To Command and Collar
Page 17
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good.” His hand cupped her cheek, and gaze on hers, he lowered his head. A flutter like butterfly wings tickled in her chest, but she didn’t move. A brush of his lips, a slide of his tongue on her lower lip followed by the nibble of teeth. Her mouth softened, and a tiny flicker of heat sparked to life low in her belly.
Not forceful. Gentle, teasing kisses from firm, velvety lips. His palm was warm against her cheek, his knowledgeable mouth on hers, but nothing else touched her. He didn’t even try to push his tongue in, just led her, step by step, into responding to the kind of kisses she’d experienced as a girl, before French kissing had come along.
He pulled away as slowly as he’d advanced, his gaze still intent but…oh, so much warmer. As was she.
She stared at him, setting her hand over her quivering stomach.
The corners of his eyes crinkled, but he didn’t speak, just ran his thumb over the moisture on her lower lip and then took her hand.
He led her downstairs to areas she’d already seen. The foyer and great room, dining area and kitchen, TV room. When he headed toward the south side of the house, her skin went cold. His dungeon. No. I don’t want to go there.
Ignoring the way she hung back, he opened the door and flipped on the overhead light, filling the area with brightness, erasing some of the menace. “Walk around the room three times. Look at everything,” he said in exactly the same tone as when he’d instructed her to do leg presses.
Every fiber in her urged her to flee, but she took one step through the door. Her knees shook as she forced herself to continue. He didn’t follow. She glanced back.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, just watching.
Okay then. Hands fisted at her sides, she managed to get one foot to move, then the other. The taste in her mouth, the way her skin went cold—at age six, she’d gone in a Halloween haunted house. Screams and moans, cobwebs and skeletons. She’d frozen, unable to move until her furious and shamed father had dragged her out and yelled at her for being a coward. “Moores are not cowards.”
But they are sometimes . Yet she pushed herself on, across the empty side of the room, then toward the equipment. Her feet stopped. Breathe. Breathe. She forced her legs forward, tasting blood from where she’d bitten her tongue. She made it past the St. Andrew’s cross and a bondage table. Her stomach almost revolted when she saw whips—so many whips—coiled snakelike on a shelf. A glass-fronted cabinet displayed gags. Masks. God. Pass that one quickly. She came even with Master R.
He held up one finger. “Two more.”
A throne chair with no bottom. A sink and counter. She detoured about chains dangling from the ceiling rafters. Then reached Master R.
Two fingers.
The room was well-equipped, nicer than some of the clubs she’d played in. Leather padding on almost everything. A sawhorse spanking bench. Master Raoul.
Three fingers.
She stopped in front of him and shivered, thinking of all the horrible things behind her. Now what?
“Kimberly, we’re not going to play today.”
Oh, thank you, God. Her shoulders loosened as the tenseness disappeared. “Thank you, Sir.”
“However, I do want you on that. Facedown.” He pointed to the waist-high bondage table, and she froze. He waited, then lifted his chin, his jaw hard.
Don’t make him mad. She crossed the room, ignoring her inner coward that kept screaming, Run, run, run. After she climbed onto the table, she lay on her stomach, every muscle rigid with fear.
“Good, gatita. You’re conquering yourself and doing very well.”
He took her arms, laying them at her sides, and massaged her shoulders with strong fingers. As her muscles relaxed, she opened her eyes and craned her neck to look at him. No lust in his face, just the focused attention he brought to everything he did. “Sir?”
“Master, gatita.”
“M-master, what are you doing?”
He snorted. “Massaging all your tired baby muscles. What does it feel like?”
Oh. “Nice.” Except for the need to run away and hide. “Thank you. Master.”
He worked his way down her body, and she knew he did it to get her accustomed to his touch, but it was effective. She tensed when he dug his fingers into the aching muscles of her buttocks, but he didn’t do anything sexual at all. Down her legs. Her feet. She moaned when his thumbs dug into her arches.
“Turn over.”
Her eyes popped open.
He didn’t wait but rolled her onto her back and smiled down at her. “Such big eyes. Yes, I’m going to massage your front as well.” His fingers curved over her shoulders, his thumbs digging into the muscles around the collarbones.
God, it felt good…but she couldn’t relax, not with his hands so close to her breasts. He worked on her pectoral muscles, easing around her breasts, moving them out of his way. She tensed every time he touched somewhere new.
Finally he shook his head in exasperation. “Your worries are getting the best of you, chiquita. You’re not going to fall into pieces if I touch your breasts.” And then he put his hands directly on her breasts, curving his palms around them.
Her breathing stopped.
He didn’t move as he looked down into her eyes. “Am I hurting you?” He waited. “Kimberly?”
She licked her lips. “No.” Her feelings were too messed up to figure out. Fear—oh yes. But…pleasure? She’d always liked a man’s hands on her breasts, but not now. Surely not anymore.
“Are we okay?” he asked. The firmness in his voice held the expectation that she’d get over this.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl.” He moved down to her feet, working his way up. Leaving her shaken. Always friendly, polite, yet this solid immovable core. More than his self-confidence and ability to give a command, he showed his certainty she’d not only obey him, but that she wanted to.
And he didn’t hide his satisfaction or even pleasure when she met those expectations.
His big hands squeezed one thigh and the other, moving higher until his fingers grazed the crotch of her pants with each movement. Her fear flashed and faded, leaving…anticipation. Warmth.
God, she wanted him to touch her. The realization slashed into her, more painful than a knife stroke. How could she live through rape and slavery and ever want to be touched again? What kind of slut was she? I really am the dirty fuckhole that the—
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said. He’d moved up the table to regard her closely with shadowed eyes.
Not ever. “Nothing.”
“Gatita, I know when my touch heats a woman. Why does being aroused bother you?” He waited; then his voice deepened in an explicit command. “Tell me now, Kimberly.”
The words spilled from her like a dam breaking, releasing a torrent. “I shouldn’t ever want anyone to touch me. He said I was a dirty slut, and I am. I am.” Sobs broke from her. A cunt, an animal, not worthy to be human. She knew it. Like a sewer, filth filled her, running through her core.
“Hijo de puta,” Master R muttered and picked her off the bench. He cradled her to him as he carried her to the small living room.
He shouldn’t touch her. She was not fit to be near a real person. Dirty all the way through. Tears streamed down her face, making her even uglier. A f-fuckhole and a—
He sat on the couch, leaning her against his chest. “Stop.” He shook her lightly. “Stop. Now.” A master’s voice. Her master.
She choked, pushing the sobs down.
“Better. You will listen to me. Do you remember how your memories work?” Memories? “What?” She blinked, trying to focus on his face.
“When something horrible happens, your brain doesn’t process the memories right. It stores everything—sounds, pain, smells, feelings—all mixed up. It doesn’t matter if you believed it or it made sense; it gets stored. Did Gabi or Faith not tell you this?”
They both had. Kim nodded, her cheek rubbing on his chest. His scent came to her, clean as an ocean breeze.
“So if your memory is triggered, you get parts of the mess back—and maybe what you heard or felt at the time. Are you listening, Kimberly?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“He told you over and over that you were bad. Made you feel dirty. So sometimes, when your brain accesses those memories—the ones you haven’t thought about—you’re going to hear those words and feel that way again. Sí?”
She hauled in a breath. He was right. She didn’t normally think she was a bad person. “I guess.”
“Gabrielle told me she was raped when she was a teenager. Is she a filthy slut?”
“No!” Wonderful Gabi, who cared for everyone and brightened any room she entered. “How can you—” She bit her lip. Duh. And neither am I.
“That’s it,” he murmured. He kissed the top of her head, then her lips, ever so gently. After picking up the TV remote from the side table, he said, “Let’s watch something really dirty. Like football.”
As the Saints took on the Packers, she fell asleep wrapped in comfort.
Chapter Six
Each day came with something new. Over and over, Kim had to remind herself why she was doing this. For the others. For Linda and Holly. And really…for herself, as well. To have a part in hurting the slavers, in wrecking their business, would be healing, would show that she wasn’t a nothing, but was a person who needed to be taken into account. She struggled on.
“Good.” His hand cupped her cheek, and gaze on hers, he lowered his head. A flutter like butterfly wings tickled in her chest, but she didn’t move. A brush of his lips, a slide of his tongue on her lower lip followed by the nibble of teeth. Her mouth softened, and a tiny flicker of heat sparked to life low in her belly.
Not forceful. Gentle, teasing kisses from firm, velvety lips. His palm was warm against her cheek, his knowledgeable mouth on hers, but nothing else touched her. He didn’t even try to push his tongue in, just led her, step by step, into responding to the kind of kisses she’d experienced as a girl, before French kissing had come along.
He pulled away as slowly as he’d advanced, his gaze still intent but…oh, so much warmer. As was she.
She stared at him, setting her hand over her quivering stomach.
The corners of his eyes crinkled, but he didn’t speak, just ran his thumb over the moisture on her lower lip and then took her hand.
He led her downstairs to areas she’d already seen. The foyer and great room, dining area and kitchen, TV room. When he headed toward the south side of the house, her skin went cold. His dungeon. No. I don’t want to go there.
Ignoring the way she hung back, he opened the door and flipped on the overhead light, filling the area with brightness, erasing some of the menace. “Walk around the room three times. Look at everything,” he said in exactly the same tone as when he’d instructed her to do leg presses.
Every fiber in her urged her to flee, but she took one step through the door. Her knees shook as she forced herself to continue. He didn’t follow. She glanced back.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, just watching.
Okay then. Hands fisted at her sides, she managed to get one foot to move, then the other. The taste in her mouth, the way her skin went cold—at age six, she’d gone in a Halloween haunted house. Screams and moans, cobwebs and skeletons. She’d frozen, unable to move until her furious and shamed father had dragged her out and yelled at her for being a coward. “Moores are not cowards.”
But they are sometimes . Yet she pushed herself on, across the empty side of the room, then toward the equipment. Her feet stopped. Breathe. Breathe. She forced her legs forward, tasting blood from where she’d bitten her tongue. She made it past the St. Andrew’s cross and a bondage table. Her stomach almost revolted when she saw whips—so many whips—coiled snakelike on a shelf. A glass-fronted cabinet displayed gags. Masks. God. Pass that one quickly. She came even with Master R.
He held up one finger. “Two more.”
A throne chair with no bottom. A sink and counter. She detoured about chains dangling from the ceiling rafters. Then reached Master R.
Two fingers.
The room was well-equipped, nicer than some of the clubs she’d played in. Leather padding on almost everything. A sawhorse spanking bench. Master Raoul.
Three fingers.
She stopped in front of him and shivered, thinking of all the horrible things behind her. Now what?
“Kimberly, we’re not going to play today.”
Oh, thank you, God. Her shoulders loosened as the tenseness disappeared. “Thank you, Sir.”
“However, I do want you on that. Facedown.” He pointed to the waist-high bondage table, and she froze. He waited, then lifted his chin, his jaw hard.
Don’t make him mad. She crossed the room, ignoring her inner coward that kept screaming, Run, run, run. After she climbed onto the table, she lay on her stomach, every muscle rigid with fear.
“Good, gatita. You’re conquering yourself and doing very well.”
He took her arms, laying them at her sides, and massaged her shoulders with strong fingers. As her muscles relaxed, she opened her eyes and craned her neck to look at him. No lust in his face, just the focused attention he brought to everything he did. “Sir?”
“Master, gatita.”
“M-master, what are you doing?”
He snorted. “Massaging all your tired baby muscles. What does it feel like?”
Oh. “Nice.” Except for the need to run away and hide. “Thank you. Master.”
He worked his way down her body, and she knew he did it to get her accustomed to his touch, but it was effective. She tensed when he dug his fingers into the aching muscles of her buttocks, but he didn’t do anything sexual at all. Down her legs. Her feet. She moaned when his thumbs dug into her arches.
“Turn over.”
Her eyes popped open.
He didn’t wait but rolled her onto her back and smiled down at her. “Such big eyes. Yes, I’m going to massage your front as well.” His fingers curved over her shoulders, his thumbs digging into the muscles around the collarbones.
God, it felt good…but she couldn’t relax, not with his hands so close to her breasts. He worked on her pectoral muscles, easing around her breasts, moving them out of his way. She tensed every time he touched somewhere new.
Finally he shook his head in exasperation. “Your worries are getting the best of you, chiquita. You’re not going to fall into pieces if I touch your breasts.” And then he put his hands directly on her breasts, curving his palms around them.
Her breathing stopped.
He didn’t move as he looked down into her eyes. “Am I hurting you?” He waited. “Kimberly?”
She licked her lips. “No.” Her feelings were too messed up to figure out. Fear—oh yes. But…pleasure? She’d always liked a man’s hands on her breasts, but not now. Surely not anymore.
“Are we okay?” he asked. The firmness in his voice held the expectation that she’d get over this.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl.” He moved down to her feet, working his way up. Leaving her shaken. Always friendly, polite, yet this solid immovable core. More than his self-confidence and ability to give a command, he showed his certainty she’d not only obey him, but that she wanted to.
And he didn’t hide his satisfaction or even pleasure when she met those expectations.
His big hands squeezed one thigh and the other, moving higher until his fingers grazed the crotch of her pants with each movement. Her fear flashed and faded, leaving…anticipation. Warmth.
God, she wanted him to touch her. The realization slashed into her, more painful than a knife stroke. How could she live through rape and slavery and ever want to be touched again? What kind of slut was she? I really am the dirty fuckhole that the—
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said. He’d moved up the table to regard her closely with shadowed eyes.
Not ever. “Nothing.”
“Gatita, I know when my touch heats a woman. Why does being aroused bother you?” He waited; then his voice deepened in an explicit command. “Tell me now, Kimberly.”
The words spilled from her like a dam breaking, releasing a torrent. “I shouldn’t ever want anyone to touch me. He said I was a dirty slut, and I am. I am.” Sobs broke from her. A cunt, an animal, not worthy to be human. She knew it. Like a sewer, filth filled her, running through her core.
“Hijo de puta,” Master R muttered and picked her off the bench. He cradled her to him as he carried her to the small living room.
He shouldn’t touch her. She was not fit to be near a real person. Dirty all the way through. Tears streamed down her face, making her even uglier. A f-fuckhole and a—
He sat on the couch, leaning her against his chest. “Stop.” He shook her lightly. “Stop. Now.” A master’s voice. Her master.
She choked, pushing the sobs down.
“Better. You will listen to me. Do you remember how your memories work?” Memories? “What?” She blinked, trying to focus on his face.
“When something horrible happens, your brain doesn’t process the memories right. It stores everything—sounds, pain, smells, feelings—all mixed up. It doesn’t matter if you believed it or it made sense; it gets stored. Did Gabi or Faith not tell you this?”
They both had. Kim nodded, her cheek rubbing on his chest. His scent came to her, clean as an ocean breeze.
“So if your memory is triggered, you get parts of the mess back—and maybe what you heard or felt at the time. Are you listening, Kimberly?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“He told you over and over that you were bad. Made you feel dirty. So sometimes, when your brain accesses those memories—the ones you haven’t thought about—you’re going to hear those words and feel that way again. Sí?”
She hauled in a breath. He was right. She didn’t normally think she was a bad person. “I guess.”
“Gabrielle told me she was raped when she was a teenager. Is she a filthy slut?”
“No!” Wonderful Gabi, who cared for everyone and brightened any room she entered. “How can you—” She bit her lip. Duh. And neither am I.
“That’s it,” he murmured. He kissed the top of her head, then her lips, ever so gently. After picking up the TV remote from the side table, he said, “Let’s watch something really dirty. Like football.”
As the Saints took on the Packers, she fell asleep wrapped in comfort.
Chapter Six
Each day came with something new. Over and over, Kim had to remind herself why she was doing this. For the others. For Linda and Holly. And really…for herself, as well. To have a part in hurting the slavers, in wrecking their business, would be healing, would show that she wasn’t a nothing, but was a person who needed to be taken into account. She struggled on.
