Fighting Dreams Ch. 04

It's hard to read the message he's sending. Dream isn't really possessive, but this feels like he's pulling rank over on Slate and in my drugged out state, I can't think of why.

Slate says nothing. He takes me, walks me through the Basement where they part before him like a sea to a gale.

Silence drives the wedge deeper as we go to the car.

I don't hardly manage to keep my eyes open on the way back. The rush of color of the city lights is too much. My head lolls back and forth in the seat and for once I am very aware that I am beyond exhausted.

On the way back, I seem to pass in and out of sleep.

The pain is starting to set in from my leg and my back; I curl against the door as though it might help me somehow with managing it. But pain or not, I rest because my body and mind won't let me stay awake.

When I wake up, I'm being washed by a clothe but I can't stay in the world of the living.

The next time I wake, I'm on the bed, propped up by pillows and I feel hideous.

My mouth is dry, my hip and ass ache from the tattoo and my back is on fire from the piercings. When I sit up, Slate passes me a glass of water. "Drink. You're dehydrated, and you need a shower before we clean those piercings."

I slowly sip the drink, feeling my body trembling a little as I stay sitting up. It's like I've run a marathon. My body is still tired despite how long I've slept.

Slate takes my hands and brings me to my feet, leading me into the bathroom and helping me step into the tub. He lets me wash myself under the showerhead, then helps me back out. When I'm mostly dry, he takes me to the sink, and undoes the ribbon, tugging it out.

The turning and cleaning of the rings isn't bad, but it stings as he drips the cleanser on them. Then he peels the clear sheet from my leg and reapplies a new one. It gives me my first chance to look at what it was that Alexander put on me.

It's a winding piece of black lace, and crowning it are three roses in blood red. As I study it, I can see subtle touches; the charms that drip off the lace are representative of the Ten. In the dark red of the petals, the shading lines form an S at the center. It's not just a tattoo, but a brand of the House's ownership.

When he's finished that, I'm carried down to breakfast. It's hard not to notice how warm his touch is; my body is still zinging with each touch. No. Down girl. You're just still drugged.

Eating helps me find some energy.

His grace ends there.

It's back to my knees and back to my list of things for the day. His list isn't terribly long and soon I'm able to return upstairs and nap a little bit. But when I lay down, I'm restless.

My body aches between my thighs and when I try to sleep my mind flashes back to being led around the club with all those hands petting me. Of being spread and displayed, with no idea who was watching. Of that burning desire that somehow feels like it's still gnawing at me.

It's been awhile since I've felt like this; temptation almost slips my fingers down between my thighs. But no. House rule number six is clear. There is no pleasure without permission.

Which means my only option is to either ignore it or ask Slate.

I bite my lip. I've never had to ask him, and he doesn't seem the type to understand or grant that type of request. But ignoring it? I'll be in hell by the time I reach the Basement tonight and it seems to be a worse option with Dream's recent tasks.

Suffer for it now or later... I think I'd rather take now when it's just him watching.

Sighing, I get down from bed, and go to find him. He's sitting on the couch, working on his laptop. The flick of his eyes up to me is questioning as I crawl into the room and sit beside the couch. "What's up?"

Staring at him, I can't make my mouth form the words. I'm too aware of him. Of how he looks, that line of his jaw and the size of his hands. Of how he's very, very male. My mouth is nearly dry as I simply rest my head on the couch beside him and try to quell the blush in my cheeks.

Yeah. This has to be the drugs.

I go to open my mouth when he cuts me off. "If you are going to ask for me to fuck you, the answer is no," he says bluntly. "King's put that restriction on everyone."

"But-"

"Quiet," he replies as he goes back to typing. When my mouth closes, he continues. "But It gives me an idea for your punishment."

I blanch. "I thought you handled that already?"

"That was a pay out of the chips." He looks up, raising an eyebrow as he sets his laptop aside. "Time chips don't impact punishment. You're owed one before you go to Dream. So stand up, put your ass between my feet and keep those legs spread wide."

Shifting as he commands, I put my legs on either side of his torso, feeling the position rock my hips up and expose me to his gaze as his legs block mine from closing.

He picks up his phone, training it at my body. "I'm going to stream this... after all, a slave should be prepared to be shown off to any who want to see. So get your fingers working your pussy. Don't stop until I tell you to."

I can't tear my eyes off that lens. I... I....

"Now, Jazz." His tone tells me I'll be down in his basement if I don't obey quickly.

Slowly my fingers run down to that aching slit between my legs. A slow roll of my clit, then a little dip into the moisture there reminds me of the ache I've been feeling. Brushing that little bud back and forth, I close my eyes as the sensations start to build. I'm just by myself... Focus on the feeling.

"Faster."

I obey, working my fingers quicker over my flesh until a soft whimper rises unbidden from my lips. Pushing two fingers into that dripping channel, I start a slow thrusting in and out as I curl them, knowing the camera is capturing the sight of my intimacy opened. I can't help the moan that follows.

The pleasure builds faster than usual. Maybe it's an after effect of the pill, maybe it's just how I've been teased. But it's not long before my fingers are moving faster of their own accord, trying to push deeper while my palm slaps against my clit.

It's not enough.

"Don't neglect your tits," he chides, reaching down to pinch one tight nipple.

I use my free hand to grab the other, giving it a slow squeeze. When that's not enough, I brush my thumb over my nipple and just bury my fingers deeper into my sopping hole. Rocking, slapping, and arching adds to the pleasure. But it's still not enough.

What's wrong with me?

I want nothing more than to cum and be done with this, but part of me is so nervous that I can't seem to find the right enjoyment to be able to jump over the edge. Though my torso vibrates with pleasure, and the wet sounds of my pussy fill the room... I'm stuck there, edged at the brink and in utter hell because of it.

Slate drinks in the sight, relaxed as he holds the camera. I can hear the sounds of people commenting, reacting to the sight of my degradation as they're watching the feed. It's hard to tell if his pleasure comes from watching, or from whatever revenue he's pulling in by making me perform to god knows what audience.

The phone hovers just a few feet away and his fixation makes my body tremble. That brink is getting closer, and I run with the sensation, trying to reach its drop.

Then his fingers suddenly pull my digits out. Before I can protest with sound or word, three of his fingers thrust deep.

My legs snap closed, my torso bows in as that intense sensation overload finally forces me to cum. I can feel the heat throbbing on the delicate skin, the wetness seeping from my petals as the world disappears for a moment and then I'm floating back to reality in bliss.

Less than a few seconds pass after my orgasm before his fingers are jammed back into my cunt, fucking hard and deep. There's no time to adjust, no lube beyond that which my body already has made as he finger fucks me raw.

No matter how I shift, he keeps me trapped there.

Over and over he breaks me for their viewing pleasure as his phone hovers on my sex, my face, my loss of control.

When I try to close my legs, he uses his own to pin them down so that he has unrestricted access to my body. My resistance earns another finger so that he has me stretched to the breaking point with each hard press of his wrist. He's keeping me overloaded, hardly able to breathe yet alone think.

"You wanted to cum, slut. So cum," he orders, pinching my clit so that I shriek.

He gives me no mercy, no rest as he batters my body with one after the other until breathing is a labor and I'm barely conscious.

Only then does he pull his fingers free, make me suck them clean, and finally set down his phone.

He lets me doze there, lost in sensations and feelings, as he picks his laptop back up and works. Not a few minutes later his phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a call. The crown symbol gives me a fairly good guess as to who is ringing when he picks it up.

"What's up," he answers shortly, keying in numbers on the report. "....I took a page from Devon's book."

He listens to King's low voice talking, his expression unwavering as he finishes up his work. "It's good business. I let them see what they wanted; her value just doubled according to the site."

"Fair is fair," he replies levelly as he runs a finger over the hardness in his shorts. "If we have to fucking suffer, so does everyone else."

He nods along as King tells him something, then rolls his eyes.

"You wanted a profit. I turned a profit. The bitching is your problem. I didn't set the rule."

He listens along for a time, then finally interrupts "-I don't care. I want him watched; there's something off about this whole thing. Black as well. They're playing the edges of the rules and it could cost us everything."

Whatever King says, Slate's not happy about it. His eyes stare at the wall, and if they had heat, this whole place would be burning down. His hand caresses my leg as he nods along with whatever he's told. "Fine. I'll be there."

Snapping the phone shut, he goes back to working. And I'm left wondering in my relaxed state just what the fuck has a leader like Slate unsettled about their plans.

Slate feeds me dinner, then it's back to The Basement. This time, he lets me wear nothing but my ribbon in my piercings, his black collar, and my leash.

He leads me down to the dressing rooms where Devon is waiting. The tension between the two of them doesn't seem any better; if anything it's amplified as they stare each other down. But I say nothing, merely waiting as Slate takes off his collar and Dream puts his in place.

The problems of the powerful can't be handled by a slave.

Dream's eyes don't even look to me until Slate is out of the dressing room. When they do, it's hard to read his expression. "You are more trouble than you're worth, sweetheart, but at least now you'll be useful," he muses as he takes me to one of the racks.

First it's a pair of rubber pants of all black that covers from my ankles to my hips. Then it's a cupless halter that leaves my back rings exposed and has but a scrap across the shoulder blades to keep it on. The kitten ears are settled in the black curls of my hair.

Bondage cuffs lock my wrists behind my back. He helps me step into a maze of leather straps that hide only my nipples with little pieces of black fabric, but leave the rest of my skin exposed.

The lilac ribbon is replaced with red in my back to match the ballgag and then he puts me in tall strappy heels.

The final piece of my outfit tells me exactly what I'm to be used for tonight. It's a tray, held by two chains. He sets the curved end at my waist, then clips the chains to the shoulder straps of my body harness so that it sits flat and stable even without my hands.

"Drinks are your responsibility," he orders. "Now... let's get you the proper collar tag."

I follow him to the board where they hang waiting; he selects one that reads "Touch Me" and hangs it from the ring at my throat. The others read from "No Contact" to "Fuck Me" with every split in between.

Though they can be obscene, they're necessary. They show who is under Dream's command as a House Slut. No one dares to go beyond what the tag says; those who do are swiftly disciplined. It doesn't matter if they're one of the Ten or the lowest slave.

A bare collar, by contrast, is a dark statement that the wearer isn't under anyone and more often than not is about to be the center stage of a punishment show. They invite the more savage treatments because no limits have been placed.

He dismisses me to go to the bar with a light swat to the rear as he turns his attention to other slaves in his care.

Devon holds the most contracts under his command, varying in value from a few hundreds to tens of thousands and upwards. The total value from those under his command must sit easily in the tens of thousands each month after expenses.

Particularly as He's also one of the few who accept male contracts for the House.

I've witnessed him wrestle new slaves down to the mat and pin them into the floor; he makes them submit in one way or the other. And those that bare their teeth often find themselves learning their place beneath him on the bed; he answers savagery with a violence that brings them to heel.

I wander to his bar, looking up to see Alan working behind the bar; I recognize him from my last visit with Slate. He's shirtless, dressed in a pair of dark denim jeans with an O-ring that hangs from a slender chain over his breast bone. His own tag simply reads "No Contact". I step to him offering my tray for the cocktails he prepares.

His eyes look me over, hovering on the tag at my neck. "Welcome back, little girl," he murmurs as he sets the stemmed glasses carefully on the tray. "The rule is five lashes per drink spilled, and one for each under a hundred served on weekends. Move carefully, but quickly, and you'll meet it without difficulty. These go to the blue room."

I bob my head to show I've heard since I can't answer.

The Basement isn't officially open yet, but that makes it easier to move through the people and get where I need to be. When I've handed off the first set of cocktails to the girls at the blue room, I return to the bar where I have to wait as Alan finishes reviewing the tickets before carefully loading me up with three reels of whiskey on their spinboards.

"Those go to King's private room, number 1," he states. "Give them to Isabelle."

I quickly weave my way through the hallways off the main rooms, trying to find my way to King's room without getting stopped. Beyond a few strokes over my body, I'm left alone as I make it to the black doorway. Tapping my heel to the doorframe three times, I wait.

The door clicks open and I swallow thickly as a pair of icy grey eyes meet mine. King's gaze pins me, then looks down to the tray. "Isabelle," he snaps sharply as he steps out of the door frame.

She scurries over, and for the first time I recognize a hint of shake in her hands as she quickly relieves me of the reels. When she turns to set them on the table, my breath catches in my throat as I see her back. She looks like she's gone three rounds with a tiger and lost; the stripes are red and bloody.

A snap tears my eyes from her to King's burning gaze; my eyes fall to the short single tailed lash in his hand. "Unless you want to join her misery, get out, girl."

I bow my head and back out quickly.

As I walk back to the main room, the lights start to lower and that low bass pulse starts to fill the air. By the time I reach the main floors, the clients are starting to fill the room. I count thirteen hands that stroke along my body by the time I make it back to the bar.

This time I have to wait longer for Alan to be able to fill my tray up. He gives me three types of shots, then tells me to walk the floor until at least half are gone.

Wandering through the darkness, I try to move through the walkways to each of the lingering groups of people. Some drinks are taken, but presenting myself seems to also encourage them to touch and stroke over my skin. One gentleman that I don't recognize hooks his fingers under the harness and gives it a little tug.

I can't stop the whimper of fear behind the gag; that tug makes me stumble a half step closer and I have to tense my back to save the drinks from spilling over. His fingers hold that harness, keeping me in one place as his other hand kneads my ass.

I don't want to linger but I'm not really given a choice. A sharp slap to my leg catches the ink and I bark a yelp around the gag. The man only laughs and puts two more in the same place. Then I'm released as he pulls down a pair of my shots for his table.

Avoiding the faces I don't recognize, I wander through until I come across Rex and another two I don't know. Though his eyes flick to mine and he gives a little nod of acknowledgement, he takes nothing. It's his associates who choose to.

One I recognize; Cassius's bright silvery eyes are hard to forget. He chooses one of the vodka shots and caresses my cheek before stepping away.

The second trails a finger down my side before selecting a shot of whiskey; it's not hard to recognize how he fits in when I see the hint of silver in his gaze and that familiar nose. He's obviously related to Cassius.

When I go to move on, a sudden tug at the ribbon makes me arch with a squeal as tears gather at my eyes.

Alan's eyes flash to mine from the bar; a second tug breaks our contact as I stumble back with its pull into the body of the person.

Their hand gives a slow powerful squeeze at my throat that has me shivering as I feel the slow grind of their hips against my ass. "Hello, bitch." Black growls. "What pretty decorations."

Rex's hands are tight against his chair; Cassius's eyes are sharply narrowed. But neither of them move in the face of the Number Three exerting his control.

My eyes water as he pulls that ribbon once more, making me arch up on my toes to try and ease its pressure through my back. He dangles me there, his hand tightening around my neck to cut off my air as he pulls and releases on that ribbon while I squeal.

"I saw you cum on Slate's hands like a bitch in heat while he filmed it. Think of all the people who saw what a whore you are," he murmurs in my ear. "But I promise, you don't know the meaning of humiliation yet little-"

"Black." It's Dream's voice that cuts him off. "That girl isn't wearing a punishment tag, darlin."

Black's eyes raise to Dream; his grip tightens until I whimper. But when the Nightmare steps forward, he releases me entirely with an amused chuckle. "Oh Devon. Surely, not you too?"

"The Basement rules are clear on what tags permit, sweetheart," the Nightmare warns coldly as he clips a claiming lead to my collar. "There are no exceptions for rank. You have a three day ban, effective immediately. Get out. Or I'll throw you in chastity like a dog."

Flipping the bird, Black heads for the exit with an unnerving smile that says he doesn't care.

"Is he always that much of a bastard," Cassius asks, taking a double and shooting them one after the other.

"Only when he's aroused or drunk, sugar," Dream replies darkly, taking a shot of his own. "And either way he can take himself home. I don't need the trouble tonight."

Rex chuckles looking over the clientele. "What's the show tonight? This place seems busier than usual."

"Isaac is going to do a shibari suspension which has garnered interest. We also have guests," he replies. "A private booking in dungeon four, and they've booked the Silver lounge for after which is a pretty penny for the ledger."

"Both?" Cassius looks up in surprise. "How many are there?"

"Twelve." At their widened gaze, Dream assures, "It's a strict hands off event or I wouldn't have entertained even the idea of it, darlin'. I'll have King's security and Black's DM overseeing to make sure they're on their best behavior."