I lead her into an extravagant bathroom, the one meant only for her. The tub is huge, easily big enough to fit two, with a hand-held showerhead. Releasing her, I close the door behind me. I’m not worried about her attacking me, because there’s nothing in this space to attack me with. The mirror is gone from above the vanity and the fresh lick of paint—buttercup yellow—hides the fact that it was ever there. I painted these walls myself. Hermes always wants someone else to do it, but the less people who know about this place the better. I change the paint every time, depending on the slave. I chose buttercup yellow for her because it’s the color of the daffodils that grew in the garden of her childhood home in the Hudson Valley. It pays to do your research. I want her to feel at home here.
I remove the blindfold. She squints. When she opens them again, Pet doesn’t appear to be comforted by the color choice. Not yet, but she will. They always are. She’s smart, this one, and I can already tell she’s scanning for weapons, maybe hoping for a razor or a vase she can smash and slice my neck open with. She’ll find neither.
“In the tub,” I order.
She glares at the bath, and back at me.
“Get in the tub, Pet. I won’t ask again, I’ll just throw you. That’s a little more effort than I want to expend right now.”
“No. Please?”
I steel my nerves and put a little extra oomph into my words. “Get in the fucking tub.”
With shaking legs, she climbs in and sits.
I shrug off my jacket and toss it on the floor. Her eyes roam over my tattooed arms and to my chest and torso. She’s probably wondering if I could crush her with my biceps. I could, but I want to break her in other ways that don’t involve brute force.
I lean over her and coo, “Good girl. Now, was that really so hard? All I want is to get you clean, because darlin’, you’re a fucking peach. You’ll always look like a peach, but right now you’re a little too ripe.”
She flames scarlet, and I fight to keep my smile from forming on my lips. I know she’s no stranger to sweat, blood, and hard work, but she’s not used to being filthy. She’s worked hard for her position in the ballet company, but she’s been treated like a princess since birth. I don’t blame her parents or her directors. She is a princess. Now she’s my dirty little princess who needs me to wash her clean.
Pet pulls her knees into her chest and ducks her head into them, even though this position allows me to see her cunt more clearly. It’s a pretty cunt. Pink, swollen lips stripped so bare that it’s hard to believe she ever had hair there to begin with. I guess ballerinas need to keep everything trimmed and taut, waxed within an inch of their lives less a stray pubic hair be seen through their skimpy leotards. I turn on the water and grab the showerhead, running it over her feet first to check the temperature. I don’t want to scald her, or freeze her. I want her relaxed, clean, and pliant so we can begin training as soon as possible.
I move the spray over her body gingerly, careful not to burn her. When I reach the top of her knees, she lifts her head and studies me, as if she wants to figure me out. I’m a tattooed, heavily muscled thirty-year-old man. I’m not dressed like a criminal, though I’m not dressed like a man who wears his wealth in his Amani suits either. My boots are black, clean, and polished, my jeans are designer, but you’d never know it without looking at the tag, and my black leather jacket is worn but still in great condition. My hair is trimmed, and left to its natural curl, with no product. I look like an average guy you might see out at a club. Okay, maybe I’m hotter than your average guy, but I try not to be a dick about it.
“Please let me go? Please?”
“I can’t, Pet. I have a plan for you, and letting you go isn’t it.” I reach out and grab a strand of her greasy hair. She’s going to be perfect on her knees with her hair wrapped around my wrist and my cock shoved so far down her throat she can barely breathe. “Now be a good girl and lie back, and I’ll let you soak in the tub a while longer.”
“I don’t want to soak. I want to leave. Please let me leave.”
“Where would you go? You don’t remember who you are. It’s a big, bad world out there.”
“I’ll go to the police. They’ll find out who I am.’
“Wrong answer.”
“I-I won’t go to the police. That was stupid. I won’t tell a soul. I don’t know anyone to tell.”
“That’s right. Thereisno one to tell,” I say sharply. “Now, lie down, and don’t make me ask again. You’ve had enough warnings already.”
She glares at me, as if she might be thinking about disobeying. I glower back and arch a brow in question.
My Pet submits. Laying back against the tub, she covers herself, one hand across her tits, the other wedged between her legs, shielding her perfect little pussy. I slap them both away. She cries out, but old habits die hard, and her hands cover her body from my view again. We do this little dance several times before she gets the fucking hint, and though I can see it’s killing her, she rests her reddened arms on her flat stomach. I don’t like the look of the nasty gash on her forearm, but if it’s hurting her—and I suspect it is—she doesn’t complain about it. What are the chances I found a pet with an unusually high tolerance for pain. My balls ache just thinking about it.
I continue moving the showerhead up her body, over her breasts and head. I wash her hair, rinse, and repeat, adding conditioner that makes her long, dark locks so glossy she looks like a girl in a shampoo commercial. When the suds have disappeared down the drain, I drop the stopper in place and fill the tub, adding gardenia oil to the water.
She cries as I wash her, my hands exploring every inch of her toned, taut body. I knead muscles and poke at bruises that make her flinch, and when I pinch her nipples, she cries harder and begs me to let her go. “No, little one.”
“Please don’t touch me. Please?”
I slide my hand from her breasts, down her abdomen and between her legs. She squeezes them tightly closed.
The water hasn’t yet reached her cunt. It’s still on display for me, so I slap her, with nothing there to ease the blow. She jerks forward, and I smack again. This time I see the way her pussy jerks too, as if she’s clenching from the inside. I want so badly to climb in the tub with her, but I also need to take my time.
I force her knees apart and she struggles against the intrusion. Water sloshes out of the tub, soaking my jeans and the floor.
I slide my thumb over her clit. She arches her back, tries again to close her legs, and this time, when I hit her pretty little mound, she gasps as she turns the loveliest shade of red. She’s scared, there’s no doubt about that, but she can’t deny the response her body has to pain. I imagine she’s used to it. Her body is accustomed to conditioning and pushing through each little agony collected from rehearsals and injuries on the stage.