Page 29 of Magnum, Volume 1

I nodded, dusted it, then the table, and kept going. Bending at the waist to wipe the top of a large planter pulled at the cincher and repositioned the plug at the same time, and I gave a little yelp and had to grab the tree in the planter to keep my balance.

It took longer than it should have to do the entire house. The constant awareness of the plug and the way the heels forced me to move so damned carefully made everything slower. Every time I had to stretch or bend, the cincher forced my spine to conform to the damned steel spines holding it into an arch, and the combination of the heels and cincher majorly fucked with my body mechanics.

I was constantly adjusting my stance, trying to ease the pressure inside me without being obvious about it. He only had me change the way I was doing things a few times, but every time, his patient, gravelly voice sent a fresh pulse of heat through me that had nothing to do with dusting.

I know a lot of people hate dusting, but I truly enjoy making a room sparkle. I think clearing away the dulling layer gives me the same dopamine rush people get from clearing a board in a video game.

Though I admit, I was glad he doesn’t have louvered blinds because those are a huge pain in the ass to keep clean. I think he buys things with a thought toward dusting, because he has a lot of artwork, but the frames are simple to dust.

When I finished the last room, he told me, “Protocol when you finish is to put the heads and cloths in the dryer, keeping the cleanest cloth out, and then come get me so I can assess your work. After inspection, you get everything from the dryer, reassemble and fold, and stow everything away for the next time. No need for inspection today since I watched as you worked, so do the dryer, put everything away, and then meet me in the dungeon.”

He wanted orders to be acknowledged, so I said, “Yes, Sir.”

My feet and calves were burning by this time, but I walked as gracefully as I could out of the room, the plug shifting with every step. I sat at the kitchen table and drank some ice water while the dryer did its job, but got back to it as soon as it finished. The muscles around the plug were cramping with the stretch, and I was glad he wasn’t in the room to hear my gasp and whimper when I leaned down to put all the supplies back in the bottom living room cabinet.

I made my way back upstairs yet again, the heels clicking on the hardwood steps, my stomach tightening because I had no idea what would happen next.

On the one hand, if the high-protocol part of the day was over and he was about to get me out of the heels and cincher, and remove the fucking plug, it would be a huge relief… and yet, I’d also be a little disappointed.

On the other hand, if he was about to fuck me again, I was both excited and a little terrified, because I was still so damned raw inside from the morning session.

I looked in the dungeon and found him doing a handstand in the middle of the room, every-so-slowly pressing up and down, every arm and shoulder muscle rippling.

I stopped just inside the door, and he came down gracefully and stood.

“Grab the bar again, slave.”

My legs and feet were beyond exhausted, but I jumped and grabbed it, and then appreciated the stretch in my spine once I was hanging despite the strain of holding on.

He came in behind me a minute later and walked two slow circles around me before he crouched, unlocked the shoes, and removed them.

I squeezed my toes and curled my feet, the relief immediate.

“Bend your legs up, to the outside of your body. Knees out to the side of your torso, feet hanging down.”

I had to grip the bar tighter to manage it, and it was harder to breathe, folded in half with the cincher restricting so much of my torso.

It didn’t take me long to figure out this was to make it easier for him to grab the plug and work it out, twisting and pulling until it came free, and I couldn’t help the girly-girl yelp that came out. I hate sounding like a wounded female, but I couldn’t help it.

My hole clenched around nothing — throbbing, fatigued, sore and strangely empty — but I stayed bent, fighting for air. He patted the side of my hip and said, “Legs can dangle again.”

He started on the laces of the cincher, and he worked faster than before, loosening them in steady pulls until the pressure finally eased and I could breathe normally.

When the last lace came free, he peeled the cincher away from my skin and dropped it on a cart beside the shoes and plug.

And I just breathed, fully oxygenating my body and enjoying the freedom from those horrible stays or bones or whatever they’re called. My waist felt tender where they’d pressed in, and my skin was slightly damp and cool.

He stepped in close behind me and ran his fingers along what I figured were the marks from the cincher for a good thirty seconds before he finally said, “Permission to release.”

I dropped to my bare feet and turned to face him. My legs felt unsteady without the heels, but I managed to deal with it without needing to take a step for balance.

“Who am I?” he asked.

Ah, another signal that things had changed. I loved the way he structured this, to delineate when we were in high versus low protocol. “Magnum,” I told him with a smile.

He stepped back and scanned me from head to toe with an assessing look, then reached out and ran his thumb along the red line under my breasts, engraved into my skin by the top edge of the cincher.

“You saw where I got the shoes and plug. Cincher goes in the compartment above the shoes, but drape it over the bar, for now, with the lining facing up. Put everything else away and come to the office. You’re allowed to dress as you wish during low-protocol hours unless I want you naked. Stop by your bedroom for clothes, run down to the kitchen to get me a glass of lemonade and whatever you want to drink, and meet me in the office.”