Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 54651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
She would be forced to testify for the record, for the world, about her punishments, about the cage. Would her brand be entered as evidence? Her piercing? It was all too horrible to contemplate.
Well, if she did go, she would face that particular hurdle when she came to it.
What was she thinking? If she went? Of course she was going. She had to go. Didn’t she?
“I can’t make you love me.”
She fell asleep finally, cupping her pussy as if it were Mark’s hand there, keeping her safe, keeping her wet for him. That night her dreams weren’t about harem girls in foreign lands.
This time she dreamed of Mark.
Chapter 11
They shared meals, sitting across from each other at the table like any couple. They exchanged small talk about the books they were reading, or the weather. Neither brought up the subject of her impending departure. Alana didn’t have the courage, and Mark, it seemed, didn’t have the heart.
Alana began to get comfortable again on the furniture. She became used to wearing clothing. Her fingers searched less frequently for the bracelets that were no longer there.
He never called for her and never came to her bedroom at night. Still, just in case, she continued to keep her pussy shaved.
After being so conditioned with constant sex, constant punishment, and constant attention, Alana felt lost. And lonely. Her body ached for his attentions. She found the only way to settle herself to sleep was to masturbate.
At first she hesitated, uncomfortable and still not totally sure it was permitted. Then it became her solace. She would rub and finger-fuck herself, staying as quiet as she could when she came. The climaxes barely scratched her itch, but they were better than nothing.
One day when Mark was ensconced in his study, she crept into the playroom. Everything was in its place—the ropes, whips and chains hung along the walls, the St. Andrew’s cross, the whipping chair, the suspension bar. The shades had been drawn, the place shrouded in shadow. Not sure she should be in there at all, Alana slipped over to the toy chest and opened it. Inside were the myriad of dildos, clips, clamps, coiled rope, duct tape and lubricants.
Looking guiltily over her shoulder, Alana grabbed a battery-operated vibrator. Shutting the lid of the toy chest, she fled from the room. That night she fucked herself with the phallus, silently begging her Master for permission to come as it took her over the edge.
As the week passed, Alana began to play with herself during the day as well. She really hadn’t much else to do. Her time when she had been Mark’s slave had been spent chained, bound, cuffed, tortured or adored, always serving him in some way. Mark didn’t have cable, and anyway, she had never much liked television. He hadn’t given her access to the internet, and there was only so much reading she could do.
When Mark was working, she would slip into her bedroom, keeping her ear cocked for any sound that he was coming. She would slip her hand into her panties and bring herself to a rapid release. Though unbidden, the images in her mind as she brought herself to orgasm always included Mark. Scenes from their time together powered her fantasies—the torture, the tenderness, the whippings and the kisses intertwined.
As the week drew to a close, her courage increased, along with an undefined anxiety. She tried to bring up the subject of her leaving. Mark refused to discuss it. He had made his decision. She would be set free. She would return to her life, he assured her, and he would rebuild his.
~*~
Mark behaved calmly with her, betraying little emotion. There was no repeat episode of the first evening, no humiliating tears. His pride wouldn’t allow it.
He argued endlessly with himself about his decision. Why had he meddled with something so perfect? He’d had her just where he wanted her—at his feet, at his mercy. Yet he knew he had no choice. It was no longer enough to keep her in chains.
There was no going back. The die was cast.
Tomorrow morning he would drive her to a bus station in a nearby town. He’d already arranged to sell the house and all its contents (except the toys and gear in the playroom and basement, which would go directly to the municipal dump).
He had his fake passport and access to several overseas bank accounts that would provide him with all he needed for a long time to come. By the time the authorities descended, he would be halfway round the world, with a new identity and a new life.
A life without her, without meaning.
He told himself to stop being melodramatic. His life didn’t hinge on her. That was ridiculous. He could disappear into oblivion and find another slave girl. This time a willing one, one who yearned to submit without being forced.