The Palace Ch. 03

My client had ordered that I be left unbound on the bed this evening, rather than cuffed to the table as I had been for the previous two encounters. When questioned, my handler had hinted that to service the same client two nights in a row was unusual, and three unprecedented. The man had paid good coin, though, and he could say no more about it than that. He had also been startled that his superiors had ordered my "procedure" postponed, a decision about which he expressed distinct displeasure. I still had no idea what this "procedure" entailed and could only hope it would not be too unpleasant.

My handler had been further surprised when I returned from that second appointment with but three discipline marks and with my anus untouched. He had administered twenty lashes with a belt, no worse than the lashes my client had delivered, and put me to bed unfettered, with but my lingering bruises for company.

And now I lay here yet again, naked and blindfolded, awaiting this mysterious and frightening man who had, for some reason, taken an uncommon interest in me.

When I had recognized his voice, his scent, his touch the second night, I had been seized with dread. I knew his cruelty, his delight at causing me pain, the horror as he penetrated and claimed my deepest, most sensitive regions. But my body remembered, too, the pleasure, the tenuous balance of sensations, the pain never too much, the ecstasy unmatched.

Would he let me feel that again? I had wondered.

And he had.

More than that. He had shown me tenderness. I sensed desire not just to hurt but to comfort. He was the same man as the first night, but something had changed.

And so I waited, terrified, for his return.

The door, the swish of slippers on soft rugs, and the voice, "Hello, sweet girl," all the same. My heart skipped a beat, my breath caught, and it took all my willpower not to curl into a ball to protect myself from him. But he came no closer, did not touch me. "It is lovely to see you again."

"Yes, Master," I whispered.

"Did you sleep well?" The mattress dipped, and I sensed him sitting near me at the edge of the bed. He touched my arm, rested his hand on my shoulder.

"Yes, Master."

"Good." He was silent, his fingers twitching against my skin, as though he were unsure of how to proceed. He had not been so hesitant before. What had changed? "Why did you choose the Palace?" he asked, the words tumbling from his lips in a jumble, as though he had tried and failed to hold them back.

"Master?"

"It's a simple question."

"Yes, Master." I was not sure, myself, what had driven me to appear before the Palace evaluator that day last month, other than a desire to avoid laboring in the fields my whole life, or being chained to a husband and children. Pregnancy terrified me. "I did not wish to be a mother, Master, and I detest field work."

"Why?"

"Master?"

"Why do you not wish to have a family, sweet girl?"

"My mother died during the birth of my younger sister, Master. I fear the same fate. She suffered so before fainting of blood loss. She never woke up. My other option was to be a maid, and I dislike cooking and cleaning even more than field work." I clicked my teeth shut, afraid I had said too much.

"Did you know what your duties would be here at the Palace?"

"No, Master."

"And if you had known ..." His hand moved from my shoulder to my cheek, fingers brushing against my temple. "Would you have made the same choice?"

I sensed that was a dangerous question. Was this some kind of test? If he was unhappy with my response, would I find myself bound to the table under his paddle? I thought carefully about how to word my reply, but before I could voice my thoughts, he pressed his lips to mine in that same tender way he had previously. I parted my lips instinctively, and he deepened the kiss, a low rumble in his throat betraying his pleasure.

"Don't answer that, sweet girl. I should not have asked," he said as he lifted his head. I heard him undressing, curious as to why he did not have me participate as he had the previous night, when I had fumbled to unbuckle his belt and lower his trousers. He lay down beside me. "You must bring me to full hardness and then to climax with your mouth and hands. And you must swallow all of my seed."

Full hardness?

"Sit up, sweet girl," he instructed, and when I did, he guided my hands to his penis, which was smaller than before, soft and spongy.

I traced the organ with my fingertips, unable to paint a picture in my mind of what it looked like. It twitched, and I repeated the motion, then curled my fingers around it. I remembered how he had demonstrated moving back and forth along his length. I bent at the waist, then rearranged myself so I could kneel and lean over him, placed the tip of his penis in my mouth, and attempted the same motion that had been successful the previous evening, my lips sliding up and down the smooth skin.

He tugged on my braid, gripping painfully near my scalp, and he forced me to slow the bobbing of my head, then proceeded to direct my movements. I became aware of his penis becoming thicker and longer, until it filled my mouth, and as it grew, he encouraged me to increase my speed. My jaw ached, and saliva pooled around his shaft and dribbled from my mouth, but I feared his retribution if I slowed or showed any discontent. Suddenly, he pushed my head down as far as I could go and held me there, just as he had the last time, and a sweet, musky liquid erupted into my mouth. I gagged and choked in surprise, swallowing some of it while more dripped from my lips as I jerked away.

It was only then that I recalled his admonition that I swallow all of his seed, and his annoyance when I had had a similar reaction the first time. I stayed as I was, hunched over him, cowering.

He yanked me upright by my braid. "You were told to swallow my seed, girl." He wrenched my head further back. "Was your lesson last night insufficient?"

"No, Master," I whispered. My neck was stretched so that it was difficult to speak.

"It seems it was, since my essence coats your chin and has collected on my body. You will clean me with your tongue, and then you will be punished." He shoved my head down so that my nose met a patch of wetness on his skin. "Lick, girl!" he ordered.

I poked my tongue out to lap up his spilled seed. His grip on my hair relaxed as I worked, and then he laid his palm on my back in what I could only interpret as a comforting gesture. Why was this man so confusing?

"Enough, sweet girl. Lie flat on your stomach."

His taste coated my tongue, and he had not cleaned my face, but I did as he said, trembling. He drew a discipline mark on the back of my neck and then separated the cheeks of my buttocks with his hand.

"By the end of our time together tonight, girl, you will take pleasure in having my cock at your back passage. Do you believe that to be possible?" He massaged oil into my anus as he spoke, distracting me from the question. I remembered only pain and horror when he had used that hole.

I could not answer truthfully, but neither could I lie. "Master," I began, so he would not think I was refusing to respond. "It was very painful the first time."

He laughed, quickly suppressed. "Well put, sweet girl. I am well aware of the pain you experienced. But that was not my question." His finger penetrated, aided by the oil. I winced, though it was at worst unfamiliar and not entirely unpleasant. "Do you believe it is possible that you will take pleasure in having my cock here?" He moved his finger in a small circle, then withdrew it.

"It is possible, Master," I allowed.

"We shall see, sweet girl." I heard the jingle of metal, and he fastened cuffs around my ankles. These, he secured to the bed with my legs spread wide. He restrained my arms, outstretched and immobilized with cuffs around my wrists. When I tested the bonds, I found that the strain on my shoulders and hips made any movement painful. He rested his hand on the back of my head. "Do you fear me?" he asked.

"Yes, Master," I whispered.

"Why?"

"Master, you wish to cause me pain. How could I not fear that?" I bit my lip to keep from saying more.

"Then it is pain you fear, not me."

That was not a question, so I didn't respond, though he waited as if expecting me to continue the conversation. I shivered, and the cuffs rattled.

"You are afraid now," he observed. He drew his fingernails down my back, not hard enough to hurt, then slapped my behind. I flinched, jingling the cuffs again and causing an ache in my shoulders. A burning pain flared and then faded on the skin of my bottom. "Count off twenty," he ordered. "That was one."

"One," I said, almost inaudible.

"Louder."

"One," I cried.

A second slap, more powerful than the first. I jerked in my bonds, wrenching my hip. I called out "two" in a strangled voice. A third left a stinging patch, and the fourth its twin on the other cheek. I kept the count even as the pain became intolerable, bringing tears to my eyes and a lump to my throat. After the tenth, I was certain I could not bear another, and still he persisted, so that I thought my very skin was peeling away. How could his hand be worse than the belt or paddle?

I shrieked out a "twenty" through blinding tears, and some small part of me took pride in not having missed a number. My shoulders ached, and my hips, and I could not stop my weeping.

"Well done, sweet girl," I heard through my own piteous sobs, and then his soothing hand on my back consoled me. "It's over now." He loosened the restraints, though he did not remove them, and ran his hands along my arms and legs, massaging some of the ache away.

He left me briefly, then returned to my side. "I'm curious, sweet girl. Did your handler mention me?"

That seemed an odd question. "Yes, Master."

"What did he say?"

"He said it is unusual for a man to visit the same girl two nights in a row, Master. He is puzzled by your interest in me."

"He told you that?"

"Yes, Master."

"And what do you think?"

"I don't know, Master. I have not served any client but you." When I had lain on the table awaiting him the previous night, I had expected to hear a new voice, service a new man, and that unknown had terrified me. Tonight, I had been less frightened, with some idea of what to expect. When this master was finished with me, would I be forced to endure hours with someone who would show me less mercy, who would demand more of me, cause me pain worse than I could imagine, or require acts I could not conceive of?

I must have made a sound that communicated my fear, because he smoothed my hair and stroked my back. "I know, sweet girl." He sounded pleased. His hand moved down my back to my still-throbbing behind. "Would you agree that it is pain you fear?"

Back to this subject. His conversation was as unpredictable as his behavior. "Yes, Master."

I sensed him close to me, felt his breath on my neck. "Fear can be good, sweet girl. As can pain."

I started to shake my head in disagreement but stopped myself.

"You don't believe me, but over time you will learn." He touched with me something cold and hard, traced my spine with the tip, let it nestle between my bottom cheeks. "Do you know what this is, sweet girl?"

I knew, and the realization brought a new bout of dread. "An anal plug, Master?"

"Very good. Do you fear it?"

"Yes, Master."

"Why?"

Why did he keep asking me the same question? "Because of the pain, Master."

"But you know the pain will fade in time. I will tell you a secret, sweet girl. The more you fear the pain, the worse the pain will be. Do you understand?" He pressed the tip of the plug against my anus.

"No, Master." I clenched my buttocks.

The plug intruded farther, stretching me no wider than his finger had. My thighs contracted as I tried to close them, to protect myself, even though I knew I could not. Even if I could, doing so would only bring punishment. "You fight me, girl, to your detriment. Relax your buttocks and breathe deeply."

The cuffs jangled, betraying the terror still growing in my belly. I inhaled as slowly as I could, exhaled, felt tension drain from my muscles, and with it some of my anxiety. He waited as I repeated the exercise. On my third exhale, he drove the plug in. I expelled the last of the air in my lungs, overcome with shock. I coughed, fingers curling into tight fists as agony radiated through my nether regions.

"Breathe, girl!" he ordered, and delivered a sharp slap to each thigh.

I took a shuddering breath, another, a third. My head cleared, my hands opened, and the pain tapered to a dull ache.

"Good, sweet girl. Very good. You see?"

His words of approval warmed me, and my fear ebbed further. "Yes, Master."

He released me from the cuffs. "Kneel."

My arms and legs would not do my bidding after so long restrained, and I panicked at the delay in obeying. When I could coordinate my limbs, I pushed myself up to kneeling, which shifted the plug within me, forcing it deeper. A whimper escaped my lips, but I held my position. My obedience was fueled by a determination to avoid further punishment, both at the hands of this man and my handler upon return to my room, but I discovered, too, a desire to please him, to earn more words of approval and comfort, to hear the affection in his tone.

"Fold your arms behind your back and grab each wrist with the opposite hand. Open your knees," he instructed.

I followed his direction somewhat clumsily. The position thrust my breasts out and left me feeling exposed and vulnerable, igniting a new fear. I had no idea of what he might have planned, for this pose was clearly not useful for pleasuring him, and I did not know what other activities he might wish to engage in.

He tapped my inner thighs with a wooden implement, possibly a cane. The sting was fleeting but served to inform me of what he held. "Wider," he said.

I spread my thighs as wide as I could.

"Good. Now lift your chin." He used the cane under my chin to tilt my head back, exposing my throat. He leaned in close and kissed my forehead, cupped my chin in his palm and kissed me on the mouth. He lingered there, with his lips just touching mine, as his breath quickened against my cheek. He pulled away with a grunt. His hand traveled down my throat, my chest, my stomach, and between my legs, where he inserted two fingers into me, moving them in and out, dragging his fingertips along the front wall of my vagina. I tightened my grip on my wrists, willing myself to keep still as the intimate touch caused tremors in my thighs and an urgent need in my belly. A faint moan sounded in my throat, and I clamped my teeth together. "Does that feel nice, sweet girl?"

"Yes, Master," I breathed, willing him to continue.

"But you must earn your pleasure. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Master." That was a plea. I did not know what he would ask of me, but I wished for the ecstasy he had shown me. I recalled the first question he had asked me, when I lay trussed on the table with no notion of what was to happen to me. 'Is it to be pleasure or pain this evening?' he had asked. And then he had told me I would yearn for the evenings of pleasure. At the time, I did not understand what he meant. Two nights later, I was considerably wiser.

He slipped his fingers out of me, trailing them over my mound and up my stomach, leaving a moist path all the way to my breasts. "Open your mouth." I did so, and he placed an implement between my teeth. "Close." I clicked my teeth shut around it. "You will hold the cane in your mouth. If you drop it, you will earn stripes. If you keep it between your teeth, you will be spared its bite."

I heard the shuffle of his bare feet on the rugs. He walked away, then back. Saliva pooled under my tongue—the cane made swallowing difficult—and my nostrils flared. With sight denied me, my ears and nose sought clues as to his intentions.

He caressed my breast with one hand, kneading the soft flesh, thumb raking over my nipple. I shied back, and he slapped my breast. I controlled my shriek of pain in time, remembering to keep my teeth gritted around the cane, but the sting of his slap remained even as he resumed his gentler stroking.

He traced my areola with a fingertip, pinched my nipple, the patient manipulation causing that need in my belly to flare. My body responded, hips moving ever so slightly, bursts of pleasure rippling through my abdomen. At a hitch in my breath, he switched to the other breast, kneading and stroking, circling and pinching. I needed him to touch me down below again, to give me the stimulation that would cause the rising bubbles of joy to coalesce and expand. My desire was so powerful that I nearly spoke it aloud, the word 'please' on the tip of my tongue.

And then pain exploded in my chest. My nipples were squeezed painfully in the clamps I remembered from one of my numerous punishments that first night. But this was not a punishment! I squealed, a cry unable to make its way out through my clenched teeth, and I shook with the effort of holding back the impulse to unclasp my hands and pry off the instruments of torture.

"Breathe, girl!" echoed in my head. I didn't know if he had repeated the order or if his voice had become part of my subconscious, but I drew in a sharp breath and exhaled. Again and again, I forced myself to breathe evenly, and within the space of a few breaths, the pain became manageable.

"Very good, sweet girl," he said. "You learn quickly." His palm against my cheek conveyed pride. His thumb stroked my cheekbone, nudging under the blindfold. He removed his hand and resettled the blindfold. "Your eyes are blue?"

He had asked me that the previous night, a question so unexpected I thought I must have misheard at first. But why ask again? I nodded, unable to speak without dropping the cane.

He chuckled in approval. A gust of air startled me, and then something struck my right thigh, not a belt or his hand, nor the paddle or a cane. The sting was diffuse, spread over a large area, and the thwack of its landing implied something pliable and soft. I grunted in not-quite-pain, puzzled. A second strike, to my other leg, stronger this time. My self-control wavered, and when it became clear that the sudden wind preceded a lash, I cringed in advance of the next. My breasts bobbed, renewing the pain in my nipples. Anticipating a sting similar to the first two, the third lash's deep, thudding blow caught me by surprise. My legs closed by reflex, seeking to protect the tender skin. I regretted the reaction even as my thighs came together, and I opened my mouth to plead for mercy.

The cane dropped into my lap. I reached for it, breaking the pose he'd put me in. I crumpled in anticipation of his rage.

"I expected better of you, girl!"

"Please, Master," I whispered.

"Surely you prefer the flogger to the cane."

"Please, Master. I was startled."

"Hush, girl. My instructions were clear." He seized my jaw in an iron grip. "I will leave my mark on you tonight after all. Will you wear my stripes on your behind?"

Was there another option? "Yes, Master." The only acceptable response, I knew.

"How many, girl? If I am unsatisfied with your suggestion, I will double it and add ten."

All traces of affection and pride were gone, replaced by disappointment and anger. He wanted me to name my own punishment? I could not! I knew all too well the agony of the cane, far worse than the ... flogger, had he called it? Far worse.

This man would never convince me that pain was not to be feared, nor that fear was good. And I no longer believed his tenderness was genuine. He sought to put me off balance. He had been unpredictable from the moment I had met him, and the only thing I was certain of now was that he thrived on my fear. Every action he took was calculated to instill terror.