Page 6 of Magnum, Volume 2

The FBI had also been pissed about the fact I wouldn’t share the names of the victims, and I totally understood that part. However, I had the names of three people who wanted to come forward, and that was all I was giving them. The other victims didn’t want the spotlight. Didn’t want to talk about being raped thousands of times during their captivity, being forced to work out and train constantly, to get better and improve or be shocked, whipped, or worse.

Seven were willing to talk to LEO and stay anonymous, with the caveat no one would pressure them to testify. Three were willing to do whatever it took to put away as many people who hurt them as they could. I didn’t use those ten people as bargaining chips to help me with the FBI. I protected the ones who wanted to fade away, and introduced the ones who didn’t.

I had a whirlwind ten days, still living out of a hotel room, but Ember wanted me around people and with her, rather than being in the middle of nowhere in my home.

When I insisted it was time to return to Pennsylvania, she said a good test would be for her to dress up like me and spend the night in my house. I argued against this vehemently, but she was damned stubborn-headed about it, and Sloan agreed.

“If someone is going to die, it should be me!” I told her. “I took the risks, so I should be the one paying the price.”

But she’d said, “I’m so much harder to kill than you. Seriously, you have to let me do this.”

“A bullet will kill you as fast as it will me.”

“First, it isn’t likely to be a bullet, but second, I have really good body armor.”

The argument continued, but she made excellent points, and Sloan backed her up. I needed to go back to my life and send these two home, though, so I finally let them do whatever they had to do for me to safely go home.

I couldn’t sleep the first night she was at my house. I tossed and turned for an hour before turning a lamp on to map out a rough script for my next video, and then looked through the recent comments on my videos. I was back online as myself again, thank goodness. Being away from the virtual world had been a little like I imagined going to rehab to be detoxed might be.

And speaking of being ripped from what you’ve become accustomed to: I hadn’t had an orgasm since leaving Birmingham. Sharing a hotel room with Ember, and then Sloan, meant there were no attempts, but I’d tried it in the cabin — an endeavor to chill myself out while I worried about my meeting with the Feds, but it’d just left me frustrated. My trusty vibrator wasn’t enough after weeks of being pounded by Magnum’s cock.

Two nights later, I was finally back in my home, and it was again an exercise in frustration. I even tried watching extreme porn, but nothing fucking worked. I was tempted to try gluing sandpaper to a huge monster dildo, because part of the problem was that my pussy had healed and was no longer raw.

Also, my trusty vibrator is normal-dick sized.

I didn’t buy a huge vibrator, though. I ignored my sexual needs and focused on work. I let the victims tell their stories anonymously, and I started writing a book. I let them choose the names I’d call them in the book, and I set up a system online so they could read the chapter about them and cross out the parts they didn’t want me to put into the book. They could also add more, and then approve the way I wove it into the story. Or not.

Various therapists and psychologists contacted me to tell me how healthy this was for their patient, and to thank me for giving them this outlet.

And my following across YouTube, TikTok, and other sites grew exponentially. I’d had millions of followers already, but now I had tens of millions.

Because I’d long ago focused on the specific homeless people who’d gone missing, there were trails for people to follow. Their families were all contacted by other news organizations, but the victims themselves were mostly kept off-grid. Ember had told me the bikers had managed to get them all to the cities they wanted to return to, and most of them had families who’d taken them in. The ones without families were all in a city with an RTMC chapter, and were being taken care of. Bud was actually prospecting one of them into the Atlanta chapter, and I hoped it worked out for this man who’d never felt like he fit in anywhere.

I hadn’t contacted anyone in Birmingham. While Ember was with me, she kept me updated on what was happening with the victims, but once she went home, I had nothing. A month to the day, and I didn’t know if I should call Magnum. Were people listening in on my phone calls? I had no way of knowing, and I worried I’d fuck up all we’d done to keep the bikers out of it by calling or texting him.

He didn’t call me, so I figured maybe it hadn’t been long enough yet.

But then out of the blue, five weeks after the op, I opened my door to find Magnum on my front porch wearing khaki pants and a light blue button-down shirt with his hair cut like a damned businessman and dyed blond. He was completely wrong and didn’t look like himself, but it was still the same eyes, looking at me like he could see inside me.

I dragged him into the house and tears fell from my eyes, wetting my face before I even realized I was crying.

“Hey hey,” he said in that low voice I’d missed so damned much. He caught my face in both hands, thumbs wiping at the wetness while those eyes scanned my face and looked inside me, analyzing me, figuring me out. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“I’ve been so busy.” The words came out broken. “I’ve just worked and worked. Cramming food in when I can, but…” I dragged more air into my lungs and sobbed it back out. Took another breath. “Fuck, I need you. I’ve stayed busy enough I thought I was okay, but I’m fucking not okay.”

Another sob, and I admitted, “My last orgasm was at your house!” My voice broke, and the rest came out as a whisper. “I’ve given up trying to give myself one! It doesn’t work anymore!”

He lifted me like I weighed nothing. One second my feet were on the floor, the next I was in his arms and he was carrying me to the sofa. He sat and settled me sideways across his lap, one arm locked around my back, the other already sliding under my loose shorts and inside my panties. He rammed a thick finger inside me without warning, and my head fell back with a broken gasp. He added a second, then a third, stretching me open with the same relentless certainty he always used. My hips jerked up, silently begging for more.

“I have you,” he said against my temple. “You don’t have to open for me. I’ll fucking open you.”

Four fingers, and he wasn’t gentle, but I didn’t want him to be. My sobs grew more intense, and I started begging, the words tumbling out without thought. “Please, I need… Please Sir!”

“You’ll hold onto it until I give you permission, slave.” God, the voice alone could make me come. “Open your eyes and let me see your fucking need.”

I almost came around his fingers when he made me look at him. My mouth opened in a silent scream, and my body clenched hard. I fought with everything I had left, and he just made it harder and harder, curling his fingers, pressing into me to spread me so fucking wide it hurt in the most beautiful way ever. He worked me over until tears were streaming into my hair and I shook in his arms, so close to coming apart.

Finally, he said the magic words. “Come, little fuckslave.”