Page 36 of Magnum, Volume 1

I pushed up with my arms, lined up, and drove into her fiery-hot, swollen little cunt with a vicious thrust.

Her mouth opened on a silent cry, the pain clearly written across her face, and I fucking loved it. She was raw from the night before, her ass still stretched around that fat plug I’d crammed in her tight little hole, and the way her body fought to simultaneously expel me and take me made my cock throb like a second fucking heartbeat.

I didn’t go slow. I fucked her with short, fast strokes, watching every flinch that crossed her face while she made a string of helpless, desperate sounds.

I reached between us and massaged her clit until she started clenching around me, right on the edge. The second I felt those first flutters, I pulled my hand away.

“You don’t have permission,” I told her, voice low with warning.

Her eyes flew wide open, and the frustrated, desperate scent that poured off her went straight to my head. And balls.

I fucked her harder, chasing my own climax while she hovered and fought the release she wasn’t allowed.

Knowing how close she was, watching her fight it with a pleading, pained expression made me blow harder than I had in months. I buried myself deep and came with a low groan, grinding into her while I came into the condom, and my little slave clenched tight around me, whimpering with need. Right on the edge without permission to tip over.

I stayed inside her, cock still twitching, soaking in her reactions to being denied. I breathed in and parsed the scents — the thick thread of her frustration, her dismay, the sharp edge of anger, and over everything else was the heady scent of her raw, overwhelming need.

Denial is such a fucking power rush, I wanted to fuck her all over again — but she wasn’t up for that, so I pulled out and dealt with the damned condom.

“Permission to leave the bed and use the toilet, my needy little denied fuckdoll.”

I’d started using ‘my’ when I referred to her, and I recognized the danger in it. I was growing way too attached to this woman who’d be leaving once the threat was handled. This investigative reporter who’d agreed not to share what she learned while here, but only because she didn’t have other options for taking the fight ring down. We were making the most of our time while she was trapped here. That was it, and I should probably stop thinking of her as mine.

I helped her out of bed, and she moved carefully, still shaky, and I followed her into the bathroom. Slaves don’t get privacy.

I didn’t stare, though. I stepped into the shower, turned it on, and adjusted the temperature. When she stood, I stepped out to remove the cincher and then walked her into the shower — and ordered her to kneel before me under the water.

I had her wash my cock and balls first, her hands slick with soap, working carefully around the base. Then I turned her around, bent her over, and washed her cunt myself, taking my time, making sure she felt every stroke of my fingers, washing between her folds and all around her clit. “Good behavior today means orgasms tonight. Mediocre behavior means you don’t.”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t respond, and I was pleased.

“Stand,” I told her, and when she obeyed, I added, “Inspection.”

She immediately went into the Gorean pose, and it made me wonder just how familiar she was with it. Had she role-played it? I knew there were clubs that really got into it, pretending it’s real, following all the rules.

This pose has the slave standing with feet shoulder-width apart, fingers laced behind the head, tits out, back arched, stomach sucked in — and fuck, she was beautiful in it, standing in the shower with water streaming over her.

I took my time washing her tits, paying special attention to the way her nipples tightened under my not-so-tender ministrations.

When we were both clean, I dried her off and locked the heels back on her feet.

“Bring your daytime cincher,” I said. “Two steps behind me, to my left.”

She picked it up without argument, followed me to the dungeon, and jumped up to grab the bar when I pointed to it.

I stepped behind her and began the process of lacing the steel-boned cincher again. I scented her distress from the start, but I kept going because it’s normal — the day a slave realizes this will be a twice-daily event, with no escape. It would either work for her, or it wouldn’t, but it wasn’t optional.

Sure enough, the second I began pulling the laces tight, her breathing changed, she sobbed, and I scented tears.

I kept working, though. Tears don’t stop the inevitable. “I know it’s hard,” I said quietly, still working the laces. “The life of a slave is rough, but you want to be pleasing to your owner, don’t you, little cunt?”

She nodded, and the scent of her tears grew stronger. I let her sob while I worked the laces, measured, and noted the numbers.

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Storm

His voice was low and almost sympathetic while he kept pulling the laces tighter, telling me the life of a slave is rough, asking if I want to be pleasing to my owner. His words landed like a slap and a caress at the same time, and my eyes burned while the tears fell. My torso felt bruised, and the cincher was already squeezing everything too tight again when he’d barely gotten started.