Page 18 of Wanted
He came around the table at her, and it took everything she had to stay where she was. To neither retreat nor flinch as he took a looming stance over her.
“You want to play that game?” he softly countered. “Then prove to me you know how to give consent and, more importantly, how to take it away when you need to. You’re absolutely no good to any dom if you can’t be trusted to play safely.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He left her standing at the table, staring at options. Her stomach rolled until she felt sick. She had no idea how she was going to choose. She knew what she liked, but that held little merit when compared to what he liked. She’d rather take a hundred hard strokes of that medium-length wooden paddle than to find she’d chosen something he’d find boring. She didn’t want to be boring. She didn’t want him to give her pleasure when he himself received little to nothing in return.
She backed from the table.
She hated spanking, but if he enjoyed it, she’d much rather give him the pleasure of reddening her ass than just about anything else.
Did Marcus want to play with her sexually? She hadn’t had anyone touch her like that in over a year. And yes, she was Master Ethen’s property, but he was dead. He’d also shot her, so really, why did he get to continue having a say?
She didn’t like pain, but she’d had her breasts tormented with a zip line once and even lightly caned and that had been kind of fun.
She wasn’t a huge fan of anal when it was being done to hurt, but she had liked it the few times Master had done it gently. She’d liked being told she was Master’s dirty little cum slut. Just not when he was passing her around among his friends.
And the wand? She hadn’t been allowed to masturbate in years, not since she’d first met Ethen. How was she supposed to make herself come when she could only ever achieve orgasm when Ethen gave the command?
This was impossible. She couldn’t do this.
Retreating into the kitchen, she put the food away, washed and dried the dishes, and tried to figure out where in which cupboards each one’s ‘proper place’ was. By the time she had nothing else to do but confront once more her impossible choice, she felt sick enough to want to throw up again.
Somewhere down the hall, Marcus was steam-cleaning the rug. She could hear the vacuum humming, and it gave her hope that she still had time to agonize her way through to a decision right up until the vacuum stopped.
Then she panicked.
She was failing. He was going to be so angry.
This was so stupid! Why couldn’t she just pick something? Why wouldn’t her shaking hand move?
Down the hall, the vacuum started up again and the relief buckled her knees. She collapsed on the floor in front of her waiting selection while the shame of her indecision reduced her to tears.
Covering her face with both hands, she tried to stem back the tide, but once one got out, they all got out. The snap came from deep inside her when she broke and the pain at first was so crippling that she couldn’t even stay on her knees. She keened, the weight of her sobs pushing her so far forward that her face touched the floor.
Useless.
Stupid.
Better off dead.
Self-pity gave way in a rush of hot fury. Fury because she’d given how many years to that man and look at her! Look at what she’d become.
Pathetic.
Hopeless.
She covered her head with both arms, feeling every tear at her soul as she fell apart as quietly as she knew how. The running vacuum down the hall would cover some of the noise, but she knew better than to get caught. And she had already cried so much.
A warm hand settled on her back between her shoulders, another taking her by the arm and pulling her up off her knees. It took him two tries, her body just wouldn’t cooperate, and the dismay at hearing that lie of a vacuum still going while Marcus bent to hook his strong arm around her waist, physically picking her up off her knees even when her legs refused to obey, was just as cutting as her sadness.
“I’m sorry,” she wept.
He pulled her into his arms and, without a word, held her while she cried.
She tried so hard to stop, for his sake. No dom wanted to watch a woman cry, unless of course he was actively in a mood to wring the tears from her. Ethen loved tears. Usually, he’d been aroused by them, but even he had his limits and a Menagerie girl knew better than to cry, ever, unless they were in a scene. “It can always be worse,” as he was so fond of saying, usually when he’d caught one of them breaking this unspoken rule, and usually when he was showing in exquisite detail just how much worse he could make it for girls who interrupted his peace of mind.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, struggling to get it under control.
