Page 80 of Bottoms Up
She pushed with her arms, and I pressed her body back to the table — and kept my hand there.
So much for total surrender, but that was okay. I had her at the edge of what she could handle.
Nine minutes.
“Julian, please—I can’t—I’m gonna—fuck—please!”
“No.”
Ten.
I lifted my hand. “You may go to the toilet and release.”
She scrambled off the table like her body was on fire and ran to the open commode in the corner. I didn’t give her privacy. I watched.
I always watch.
Silver is mine and she doesn’t get to hide anything from me. I watch because I can, because it reminds her just how owned she is. That she’s mine to hurt. Mine to debase. Mine to love.
No part of her is off-limits to me. Not even this. I squeezed the water into her bowels, and I watch while she shits her guts out with no privacy, no dignity, no escape.
This is whatbelongingto a Strigorii vampire looks like: no modesty, no shield, no mercy. Just obedience, exposure, and exquisite surrender.
It also means love. Adoration. Ruthless protection.
But she wanted an owner, and she damn well has one now.
I stay within her boundaries and don’t dictate her life, but she surrendered her sexuality and her body. Those are mine.
When she came back, flushed and breathing hard, I pointed. “Back on the table. You have a one-quart soapy one coming. The Bardex goes in first.”
She whimpered.
I lubed the nozzle and worked the balloon in carefully — she was already sore because I’d fucked her ass daily for… I’d lost track. It’d been a while.
I could’ve made the nozzle insertion worse, fast without lube, but I wanted her to suffer, not tear. There’s a difference. She trusts me. I’d hurt her, sure, but without injuring her.
When the water started, she gasped, her hands clenching the table’s edge. I connected her wrists together, and then to the table. For good measure, I connected her ankles together, too. She could move around to try to ease the cramping, but she wasn’t going anywhere.
Atlas, on the other hand, couldn’t move a muscle. I could scent his pain, his agony. So much worse than my Silver’s, though hers had been substantial for the bulb, and would only get worse with the super-soapy solution draining into her body.
I only slowed the flow twice, so it didn’t take terribly long to go in, butoh, the drama. You’d have thought I was injecting acid.
“I’m allowing you to lie on your left side to give you a measure of comfort.” I moved to the side drawer and pulled out the chopsticks. “But because you didn’t do so well with the bulb, we’ll start with these on your tongue. Open wide, my lovely.”
She opened her mouth, already panting. One end of the chopsticks was already rubber-banded, and I closed them over her tongue and secured the other side. Not terribly tight, so she’d have blood flow to the end, but enough they’d stay put.
And then I pinched her nipples between my fingers.
She cried out,wailed. No words, though. Chopsticks allow sound with no enunciation.
I didn’t stop.
Torture on this day would be about rhythm, not chaos. Pain is a language. Spikes and valleys, repetition, surprise. Anyone can cause pain, but Silver needed something deliberate to balance the cramps. Something she could climb like stairs to the edge of madness.
Clamp. Tighten. Release. Clamp again.
When her body was flushed and soaked and twitching, I stood.
