He fed her then, a creamy soup with lots of protein, had her drink more fluids. Then he worked his fingers into her cunt, telling her to squeeze down on the steel bulb, and turned her into a screaming, mindless slut once more.

She lost track of how many hours, days, millennia passed as he was catapulting her into an alternative universe. He’d messed with her reality, her sense of time, spatial relationships. The only fixed point, the only anchor, was him.

Since time had no meaning, she measured it by climaxes, and of course eventually her mind even stumbled over that—was it fifth, seventh…tenth? They became increasingly more intense, rigid like an implosion, because her body had no energy to handle a more externally demonstrative response. It didn’t matter. She was responding to his demands now, not her brain’s limitations.

Now he had her kneeling on the floor, her body curled, her head pressed to the carpet between his feet, like the Child’s Pose in yoga…or a position of utter subjugation before a Master. He’d kept her that way for a while. She smelled whiskey, knew he’d poured himself a glass and must be sitting in a comfortable chair before her, just watching her. She was shaking. She’d of course been shaking intermittently since the beginning, but somewhere during the past hour or so, it had become continuous. Her throat was hoarse, so screams were now weak gasps, making those hard climaxes even more potent, all the energy focused between her exhausted legs.

“All right then.” He’d taken out the ear plugs after dinner, so she heard the glass being set on the side table. “Up on your heels, arms out to your sides.”

She tried, and found her arms were noodles. She was losing motor control. Shouldn’t that alarm her?

“Permission to speak, sir.” She had to clear her voice, and it still came out a rough squeak.

“You have it.”

“I can’t lift them. I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

“All right.” Gripping her wrist, he drew her arm out to her side to cuff it to cool steel. The bar was laid over her shoulders, attached to her collar with a clip, and he lifted the other wrist, attached it to the other side of the spreader bar. He moved behind her then, and she heard a drawer opening and closing. She’d figured out that he kept a fairly well-stocked BDSM dungeon in this home, probably next to the room that held the massage cot.

She’d tried not to think why he had equipment here, because of course the truth of that was obvious. But she was pretty sure he’d been doing only club sessions for the past couple years. It might have been awhile since the dust had been knocked off this equipment, figuratively speaking. She’d take what she could get, hold onto the hope she was right about that.

“Easy now. Take this in.” His arm wrapped around her waist, his fingers touching her well-used pussy, guiding in a dildo. She shuddered with the discomfort and yet the desire to please. He’d lubricated it well, and when it pressed against her perineum, she realized it was a double dildo he strapped in place. Then he turned on the vibration feature. She cried out. When he came back around her, keeping his hand on the spreader bar to steady her, he was close, such that her cheek was briefly pressed against his hip. As she turned her face into the soft stuff of his slacks, the strap of his belt, she couldn’t hold back the quiet sob. She was so tired.

“We finish as we start, sweet slave. You suck me off until I come, then I let you rest.”

He didn’t move her back, such that she felt him pull off the belt, unfasten the pants, take down the zipper and the boxers beneath. She parted her lips, reaching for him. When the broad head pushed into her mouth, she sucked on it like a favorite treat, and remarkably it was like that, a pacifier. Yet that thing inside of her, depleted as it was, came to life again. Her Master was ordering her to service him, make him come, and that was what she was going to do.

He didn’t make it easy, but that was part of it, wasn’t it? He held out a long, long time, until she was crying in frustration, her tears bathing her cheeks and his cock, but it also made her even more determined, licking, swirling, sucking, biting. She made a triumphant noise in her throat when she felt the telltale convulsion of the shaft beneath her tongue, felt that first spurt against her throat. With a growl, he pulled out of her mouth, jacked his semen over her breasts. She welcomed the heat of it, the marking, keeping her lips parted to catch the stray drop splashed by the force of it.

She’d lost count of how many times he’d come, but what male could do that and not need IV fluids?

He was tucking himself back into the slacks. The rustle of clothing, a zipper, the clink of the belt being refastened. Dropping to a knee in front of her, he closed his hand over the spreader bar beside her right wrist. His other fingers touched her swollen clit, her cunt lips stretched over that dildo.

She couldn’t. There was no way. But of course Ben didn’t take no for an answer. She made a plea as his mouth closed over her left nipple, began to slowly suck. On their periodic breaks, he’d used different oils and balms to soothe the tissues of her ass and pussy, but she couldn’t come. She just couldn’t, she was so tired.

He was determined, though, teaching her that her mind could make impossible things possible when she surrendered her will to him. From somewhere low in her womb, that spiraling sensation was resurrected, leading to a quiet, shuddering detonation that had her bleating like a lost lamb as he continued to tease and suckle her nipples, squeezing her breasts throughout.

When she was done, he removed the spreader bar, eased her down to the floor, letting her lie on her hip. She was unable to do anything while he removed the double dildo, her mask and collar, the chains, all of it. When she opened her eyes, she couldn’t do more than look up at him from the floor. Straightening, he had turned to pick up wipes and balm from a side table, the things he’d use to care for her, clean her. The shirt was all the way open, pulled free of the belted slacks so she could see the appealing ridges of muscle along his upper torso. External obliques…down to the iliac furrow, that lovely V-cut of muscles that arrowed down into the groin.

Emotions coiled up tight in her chest as she once again remembered her playful teasing with her pre-med roommate. Also known as the Adonis belt, a result of low body fat and tight internal obliques pulling on their origin, the inguinal ligaments highlighted the lower rectus abdominis and external obliques. Tempting the female tongue to trace them down, down… God, she never stopped wanting him.

She managed to roll to her elbow. If he moved back even a step, she wouldn’t make it, but he didn’t. She sensed him turning his attention to her, stilling. Waiting to see what she was about to do. Pulling herself over those few inches, she pressed her mouth to his foot, a hard, fervent gesture. She forced herself back up onto her wobbling knees, slid back into a slave’s posture, hands behind her back, head bowed, breasts thrust out, knees spread. The way she’d begun.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

I saw your society date for the Spring charity ball on the NOLA online edition. The only thing made in nature on that woman was her cotton underwear.

Don’t be too harsh, brat. We all start out made by nature, but we have to build other faces to survive in this world. Plus, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t wearing underwear. At least, that’s what I heard.

Letter exchange between Ben and Marcie, her sophomore year

Chapter Nine

Having broken subs down to the deepest level, Ben had seen them do a lot of very emotional things, things which fed his need to make them that vulnerable, to prove, at least in that moment, that they trusted him utterly with their naked, shivering souls. He cherished those times, even as he didn’t hold onto them. The point was getting them there, a catharsis for them and pure, undiluted satisfaction for him as a Dominant.

He’d given Marcie an incredibly intense workout, fueled as much by his own lust as her desire to learn what it was to serve a Master. Somewhere along the way, he’d gotten immersed in it, so he was no longer teaching as much as he was actually striving to take her deeper and deeper into her head, have her give more and more of herself to him. Fuck, what had he been thinking?

She’d told him he held himself away from his subs. He’d told her that was the way he wanted it, that it was intentional. Then he’d stepped across that line, gotten as deep into this as she had.

Watching her perform that remarkable act of obeisance, when she could barely sit up straight, when he knew every muscle in her body was shaking from stress, when her ass, pussy and nipples had to be sore as hell, it took the floor out from under him. For that one second, there was no rational thought. He wanted to fucking own her, make her follow him around naked, wearing nothing but those stilettos she’d mentioned and a diamond and emerald collar and leash he’d have made especially for her.

She’d do it, would strut proudly, sweet sassy thing that she was, letting that ass swing and breasts jiggle, and give him that challenging smile that told him she could handle anything he could dish out…even if it killed her.

Though he always asked club subs for their safe word, he took them far past where they’d have the sense to use it, so his intense scrutiny during a session had as much to do with their well-being as his own immersion in it. As he’d told Lucas and Matt, she was the type of sub who’d get so lost in her head she’d happily allow a Master to kill or permanently injure her, and smile all the way to the last breath.

A lot of Masters wouldn’t touch that kind of sub, because it was too damn much responsibility. Twisted bastard that he was, she was exactly the kind of sub he considered a treasure. She’d trusted him more than any sub he’d ever had, no hesitation in obeying anything he demanded.

Fuck. He went to one knee, caught her as she toppled. “Easy,” he murmured. She clutched his arms, opened her eyes to look at him. That hazy subspace disorientation was like crack to a Master. But her brown eyes were also full of devotion, care, a lot of things that made his chest tight.

“I need you,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, words drunkenly slurred. “Stay with me? Sleep with me? Please.”