dirty little whore, and with any luck, the darkness will creep in and I’ll escape to that place in my head where pain and pleasure morph into one. Where I’m slack-jawed and drooling, strung out on endorphins. And when it’s done, he’ll bathe me, hold me, and I’ll pretend he’s won yet another victory, when it’s no longer entirely true. I’m a willing participant in this game because it’s the only thing I have left. He has taken everything from me, and this one act of defiance means that I am not completely lost.
I lift my hips, slide my arms between my legs, and finger the one hole he refuses to fuck. The one orifice that still belongs to me. I don’t know why he neglects my pussy. Every time he’s been inside me it’s been through anal sex, which I loathed at first, but have now learned to derive pleasure from. I’ve become an expert in making myself come in under ten seconds—the exact amount of time it takes for him to open my door from wherever he watches me on his monitors. I withdraw my finger and plunge two back in, and then I fuck myself hard and fast, awkwardly twisting my body like a pretzel to reach that one sweet spot that will have me coming in seconds. A frisson of heat spreads out from my womb. My pleasure spikes. My pussy contracts. The beep sounds, and the door swings open just as the first wave of my orgasm hits, and my Master stalks into the room. I ride out the remainder of my hedonism, bucking my hips and moaning as my body milks my fingers, and creamy cum drips out of me onto the fluffy rug.
Oh dear. I’m going to pay for that.
“Present,” he growls through bared teeth. I hide my smile and note the implement of torture in his hands. A flogger. Not leather, but a silicone one with little knots tied at the end of each strand. I’m not going to be able to sit down for days.
I scramble across the floor to his feet and assume the position: kneeling with my legs spread, my back straight, and my palms upturned on my thighs. He flicks his wrist, and a thousand tiny pinpricks of pain strike my pubic mound.
Immediately, I squirm, trying to ease the sting of my flesh, but I’m struck again. Two quick blows on either side of my thighs. The pain fans out, spreading across my reddened skin. I exhale a shuddering breath.
“Don’t you dare close your legs.”
I shake my head. “No, Sir.”
“Now, repeat after me. ‘I will not play with my pussy, Sir.’”
“I will not play with—”
He swats me again. This time on my breast. My nipples peak and burn with the punishment. “Louder.”
“I will not play with my pussy, Sir.”
He chuckles darkly. “Come on, Pet. You can say it with a little more conviction than that.”
A flick of his wrist sends pain lacing across my abdomen. I cry out, but the lashes come in quick succession all the way down to my pussy, where he mercilessly strikes me again and again. Between gasps and moans, I repeat the words over and over like a mantra, loud enough for him to hear.
“That’s right. You. Will. Not. Play. With.My. Pussy,” he bites out, peppering each word with kisses from his flogger upon my flesh. “Do you understand?”
I’m shaking with fear and rage. My whole body throbs with the need to come again, to feel the release of pleasure after all of this pain. “Yes, Sir.”
“Good.” His smile is wolfish, hungry, and conniving. “Now, you may play with my pussy.”
My brow furrows in confusion as I meet his infallible gaze. “Sir?”
“Do it, Pet. Make it good.”
“Yes, Sir.” I stroke my hands down through my wet heat and moan, circling back to pinch my clit the way he does that has me coming in seconds. I’m not Ares, though; I don’t have his capabilities. So I stick to what I know I do well: fucking myself as he watches. Pleasuring the hole he refuses to sink his cock inside.
“That’s it, princess. Show me how you like it.”
I dip my fingers in, one then two, and pump them in and out as hard and fast as I can. I writhe as he lashes my thighs and pussy in an endless driving rhythm of torment.
“Do not come.”