Page 49 of The Enslaved Duet
He caught me again by the ankle as I tried to crawl away, and then he dragged me kicking and yelling under his body. With a vicious yank, he broke the closure of my dress so that the colourful fabric spooled beneath us like crushed flowers. I gasped as he cupped my sex, then ripped the fabric there too, the expensive lingerie shredding to bits in his fingers.
His cock was suddenly in his fist, swollen and an angrier red than I’d ever seen it.
He thrusted inside me, parting my molten folds like a spear arrowing to the very depths of me.
“To the victor, the spoils,” he growled into my ear as he pinned my wrists down in one hand and used the other to choke me lightly.
He set a punishing pace, angling his hips so that his thick head dragged against that knot of nerves on my front wall. The light stubble on his groin rasped against my aching clit, nudging the piercing back and forth so that my entire sex filled with static electricity.
I held him tight to my body even though he hurt me, because he hurt me.
I loved the way his teeth bit into the tender flesh of my neck and breasts, how violet bruises and ruddy poppies bloomed beneath my skin at his touch. The ache of him in my sex as he planted himself deep and finally came with a rough shout like a warrior claiming triumph over the death of a fallen foe.
I was fallen, sunk beneath the depths of his darkness, and so entrenched in the underworld, I knew there would never be any going back.
Five years might pass, the contract between us might dissolve into dust with time, but I would always be, elementally and crucially, Master Alexander’s woman.
In the next two weeks, I was fucked so thoroughly, I couldn’t walk without the echo of his cock between my legs. My body was sore to the bone, skin burst with bruises, and muscles burned from the constant stretch and pull of my limbs worked into wicked positions. I learned the difference between the wide spread heat of a flogging, the mounting burn of a paddling, and the excruciating, venomous bite of a whip. In fact, he used me so completely each day that there wasn’t a single moment I was free from the reminder of sex. I wore it on my body and housed it in my mind. A moan of want or protest seemed lodged in my throat like a lozenge that wouldn’t pass.
Every morning, I woke up wet and stayed that way as I bathed Alexander and dressed him for work. He used me in the shower, always, soothing me with his cock and almost cooing to me as he fucked me, promising to bring me relief with his cum and his special brand of agony.
He used me all around the house, everywhere but those rare locked doors and his own bedroom. He liked to fuck me in the greenhouse most. I think it made him feel like he was cornering, caging, and conquering a wild animal. I made sure to mark him with scratches and bite marks to add to the allusion.
And every night, he used me in my room, pulling out his black bag of devious toys and using them on me the way Dr. Frankenstein might have experimented on his monster. I became one—a monster, that is. One that lived on debauched displays of submission and constantly yearned for domination.
I spent my days learning to cook or hanging out in the kitchen with Douglas, who proved to be the joy of every day with his affable charm and easy manner. Sometimes, Mrs. White made us tea and regaled me with stories about a young Alexander that I convinced myself I didn’t think were charming.
Still, cooking wasn’t my passion, nor was working out in the gorgeous gymnasium as I’d taken to doing with the rest of my spare time.
It was Noel who kept me company in those moments when boredom threatened to overwhelm me, as if he knew just when I was susceptible to breaking my promise to Alexander. I knew it was forbidden to spend time with his father, though I had absolutely no idea why. To me, Noel was on the wrong side of middle age, clearly retired, but still fit enough to desire some mental sparring and interesting company.
At first, I worried the servants would tattle to my Master, but after a few days, I realized that even though Alexander clearly helmed the ship, his father owned it.
Besides, I enjoyed having a secret from the man who fancied himself as the most omnipotent and important person in my life.
We spent most afternoons on the chess table before the fire, as the grey world of England grew even darker and wetter with the coming winter. I learned how to move the pieces as if they were an extension of my mind and how to parry Noel’s clever attacks, nearly always aggressive, with subtle defensive moves of my own. Mostly, I learned how to fight with my pawns—when to sacrifice them for the greater good and when to level one up to a more impressive piece.
One day, one of those white pawns went missing, and Noel was forced to bring out a spare. I didn’t tell him I’d pocketed it, but I think he knew and didn’t care.
He enjoyed my company, but I was a pawn as much as the one I’d stolen, and we both knew that.
I woke up on the first day of my third month in Pearl Hall without Alexander. He had been in London for the night, though he Skyped to watch me use an enormous black dildo he’d given me on my tiny pussy. I was still wet that morning, and as he bade me, I didn’t shower it away. Instead, I dutifully dressed in the outfit that was always laid out for me in the morning, some kind of expensive dress that allowed for easy movement but hugged my curves, and set out on my daily exploration of the home.
Only, that morning Noel was waiting for me in front of two double doors I knew very well were barred to me.
“Hello, my dear Ruthie,” he greeted as he always did. “Today, I have a surprise for you.”
Those doors were different from the other doors in the house, double wide and carved from a heavy ancient wood that was cracked and worn smooth in some places. They hadn’t been replaced or painted in the clean, light colours of the rest of the residence.
I knew before Noel grasped both rough metal handles and pushed open the weighted doors that inside would be a library.
Whenever I walked past, I could smell the hint of vellum and cloth seeping beneath the thin wedge below the door. I wanted inside so badly, sometimes on my daily tour of the three-story mansion, I would stand outside and press my fingers to the pockmarks and whorls in the wood while I imagined what treasures lay inside.
I never could have guessed they would be so terrifically awe inspiring as this.
The enormous room was longer than it was wide and filled to the rafters with exquisitely carved wooden shelves painted white and trimmed in gold leaf. The ceiling was painted as many others in the house, but these images depicted Atlas with the entire, beautifully detailed world on his grotesquely muscled shoulders.
The parquet floor was glossed to a high shine where it showed beneath massive, faded Persian rugs, and at the very far end of the large room stood a marble hearth so enormous it could fit my entire Italian family comfortably.
