Tethered Pt. 01

He used her mouth with a rhythm assured and unrushed. The pace altered only when his grip tightened, pressing her down harder, driving his cock as deep as her throat could take it. Suffocating on him, she felt warm saliva dripping from her violated mouth onto her chin. Her entire body tensed, unbidden. The hairs on her arms tingled. Her lungs screamed as breath fled them with nowhere to go. When he didn't allow her up, allowed her no purchase of new air, her body convulsed. She kicked the toes of her expensive high heels against the floor.

On their very first night together, before he'd lain a finger on her, he'd given her a safeword. If anything he did to her exceeded her limits, for any reason, she was to speak this word. No punishment. No repercussions. Her master took sadist glee in forcing her to the edge of her boundaries, bending them, stretching them. She'd used the word scores of times. Predicaments such as this rendered her safeword woefully useless, so he'd also given her a safe gesture. If her mouth was otherwise occupied or coherent sounds simply couldn't be made, she had only to pat his knee three times. Word uttered or gesture made, everything halted immediately. Without fail. Sometimes with such crashing swiftness that it shocked her more than a harsh slap to the face.

She was on the cusp now, a knife's edge from the precipice. The useless word stalled in her throat, but her hand twitched. He jerked her upward, only the head of his throbbing cock remaining in her mouth. She gasped for air around his girth, steeling herself against rising further. Once his cock was inside one of her holes, it came out only of his doing. Never, ever her own.

With greed, she gulped in air tinged with the sweet smell of tobacco. Slowly, the bass drum pounding of her heart lessened, allowing other sounds into her ears: the subdued thump of loafers crossing tile, a titter of laughter, the snap of leather on bare flesh. Before she was perfectly ready, he pressed her down and resumed the steady rhythm. She wrapped her lips securely and lovingly around him and did as she was bid.

She'd given many blowjobs in her life. But this...this was unlike any other. She wasn't doing anything. She was nothing but a warm hole for him. In this spacious room, filled with people mingling, drinking, and having a jovial time, she was being fucked. Her face to be exact. It didn't matter who watched, nodding approvingly or leering unabashedly. It made no difference that the man taking his pleasure from her hadn't even bothered to halt his boring conversation. Her feelings were immaterial. He didn't care about her building anxiety at being put on such loathsome display. He didn't care how her limbs trembled as she worried what everyone must think of her or what she'd think of herself later. She was a thing to be used, a vessel for his pleasure. He took it however and whenever he wanted.

She was so deliriously wet. Shame rose in her at the thought of a slick pool developing beneath her on the plush carpet.

An almost indecipherable shudder was all that betrayed his cool demeanor as he came deep in her throat. He lifted her off him, zipped himself back into his tailored trousers, and she was dismissed without even a gesture.

As trained, she returned her head to his lap. She rested there, silent and passive, engulfed in a euphoric cloud. The bustling party felt far away and pointless. Why had she agonized so over any voyeuristic eyes that might've watched her master using her? That seemed so trivial now compared to her state of utter bliss. She quietly swished the cum still in her mouth, relishing the sweet stickiness with all her being. When he finally patted her cheek, she swallowed his gift, the tiniest bit mournful of its loss.

"She seems like a very good girl," one of the men at the table said.

"The majority of the time," her master said. His tone was teasing, but that didn't allay the pang of regret. More than anything in the world, she always wanted to be a good girl for him.

"But that's merely an assumption on your part, Henry," the other man said.

"Quite right," the first man said.

"To truly make it an accurate assessment, we'd have to...assess, now wouldn't we?"

Under the table, she felt the mirth of their conspiratorial grins. She perked, though not enough to disobey him and abandon her instructed position. A tingle of apprehension crawled along her skin.

"I would question your ability to assess the goodness of anything, Carson," her master said, "having very little of it yourself."

The table laughed, the woman most of all. It was the calculated laugh of a woman who desires to ascertain the quality of the speaker's bed sheets with her own naked skin. Possibly while her ankles were pinned to her ears. She knew, she'd perfected such a laugh.

"That," said the woman, chortling, "I can tell you from personal experience, is a decidedly accurate assessment."

"Intimate experience," Henry said with a snort meant to imply something secretive and debaucherous. As if anything a guest of this party had ever done would be considered overly debaucherous to the rest.

"I would question that not at all," her master said. His fingers, entwined in her hair, burrowed deeper. "Helena here has quite the reputation about town."

"Quite indeed. I dare say, it rivals your own, if not in quality, at least in quantity." The trio's fawning was growing tiresome. The prospect of what might be coming was not.

"I could only dream of attaining such lofty heights," Helena said.

"In your very wettest ones, dear," Carson (she thought) said.

"Will you two stop prattling? You're distracting the man from the matter at hand."

The matter at hand. She was the matter at hand. The tingling intensified. Would he let this happen? Would he share her with them? One of the men? Both? The woman as well? He could if he chose. It was his right. She was his property, after all. Fear gripped her. Fear and something else entirely.

Her master's hold on her tightened further, stinging her scalp.

"You're right, of course, Henry," the woman said. "Come now, let us have a taste. Just the tiniest morsel."

She felt her master's smile. His smile and something dark behind it. "I would like nothing more, but she isn't ready, I'm afraid. In time, with adequate training and discipline, yes, but not yet."

If she could've melted away into the floor, she would have. Not ready? How could he think that? She'd do anything for him. If he commanded her to abase herself and crawl between the legs of these three, she'd do so without a moment's hesitation. She'd do every depraved thing in her power to make him proud. She'd make the two men sing in ecstasy and the woman, she'd do things with her tongue that would make her swear off cock forever. Hot tears welled in her eyes.

"Unfortunate," one of them said. She didn't care which.

"Quite." Maybe the woman.

"Yes," her master said, "though not unanticipated. Soon though, I have no doubt."

"Nor do I. You're nothing if not a skilled taskmaster." Definitely the woman.

"Too kind," her master said, and his hold on her relaxed. "Another time. Now, as I was saying..." He changed the subject so deftly, it was if nothing untoward had ever been broached.

The conversation eased back into boring ruminations on the state of the local theater scene. Not boring. Not normally anyway. She quite enjoyed the theater, and had been known to opine on the subject long past the point others desired to move on. But she couldn't begin to take interest in it now.

She'd been so on edge during the exchange, so hyper alert. Had she been scared? A little, maybe. Nervous? Certainly. But mostly intrigued, aroused by the possibility. To be passed around as nothing more than a plaything. To be forced to pleasure strangers she wasn't even allowed to see. To feel the intoxicating heat between her legs, doing something she knew to be wrong. For the briefest few moments, she'd been practically trembling with anticipation.

Then it was gone. Plucked away. Doused with the briefest sentence. And she was left grappling with miserable thoughts.

They left shortly after.

He was silent on the limo ride to his apartment. Muted traffic noise and melancholy jazz were the only sounds beyond her steady, controlled breaths. She knelt at his feet in the backseat, head resting on his thigh. He stroked her hair impassively, but he didn't take her mouth, his usual custom on long rides.

She wished he would. Maybe that would drive the dark and conflicting thoughts from her mind. She longed to look up at him, to read his face. She'd disappointed him tonight, though, she truly didn't know how. She racked her brain, but couldn't think of a single bit of protocol she'd forgotten. She was sure she'd done everything exactly as he'd trained her. Sharing her with whomever he chose, however he chose, wasn't on her hard limits list. She knew he'd shared past submissives. One night after a particularly vigorous session, he'd scooped her spent naked body into his arms and carried her to his bed. Trapping her in his embrace, he'd discussed passing her around to his friends. His voice was sensuous as he described the circumstances to her in vivid detail. His story finished, his cock grew hard against her hip, and he took her again.

But she isn't ready, I'm afraid.

What, in his mind, would make her ready?

Had she not been so well-trained at remaining stolid and emotionless, she would've cried the entire way home.

He merely nodded to the tuxedoed man who opened the door to his apartment building for them. He didn't speak in the grandly decorated lobby, nor on the elevator ride to the top floor. He didn't acknowledge her as she followed him (four feet behind, always on his right side) down the short hallway to his front door, or when he opened it and stepped aside so she could enter. He removed first her coat, then his, and hung both on brass hooks in the entryway. When he walked away from her, she noticed his stride didn't have the usual buoyancy, but was rigid and closed.

Given no instructions, she listlessly made her way into the spacious living room, her high heels clinking on the marble floor. The place smelled of fresh flowers and pipe tobacco. She stood in the middle of the room, taking in the painting over the mantle to distract herself, but her shoulders felt heavy with the weight of the night and she couldn't keep from fidgeting. She tensed when she heard running water from the bathroom.

Her master enjoyed long, leisurely baths in his expansive claw foot tub. He used the shower only for expediency. More often than not, he required her company. There, soaking in the steaming water and bubbles that smelled of lavender, she'd scrub his body clean, massage his back, kiss every exposed inch of him, stroke his cock with adoring hands. Occasionally, he took his bath on his own, but even then, he always instructed her to draw the water and prepare the bath to his specifications.

Her body went as rigid as his walk had been. She felt as if all the oxygen had been snatched from her lungs, and her bottom lip began to tremble. She bit at it.

What the hell had she done wrong? She was suddenly terrified. She told herself not to panic. This could mean anything. It could mean nothing. Don't get ahead of yourself. Calm down. Her mind screamed its confusion and frustration. Would he send her away? Was he done with her? Had she, by some unknown and unintended means, ruined this thing she loved so dearly?

Her body and mind felt as if they'd been drawn and quartered. One piece wanted to run away from this torment, out the door, down the elevator, into the cold night. Another was as helpless and frightened as a deer in headlights, incapable of movement. Another segment yearned to run to him for comfort and assurance. Still another also wanted to run to him, but not for comfort. No, this part was furious and wanted to pour it out on him, just as he poured his pain into her with whips and paddles and belts.

None of her warring factions could gain traction though. So in the middle of the living room she remained.

He appeared. He stood still, staring at her, his expression unreadable. He was still dressed in his dark, tailored suit. His shoulders were slumped, uncharacteristic of him.

She burned under the gaze of those searching, penetrating eyes. She felt so bared, so uncertain. Even when she was tied to his bed, back arched, naked ass high in the air, cheeks spread wide for his viewing pleasure, she didn't feel so on display. That feeling she knew. That feeling she understood. This...she was at a loss. She felt so very small.

When he started toward her, she tensed, preparing herself for what she knew was coming. She would show no emotion. She wouldn't beg. If nothing else, she would show her strength. She prayed all these things were true.

His eyes didn't release her, until he moved behind her and out of sight. Still, she felt them on her. She almost flinched when his hand alighted on her shoulder. He slipped the slim strap of her dress down. It dangled on her arm, until he did the same to the other side, and her satin garment fell to her feet. He came around in front of her, bent to one knee, took her heel in his hand, and placed it on his thigh. He unstrapped it and sat it aside. When he'd done the same with the other shoe, he stood. Those penetrating eyes regarded her, and he sighed. With a hand possibly smoother than hers, he slipped her panties off.

Without her realizing it, her breathing had calmed. She was still wholly confused, but no longer nervous.

Her master caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. She melted into the touch. Slowly, with strong arms that registered no effort, he scooped her up as one might a small child. Without a word, he carried her from the room, down a hallway, and into a bathroom smelling of lavender.

Candles encircled the tub, flickering, giving the room its only light. He lowered her into the steaming tub, the arms of his suit getting wet. She inched backward, until the cool porcelain touched her back, then she pulled her knees to her chest. She hugged them and lifted her gaze to him. He undressed without taking his eyes from her, though still he said nothing. He placed a hand on her back and urged her forward, then he sank into the water behind her. This wasn't their usual placement in a bath, and it discomforted her. She longed to look at him.

Water splashed softly as he submerged a sponge, then pressed it to her back. A tingle ran along her flesh. He scrubbed at her back in lazy motions. Never before had he bathed her. Keeping herself clean for him was her job. He brought the sponge around to her front, massaged her breasts with it, her throat, her belly. Heat wafted, not only from the water. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, smelling the perfumed water, the lovely candles, him. Most of all him.

His hand dipped below the water and cleaned her thoroughly, missing not a single crevice. She swooned at the mastery of his hands. This man was so very good with his hands. They glided over her body easily, languidly, confidently, those hands that had never been denied an inch of her body. His body. She felt the possessiveness of those hands in a way she had never before. They touched, caressed, prodded, and explored as if they were asserting a claim.

Never, ever stop, she thought but didn't dare say.

A hand found her throat, pulled her against his chest, held her in place. He slipped two fingers inside her. He began slow, moving in and out of her. He massaged her swollen lips. He pinched them, making her gasp. His fingers plunged into her, as deep as they could go. They pressed harder, as if they'd reached a barrier to be broken. Dizzying, burrowing pain exploded in her pelvis and bolted through her, reaching the spot where his hand gripped her throat. He jerked his fingers back, almost of out her, then slammed them back in. She cried out in alarm, in pain, in ecstasy. He found her clit. He rubbed at it, reamed it, stopped, plucked at it, commenced rubbing.

Her orgasm swelled inside her. Her body screamed for it. She bucked against him, but his grip and onslaught only worsened. His fingers were ferocious. Her muscles began to ache from the constant tension. Her skin was on fire, and her head swam in torment and rapture. When she felt on the precipice of exploding from the inside out, she fought him. If he noticed her manic struggle, it did nothing to deter him.

At what she was absolutely positive was a split second before she'd have no recourse but to break his rule and come of her own accord, he breathed heavily in her ear, "Come, my treasure."

She did. Violently. Recklessly. Hedonistically. With a scream that started in her depths and rampaged up through her throat and burst out her mouth.

When finally she ceased convulsing, she dissolved into him. She couldn't have moved if she wanted to, but that was the last thing in the world she wanted. She hadn't an ounce of energy, nor a care in the world. She barely recalled the woman who'd been entertaining those dark thoughts a million years ago. She was a soft, floating, happy cloud drifting on a warm breeze. She didn't register her hair being wetted, nor his hands lathering shampoo into it. She only came to when his fingers began massaging her scalp with deep, probing motions both painful and wonderful.

Finished, he scooped her from the tub. A good thing, as she had no ability to do so on her own. He sat her on his lap and dried her with a soft towel that smelled like him. She put her arms around his neck and snuggled her face into him as he carried her to his bedroom. As he laid her gently in the bed, her blissfully cloudy mind tried to latch on to something. Something new had happened tonight. Something important. But she couldn't hold it. It flitted away, and by the time he pulled the silky covers to her neck and tucked her in with a light kiss on the forehead, she didn't care.

"Sleep well, my treasure."

5

Pain like a crack of lighting exploded across her cheek.

She fell sideways to the floor, hand clutching her stinging jaw. She choked down a cry. In her reminiscence, she'd gotten lax and slumped out of her proper position.

He loomed over her, hands at his sides, his face cast in darkness.

A tear blinked from her eye. Her jaw whined, and she winced as she rose back to her knees. She squared her shoulders, straightened her back, and folded her hands in her lap.

"Better," he said in a voice that held no anger.

She longed to apologize for her lapse, but held her tongue. One slap was plenty for the night.

He went to the fire and stoked it with a poker. She watched him in the gloom as he raised and coughed into his fist a number of times. It was a wet, raspy sound. She hoped he wasn't coming down with something. He returned to the filthy couch, laid down with a long sigh, and closed his eyes.

She wouldn't be invited to lay next to him tonight, wouldn't be gifted the security of his arms. It wasn't her unintentional lapse in protocol, though that might've been enough to warrant a night on the floor. Even in their past life, he'd been a mysterious man, guarded and taciturn. But she'd been his property for a long time. She knew him, probably better than anyone ever had. She read his moods as easily as words on a page. Before they'd even found the farmhouse, she'd sensed a darkness swirling about him. Accompanied by that foreboding cloud, he was quieter than normal, more withdrawn. The tunes he sang as they walked were ominous and brooding, his interaction with her maddeningly minimal. On rare occasions, those dark moods manifested in particularly vicious beatings. Not tonight, though, no matter how she yearned for the deep intimacy of such an savage exhibition of his power and lust. No, tonight he'd keep to himself, fall asleep on his own, as if in his mind he was perfectly alone, and she wasn't a thing that existed. She abhorred nights like that. It was different than being made to sleep in the corner as punishment. Punishment was at least acknowledgement. Ceasing to exist in his eyes, which was how she felt right now, was a cruelty far beyond his usual, even though she knew he didn't intend it to be so. She understood his need for solitude, but she hated it all the same.