She sinks down quickly, eagerly.
I unbutton my slacks and ram my cock down her throat so hard that she chokes and flails in panic. I hold her head still while she struggles to breathe, and make her suck me, then pull out when she’s only halfway done.
“You give lousy blow jobs,” I snarl at her, and the look on her face…it’s like I just murdered a puppy in front of her.
It’s not true. She gives amazing, world-class blow jobs. Her mouth is a national treasure.
I’m just angry that she wasn’t excited about the dresses I gave her.Since when do I care about anyone else’s feelings? What the fuck is wrong with me these days?
She starts crying.
She’s still crying when I make her turn around and get on her hands and knees right there on the floor. I quickly roll on a condom and shove my cock inside her without bothering to lube her up, and she cries out in pain as I tear her sensitive inner tissue. I fuck her hard and rough, ramming into her, and she’s wet within a minute, but still cringing and weeping. Her muscles are tense and clenched. I reach around and stroke her clit as I’m fucking her, until I feel that trembling in her core that tells me she’s close. Her clit swells with my attention as I force pleasure on her for my own sake rather than hers, and finally, her sheath convulses on my cock and she comes explosively. And she’s still crying.
For some reason—this has never happened to me before—I can’t come. I pull out of her and stalk out of the room without looking back. The sound of her sobs follows me down the hallway. I go to the parlor, where I fling myself into my chair and try to figure out why the hell I even care what my idiot brainless slave thinks about anything.
Yeah, I could punish her for not reacting to the dresses like I wanted her to, but what did I want her to do instead? Do I want her to lie to me and pretend she loves the dresses? Because she’s a lousy liar.
Her behavior confuses me. Just when I think that I’ve got the basics of human behavior figured out, someone throws me a curveball that leaves me annoyed and frustrated.
Take the dresses. They are perfect for her, I know that.
Why didn’t they make her happy? Women like gifts. Women especially like gifts that are personalized. Gifts that show that you know what they like.
She should have been excited and grateful I bought her those dresses. Instead, she barely looked at them. She couldn’t care less that I bought them. And I think…well, I was certainly offended. If I had feelings, I would say she’d hurt them.
Does that mean I have feelings now? And how would I be able to tell? It would be like a blind man regaining his sight and trying to identify the colors of the rainbow.
I settle back in my chair, wearily running through my daily security checks. Review the Blackthorne video feed. Read over the intel that my private investigator has gathered on the police who are investigating the disappearance of Toy and the security guard. I could take care of Sergeant Carter pretty easily; wife died of cancer, daughter ODed, nobody to miss him, and it wouldn’t be hard to stage a suicide. He seems to be the driving force behind the investigation. The detective who’s assisting him on the investigation has a gambling problem; I could use it to either blackmail him or discredit him.
Heather is still missing, vanished without a trace. Something is definitely up there. My private investigator found out that when she quit the bagel shop, she didn’t do it in person; she called it in. Did she vanish voluntarily?
Toy’s face swims in front of me again, pushing aside all other thoughts. I picture her quick, indifferent glance at those gowns I worked so hard to select, and I pick up a small statuette from my desk and hurl it across the room in an entirely uncharacteristic fit of anger. That isn’t me. I am cold and calculating and controlled.
What the fuck is happening to me? What is happening to her?
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
TOY
I think I’ve been here a couple of months now, but it could have been longer. Maybe three or four months?
I thought that changing for Master would make him happy, but I have failed somehow.
He has grown cold and withdrawn, and he says cruel, horrible things to me every day. I deserve them, but I also remember that he wasn’t always like this. When I was less obedient, when I thought about escaping and fought back, there were moments of kindness. Now his words are sharper than knives and his looks wither my soul.
I’m very angry with myself for failing. I wonder what I could do differently. How I could be better.
I think I’m doing everything I can. I spend most of my time keeping my mind blank, just waiting for orders. I no longer worry about my own comfort or safety—the only thing that’s important is pleasing Master.
I’m gratified by how much pain I can endure for him. Punishments that once would have had me panicked and screaming and begging, I now suffer through without a peep. I have come to crave the whipping and the paddling, because they give me a chance to prove my devotion. He doesn’t seem to notice how high my pain tolerance is now, which is devastating, because all I want to do is make him proud of me.
I accept that he’s killed me. He lied to me when he said he wouldn’t kill me. He killed Tamara. The girl who loved the smiles on people’s faces, and coffeeshops, and books, and music; the girl who dreamed about someday making a difference…she’s dead. I can’t be myself anymore, because I can’t stand to be locked up in that room alone anymore. I need Master. I am alone in the world without him. Sarah doesn’t visit me in my head anymore, and neither does the dark tormenting voice that blamed me for destroying my mother.
I thought I was making a difference in the world, and now I know that I failed at that. I never touched a single soul out there.
I should have known. Didn’t those lonely days in the group home teach me anything? A year of looking up hopefully every time a car pulled into the driveway, expecting my mother, and having my heart break every single time a stranger emerged. If my own mother didn’t care about my existence, why would anybody else?
Freedom is pointless. Fighting is pointless. If Master freed me, where would I go? What difference would it make if I were free, with nobody to be happy at my return?