Page 33 of Cruel Master
It’s too much. I can’t take it.
“Thirty. Well done, doll.”
He stands in front of me, and his image wobbles as I try to focus. My voice comes out mushy. “Doll, Master?”
“Only well-behaved slaves deserve their names. You’ll need to earn yours back.”
No responses cross the sizzling wasteland my mind has become. I’m saved from answering when he plucks off one of the nipple clamps.
Oh fucking fuck.
The only thing worse than having them on is taking the damn things off. Pain fills the place the clamp left behind, and I yell, my throat scratchy. Just as the agony fades, the absolute bastard takes off the second clamp, and I whimper, my hands twitching against my bonds. I want to cradle my poor tits and massage the blood back into them.
If he was a kind and considerate dom, that’s what he would do. Instead, he just flicks both of them, one after the other, and smirking as I cry out.
His mask feels less like a mask every moment. It’s becoming normal, as things do when they’re all you have. We moved to the US when I was fourteen, and for the first few weeks, I kept tripping out at the accents; I felt like I’d been sucked into a movie. But it quickly became just the way people talk.
Is that what’s going to happen to me? Is being held captive by a demon going to start to feel normal?
Saldar turns away, and I tense, braced for him to assault me with another horror, but he only sets the timer where I can see it. I’m really starting to hate that timer. For all I know, he’s changed it to move slower than the real time.
And seriously, only fifteen minutes have passed? There’s no way in hell that’s how long I’ve been stuck on this thing. No fucking way.
Saldar taps it—two quick taps—and I get another weird flash of déjà vu. It’s a very human mannerism, and I try to place it until he says, “Forty-five minutes to think about your actions. Then we move to stage two.”
Stage two. How many stages are there? I shiver as he sweeps from the room, cloak swishing dramatically behind him. I could never capture that movement in the game exactly how I wanted to. Nothing like the live action version.
Forty-five minutes to go. My feet are already on fire, and my pussy feels bruised from the constant pressure. I want to shift around to rest my feet, but the slightest movement moves the dildo. My nipples still sting, and my skin is heated from all the cane strikes. Everything hurts, and the time left on this device stretches away like an infinite ocean.
This isn’t the sort of kink I signed up for.
Punish me, sure, but then give me lots of orgasms and cuddles. Wrap me in a fluffy robe and feed me ice cream. Don’t leave me alone and treat me like a thing.
Yes, because those relationships went so well.
Shut up.
At least the snarky little voice in my head is distracting me from my feet, which are the worst thing about this whole scenario. Caned, impaled by a dildo, nipples red raw, and the thing that bothers me most is the high heels.
I try settling more weight on the dildo, butfuck—no, that’s not happening. Painful feet it is. Forty long minutes to go.
The worst thing is, the voice isn’t wrong. Kink plus responsible aftercare never kept my attention for long. Do I deserve this on some level? No. I never asked for any of it. Even if I spent far too much of my life imagining this exact scenario.
My battered brain is in no state to process any of this.
The minutes—if that’s what they really are and Saldar isn’t messing with me—creep as I try everything I can to relieve the discomfort. Nothing works. He said two hours if I broke his rule again? Well, that’s not happening. I’ve never wanted to orgasm less in my life.
By the time the door opens, my feet are white-hot balls of agony. My legs shake from the strain of holding myself up straight, and when Saldar stands in front of me, brow raised, any dignity I might have clung to evaporates.
“Please, Master. Get me off this thing.”
He doesn’t reply. How many actual words has he spoken since he captured me? A hundred? Not many. But I suppose he’s not interested in my conversational skills. He unlocks my wrist restraints, presses a button on his remote, and, oh God, thank you, the pole slides down, pulling out of my body with a wrench.
I collapse, ending up in an ungainly sprawl at Saldar’s feet.
He’s less human than ever from this position, standing over me like a fucked-up statue. Time stretches out as he watches me. He doesn’t waste words, but he doesn’t waste movement, either. There’s a stillness to the man, as if he’s got forever to spend on me, and there’s a tiny part of me that glories in the fact.
I’ve always leaned toward high-achieving, busy men who match my own energy. The downside, though, is they'vealways got something else to be doing. Like Hadrian, with hiscreations.
