The Bonding Ch. 03

Anya

A week after Michael recorded his little film, I awoke on the floor of his bedroom ready to start another day of small town life. I rose to my knees and climbed onto his bed, slipping silently under his covers to take his beautiful cock in my mouth. He had wanted to sleep in this morning, so my bladder was achingly full by the time he came awake.

Each night, before crawling into his king-sized bed, Michael would point to the floor. A terse "Stay!" was enough to hold me there until time to wake him in the morning. No command would have held me there against an intruder in his home, nor against the least threat of harm to him. A previous order, even one as old as "wake me every morning with your mouth on my cock", was enough to allow me to rise from the floor.

However the compulsion to obey was stronger than any physical need of my own. For this reason, I typically drank very little in the evenings. The days Michael asked to sleep in were always uncomfortable. I would have to see to all of his needs before being allowed to withdraw downstairs to see to mine.

The first was his need to cum. He sensed my discomfort immediately, of course, and I could feel the slow smile spread across his face. The head of his member was in my mouth, stretching my jaws wide; my hands were busy stroking his long thick shaft. Despite all the times Michael had used his cock to hurt me, as much as I remained terrified of it, there was no denying its perfect beauty.

"Slow down, baby," Michael purred. "No need to rush. Don't worry about making me cum, just enjoy my cock for awhile."

I moaned loudly over his cock then let him slide from my lips. I traced my fingers over the thick, ropy veins, savoring the velvety feel of his skin. I played with his large balls, rolling them gently in my small hands. I traced my tongue beneath his foreskin and probed and sucked at his urethra.

It was times like these, lost in the pure sensation of Michael, that I could forget for a time that I was a slave. I was free to explore his beauty and power without the violence that was so much a part of him. I don't know how long he let me play, long enough for the pressure in my bladder to gain urgency, perhaps half an hour.

Finally he reached down and pulled my hands from his cock. "Enough, baby," he said. "Climb up here. Fuck me."

I crawled up his body, knees to either side of his powerful hips. I lifted his cock, squatting on my toes in order to get enough height to position him at my swollen, wet sex. Slowly I began to work myself down over his substantial pole. Intercourse with Michael is always a challenge, but when he lets me control the pace, there is actually very little pain. Unless you count the panicked cries from my distended bladder.

When I was fully impaled, my cervix shoved far up into my abdomen by his steel rod, he ran one hand lightly over my lower belly and smiled.

"Now show me how much you love to fuck me."

I did just that, rocking back and forth on that amazing cock, running my hands over his powerful chest and arms. I flicked my tongue over his nipples, sucking lightly on each one, before I sat up and began to really ride him. My tightly stretched cunt squeezed and sucked at his cock as I lifted my body up and brought it down over and over. He began to thrust up into me, meeting me stroke for stroke.

This was the Michael that was the balance to his brutality. Though he never truly suppressed his cruelty with me, this was closer to the Michael that the other women in his life got to experience: powerful and a little dangerous, but a good man, and a generous lover. He caressed my breasts, gently pinching my nipples, running his hands over my arms and back. He pulled me down into a long kiss, before letting me raise up to fuck him faster, harder.

It wasn't long before I was riding the edge of orgasm. The rare indulgence of my own desires was overpowering me far too quickly. Michael realized this, of course.

"Enough! Stop," he ordered. I froze instantly. "Finish me with your mouth."

Not bothering to protest or beg, I slid off him and knelt on the big bed. I took him deep into my mouth, sucking hard, stroking him with one hand, cupping his large scrotum with the other. My body, so very, very close to getting what it craved, screamed in frustration as Michael shot his hot cum directly down my throat.

Inside my mind I could feel his exploding pleasure as he groaned and held my face with both hands. The intensity of it took my breath, even as my body shook from being denied its own explosion. More than my pain, more than my degradation, Michael reveled in the contrast his own breathless ecstasy made against my quivering, whimpering frustration. Denying me release was, for Michael, like bathing in pure, bright joy. I fed on his joy, like a vampire feeds on blood.

Breathing deeply, he finally pushed himself up to sit on the edge of his bed. I scrambled to the floor and darted ahead of him into the master bath, to kneel beside his toilet. He followed behind, but shook his head as I moved to lift the lid.

"No, baby, in the tub," he said.

I shuddered, tears springing into my eyes for the first time that day. Michael smiled broadly. "That's my girl," he purred as I knelt in his enormous bathtub. He stepped up to the tub, and I took his softened cock in my hands, aiming it at my upturned face. Michael never handled his own penis while urinating unless we were apart.

I sobbed with shame and revulsion as the hot stream hit me directly between the eyes. The bond ensured that it was just exactly as humiliating and disgusting as it was the first time he'd done this to me over 200 years ago. This was my payment to him for the pleasure he'd allowed me a few moments before. I was very careful to keep the stream aimed directly at my face.

When he was done, I licked him clean. He stepped back to smile down at me, my face and hair dripping with his piss.

"Stay there on your knees until you're completely dry. Do not piss in my tub. When you're dry you can go downstairs. I'm going back to sleep for a bit."

"Michael, please!" I called desperately as he turned away. "I won't last that long, please!"

"I know," he grinned at me. " I expect your screams will be waking me up in a couple of hours. Do try to let me sleep as long as possible."

With that he turned off the lights, and shut me in the dark. My knees were already feeling the bite of kneeling in the ceramic tub, and the stink of urine burned my nose. I fought against a rising panic. I was under a direct command not to do something my body would eventually do no matter what I wanted. My long thick hair would take hours to dry. I felt as if my bladder would give way at any moment. When it did, the pain would come. The otherworldly pain was brought on by the bonding any time I failed my master. Every instant of that pain was an eternity in Hell. It was like nothing I could begin to describe. I squeezed my thighs together and savored the spasming pain in my belly. Every second of cramping pressure was another second I remained free of the pain of the magic. I bowed my head in the stinking darkness and cried.

Michael

I was dreaming of a young man named George Melton. In my dream it was 1812, and George and I were visiting the slave quarters on his father's Alabama cotton plantation. George was explaining the superior quality of "negro leather" for making boots while buggering the father of a young girl I was raping. Finishing with the girl's father, George approached with a large hunting knife, offering to demonstrate his technique on the girl under me. Blood sprayed and the girl began to scream.

I awoke, panting and sweating, desperately trying to wipe the dream blood from my face. My heart was pounding, and bile rose in my throat, even as I realized it had just been a dream. That had never happened.

Her name had been Sarah, the girl in my dream. She had been sweet and kind, and a more than willing partner in our lovemaking. George had skinned her alive because I had refused his advances. She had been his sixth victim. Anya and I had heard the screams too late to save my sweet Sarah. Fitting, I suppose, that I of all men, should have my dreams haunted by the screams of a beautiful girl.

Abruptly my nightmare clouded mind registered the fact that I still heard screaming. I stumbled from my bed to the adjoining bath. Anya lay on her side in my tub, muscles contorted obscenely. I realized I had no idea how long the magic had had her.

"Anya, it's okay! You can stop hurting now. You're forgiven." Slowly I watched her muscles relax. Her screams faded to panting. She was lying in a puddle of her own piss, my piss crusted on her face. Her eyes were wide with pain and terror, and she stank. I felt my cock lurch in my pants.

Turning from Anya I took a towel from the cupboard and tossed it to her over my shoulder. Without looking at her I said, "Go downstairs and clean up. I'll be down for breakfast in an hour."

I left her and went to sit on the edge of my bed, my face in my hands. I remembered how Anya had killed George Melton without a single word or glance at me for approval. He was a rabid monster, she'd said, and had needed to be put down. I remembered thanking her.

I heard Anya step lightly from my bath and hurry past toward the hallway. I sat with my face in my hands, thinking about monsters and justice, and wondering when I'd finally get my due.

An hour later I entered the kitchen. I was wearing only my robe, since I'd sent Anya away before bathing and dressing me. She was naked, of course, freshly scrubbed and smelling of strawberry shampoo. As I seated myself at the small table, she set a cup of steaming coffee down so hard in front of me that half the cup sloshed onto the table. She turned her back brusquely and stomped back to the stove where bacon was sizzling in a pan.

Stunned, I stared from the spilled coffee to my slave's naked back, back to the coffee. After two hundred and thirty plus years I had seen Anya in practically every frame of mind. I had seen her happy, playful, passionate... sad, often; in pain, enraged... but Anya in a SNIT was remarkable enough to raise my eyebrows. To be honest, it was adorable, and just the thing to turn my mood around. Of course, it couldn't be allowed to continue.

Odd as it may sound, I had no idea what was bothering her. The bond told me she was angry and worried and her feelings were hurt. It did not tell me why. The obvious answer would be that I had tortured her; pissed in her face, left her in the dark for hours, fighting to avoid the inevitable, only to finally piss herself and lie screaming in agony while I took my own sweet time getting to her. For some reason I didn't think that was it, though.

When she dropped my breakfast plate on the table, making the food bounce and spilling more coffee, I stood and slapped her across the face. She caught herself just short of falling. She actually glared at me before dropping her eyes to the floor. But with the slap had come a spike of something through the bond. Had that been relief? Hope? How odd.

I slapped her again, much harder, and she went to her knees, pressing her face to the floor at my feet. There, behind the pain... definitely a sense of relief. She was still upset with me, and now there was fear too, but the worry was gone.

"I want an explanation, Anya."

She sat back on her heels and glared up at me. Oh, yes, she was still angry.

"You are NOT a monster," she practically spat at me.

I took a step back and my jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

"Whatever you were on your way to becoming when we met, you are not a monster. You are not like LaLaurie or Himmler or George Melton or the dozens of other psychopaths we've encountered. You should not give in to your guilt."

"Is that what I'm doing?"

"Yes. I suffered for you. For you, Michael! And you turned your back on me. You fought back your arousal and wallowed in remorse instead. I will not have it!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "You won't have it?" The words tasted strange in my mouth. "YOU won't...?" I slapped her face again. She smiled up at me.

"Better."

I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it. Then I shook my head, utterly confused. Never, not once, had Anya ever taunted me into hurting her. She was most assuredly not a masochist. She did love the effect her pain and humiliation had on ME, but that was only a result of the bonding. Wasn't it? Something told me our relationship was more complex than I'd ever realized.

"You are a good man, Michael. You rid the world of evil men and cripple criminal enterprises the police can't touch. You're generous to a fault. You're a sadist, but you hold yourself in check with everyone around you. But I am your outlet. With me there is no holding back. The shame does not scar me, the pain fades, and I heal. I am perfect for you."

"You hate the pain, I know you do. What is it you're asking from me, Anya?"

"I am asking you to take your pleasure, Michael! You deny me my pleasure, and I accept that as your right. But I will damn us both to hell before I let you deny me your pleasure as well. It is all I have!"

I groped behind me for my chair, and sat back down, hard. "Well," I said. "Huh." It made perfect sense, of course. Still. "Huh," I said again. She looked up at me, grimly patient. "Wipe up this mess and get me another coffee."

As she obeyed, I collected my scattered thoughts. Nothing had changed, I decided. She'd said nothing that was new, precisely. Except that somewhere amid that tirade, I got the distinct impression that Anya actually LIKED me. What a very odd thing to discover after all this time.

She served the coffee, this time with her usual grace, and knelt again at my feet. I ate a piece of toast as she bowed her head.

"Sweetheart," I said suddenly, "press your face to the floor and reach up and touch the ceiling."

She bowed low until her face kissed the floor and one arm shot out and upward. I watched as, unable to obey me, the magic took her. She screamed, and my cock hardened. I let her scream until her voice cracked.

"Relax, baby," I said, and watched as the pain slowly faded from her. She was right, about everything. Her pain had my cock raging, but it would never scar her body or her mind. She was my perfect outlet.

"Again, sweetie, stay bowed and touch the ceiling." I let my robe fall open and stroked my cock as she screamed her agony. My guilt was gone. For the moment, at least. I ate my breakfast and stroked my cock. I let her scream... for a long time.

Anya

I knelt on the tile floor, consumed by agony for a thousand years. After the first hundred years, I forgot where I was. After two hundred years I forgot who the man moaning over me was. Another hundred years and I forgot who I was. But still the pain continued. Long centuries after I had forgotten any existence other than this agony I continued to pray for death. Finally there were no prayers, no thoughts at all... and still the agony went on and on. How many centuries did it take for the release from Hell to register on my shattered mind? Three, four?

At last I was able to lift my face from the floor. Face... floor...my mind was relearning the meaning, the existence of words. I looked up to see Michael standing over me. Michael. Memories crashed home, of Michael, of the bond, of my SCOLDING him for denying his own pleasure. He was denying nothing now. He was awash in a pleasure so profound it very nearly transcended my millennium of torment. But it was not my pleasure, it was his.

Now that my suffering was abated, I could feel the throbbing hunger of my sex. His arousal had me wet and ready to meet his need. He surprised me by squatting next to me and placing his hand over my cunt.

"Hump my hand like the little bitch in heat you are, girl," he growled.

I cried out at his touch and frantically rubbed my swollen pussy against his hand.

"Now, cum for me, bitch."

I shuddered as I exploded against his hand. I screamed out my release as I'd screamed my agony. A year it had been since he'd let me feel this. I think I blacked out for a moment. But Michael was still holding my cunt.

"Don't stop, bitch. Keep humping me, little puppy. I want you to cum again. Now!"

Again I screamed as I came. And I screamed as he roughly shoved three fingers inside me.

"Again, bitch. Cum now!" He pumped his fingers in and out of me, as I came for the third time.

"You wanted me to take my pleasure, hmm, Anya? How about if I take yours instead?"

His thumb was pressing and rubbing my too sensitive clit, and his fingers fucked me as hard, if not as deeply, as his cock ever had. Suddenly it was too much and my body tried to pull away.

"Don't you fucking pull away from me, bitch!" he hissed. "I want you to cum again. Cum for me now, little puppy."

But it was too much, I was too sensitive to climax again so soon. Just as the magic took me, I saw our neighbor, Bobby, standing in the kitchen doorway. Then my body exploded with pain.

Michael

Just before the screaming began, I noticed Anya focusing on something just over my left shoulder. Nothing ominous or the pain would have stopped and allowed her to respond to the threat. I glanced back and saw Bobby Edwards standing behind me with his mouth opened in shock.

"Help you?" I asked, grinning. "Relax," I muttered under my breath to Anya. She stopped screaming which seemed to relax my guest as well.

"I.." the old man cleared his throat. "I was just stopping by, and I heard screams. Wanted... wanted to make sure everyone was alright."

Well, that was a load of shit. Bobby had been the first person I had sent my video of Anya, so the man had to know what any screaming in this house likely meant. Still, no reason to call him on it.

"Just playing with the wife. Did you watch the recording I sent you?"

"Yeah," he said, actually stepping into the room. I realized I had been at least partially blocking his line of sight, so I moved to the side, giving him an unobstructed view of Anya's finger filled cunt. He smiled widely. "Nice pussy," he noted.

"I guess you saw," I said, "I finally broke down and let the whore cum."

"Saw that," Bobby nodded.

"She was getting so hung up on her own needs, she was losing focus. Maybe now she can properly pay attention to pleasing men, like a good cunt. Wanna give her a go, see how she behaves?"

Bobby's smile grew bigger. "To be honest, I was kinda hoping you'd offer. I got the impression you weren't exactly a selfish fella."

"Not in the least. There's a spare bedroom upstairs. Make yourself at home."

"Um... just one thing..."

"What is it?" I asked, though I had a pretty good idea what he wanted.

"Is it all right with you if I, you know... rough her up a little?"

I pulled my hand out of Anya's cunt and stood. I grabbed her hair to keep her from scuttling away from us.

"Be my guest. Just leave her in one piece when you're done."

"Yeah, yeah sure." He stepped over and grabbed his own handful of her hair. I let go and stood back. "Come on, sweet pea," he said to Anya. "Show me where this bedroom is and lets get started."