The Palace Ch. 03

"Girl?" he demanded. "My patience runs thin."

"Master, please have mercy."

"This is your own doing."

Arguing would earn me nothing but more pain and another discipline mark. And yet the words bubbled over before I could call them back. "I have no power, Master! You give me only the illusion of control, then take it away with a flick of your wrist. I understand my place, but it is cruel to suggest that anything that happens to me here is of my own making!"

"Cruel? Your obedience is up to you, girl, not me. I can only enforce my rules. You control whether you comply."

"And if the task is impossible?" If he was letting me speak, I would take full advantage. The punishment for this would indeed be my own fault, but the thrill of speaking my mind beat back the horror of my situation, and I clung to that exhilaration as I had to the promise of ecstasy he dangled before me. "You knew I would fail, Master."

"No, girl. I hoped you would succeed." There was no heat in his words. "And now I must punish you twofold." Far from irate now, his voice was tinged with sorrow. "Stand on the floor."

For a brief moment, I considered refusing. Just how far could I push him? What would he do? Would he call for my handler and doom me to days of torment in my own room? Some part of me thought that prospect was less terrible than spending another day with this man who toyed with my mind as much as he did my body.

I had not thought to ask what the consequence might be if a client rejected me for disobedience.

Considerable, no doubt.

I slithered to the floor and stood on unsteady feet.

"Better." He removed the clamps from my nipples. The blood rushed back in, prickling and throbbing. "Turn around."

I presented my back to him. He drew three discipline marks on my neck, to join the first.

Three? I wisely did not question him.

He yanked the anal plug out next. It came free with only a pinch. I heard it thump to the rugs behind me. "Face me again."

I turned toward him. Could I mitigate my punishment with perfect obedience now?

"Girl, your offense is severe. I added a mark so that your handler would increase your punishment upon return to your room. You deserve no less. Some masters would not put up with such behavior. You should consider yourself fortunate that I am more tolerant of a girl showing spirit." He grabbed my wrist and jerked me forward so that I stumbled into him, then picked me up and deposited me on the table on my back. He buckled cuffs around my wrists and ankles and secured me spread-eagle to the table. I lay still and quiet, awaiting my fate.

I heard him moving about the room, and then he held something under my nose. "What do you smell, girl?"

It could only be ... "Ginger, Master?"

"Very good. This is the first part of your punishment."

I could not imagine what someone might do with ginger other than eat it, but I did not have to wonder long. He prodded at my anus with his finger, then inserted the length of ginger deep into the hole. Some part of the root protruded, and at first it felt much like the plug, but I soon became aware of a burning sensation anywhere the ginger touched. I whimpered, moaned, began to squirm, trying to escape the pain.

"I will leave that for the duration of your punishment. That duration will depend on the choices you make. You see, you have control, girl. Control over yourself. Remember that."

I struggled against the cuffs, becoming desperate to soothe the searing pain inside me. "Please, Master," I coughed. "I'm sorry."

"Yes, I imagine you are." He tapped my lips with a fingertip. "Open." I opened my mouth, fearing more ginger, but he shoved a ball between my teeth and fastened it around my head with a strap. A gag. "You may not be aware that masters are permitted to do almost anything to a girl that will not cause permanent damage. This includes drawing blood with blades and needles, using implements that will leave welts and bruises, and causing pain to almost any part of the body."

I endeavored to listen, but the persistent burning in my anus made concentrating on his words difficult. What I did comprehend filled me with dread.

"Your offenses are as follows: Failing to maintain your position. Speaking out of turn. Arguing. Failing to use a respectful tone. I will administer one punishment for each offense. For each punishment, I will offer you two choices. If you fail to choose, I will do both. Do you understand? Nod your head."

He was prolonging my suffering with his lengthy explanation. I nodded quickly as my hips gyrated of their own accord, still attempting to rid myself of the invading source of torture.

"For failing to maintain your position, you may choose between ten cane strikes to the thighs or an additional five minutes with the ginger upon completion of the other three punishments. If you choose the cane, nod. To avoid the cane and extend your time with the ginger instead, shake your head no."

Ten strikes would be agony, but they would take far less than five minutes to complete. I nodded.

"Good girl. A wise choice." He wasted no time, and I heard the cane whistle through the air just before it connected with the tender flesh of my right thigh. I began to reconsider my decision as a howl erupted from my throat, muffled by the gag. My back arched and the muscles of my legs and buttocks contracted, causing the ginger to shift and intensifying the pain there, even as my thigh throbbed and stung. "One," he said mildly. He struck my left thigh next, to a similar reaction, and I became certain I would not survive this first punishment, much less three more. "Two," he said. Back and forth, right thigh then left, until I no longer felt the pain separately but rather existing in a fog of torment, a red haze behind my eyes and a heaviness in my chest that made it difficult to breathe.

"Ten," I heard faintly over the pounding of my heart.

I lay shaking and sobbing, pleas for mercy rising to my tongue and dying behind the gag.

"Well done, sweet girl," he said, caressing my cheek with that false tenderness. His thumb lingered against my temple. "For speaking out of turn, you are gagged. In addition, you may choose between clamps on your nipples for the duration of the punishment, or five needles in each breast. Nod for clamps; shake your head for needles."

I nodded my head frantically. The idea of needles in my breasts was simply too awful to contemplate.

"Very well. Perhaps I will demonstrate needles for you another time. You may find they are not so fearful as they sound." He patted my cheek, kissed my forehead, and palmed my breast.

Another time? This would not be our final encounter, it seemed.

I braced myself for the clamps.

The clamps pinched my nipples as they had before, sharp pain piercing through my breasts and then blossoming into an ache that stole my breath and eclipsed the fading sting of the cane. Perhaps there was truth to the notion that a body could experience only so much pain simultaneously.

He stroked my hair, crooning "shhh" as I writhed and moaned. "Half done, sweet girl," he murmured. "For arguing, I will draw blood with a blade, as this is the worst of your offenses. You have no choice in this, as part of the punishment."

My nostrils flared as I sucked in air, hyperventilating around the gag. I had thought to avoid blades and needles by always choosing the other option whenever possible. His fingers curled in my hair, and I felt his breath against my neck. "Do not let your fear rule you, sweet girl. Though I do find it quite intoxicating."

The words were so startling as to shock me out of my spiral of terror. I could not hold onto the thought long enough to pick it apart—I was consumed by the continued misery of the ginger and the nipple clamps—but I knew there was significance to his comment, and I tried to file it away to think on it when I could.

He kissed my throat, and then something cold and sharp pressed into the skin of my right breast. I shrieked, struggled, sure he was about to cut my breast off, shaking my head frantically, chest heaving, heart thumping. But he did not cut. The blade slid along the curve of my breast as his lips traveled down my throat, and then he snatched the gag from my mouth and kissed me, a passionate, rough, possessive kiss, with none of the formality or hesitance of his previous displays. In the midst of his kiss, as his tongue met mine, the blade sliced into the side of my breast. I went rigid, a keening wail in my throat, shuddered, thrashed. He broke away, panting. The knife clanked against the wood of the table as he dropped it.

"It's enough," he said, voice quiet and raspy. "I am satisfied."

In moments, I was free of the restraints, the ginger removed, the clamps cast aside. The pain reduced incrementally. My thighs recovered from the cane, then my nipples from the clamps. The residue of the ginger remained, but the discomfort retreated. I was acutely aware of the cut to my breast, the slickness of blood dribbling down my side. He applied a cool, wet rag to the site, soothing. When my pitiful weeping calmed, he picked me up in his strong arms, cradling my head against his chest, and set me down gently on the bed.

"Now, sweet, sweet girl, you have earned your pleasure."

I wanted to ask why he had aborted the punishment, what his comment had meant, what I had done to earn his approval, but I dared not speak. He kissed me, a sweet, loving kiss this time, not devoid of passion but more leisurely, without the urgency that had inflamed the other. His hand moved to my breast—the uninjured one—thumb sweeping across my nipple, fingers squeezing gently. He kissed my cheekbone, my forehead, my throat, then flicked his tongue down my body to my navel, parted my thighs and licked my clitoris.

I lay still, perplexed, frightened, but I already knew he could bring me to heights of desire that would outshine any of the pain he had caused. When he showed no inclination to switch to a less enjoyable activity, I relaxed. The bubbles of joy returned to my belly, expanding as his tongue circled my little center of pleasure, a lightness in my chest, my being focused on that point between my legs. I gasped, moaned, my breath fast and shallow, as the climax built.

He stopped.

My breath exploded out of me in a whine of disappointment.

"Turn over. Tuck your knees under you," he directed.

I did so, desperate to avoid further pain and still dangling over the precipice of release. He guided my hips up, my knees apart, and rubbed my clitoris with his finger. I returned to the edge, nearly there, and he inserted two slick fingers into my anus. Protests erupted in my head, though I was present enough not to voice them, but I remembered his question at the beginning of this ordeal: could I take pleasure in his penetration of my back passage?

I would know soon enough. I forced myself to breathe evenly as he withdrew his fingers and pushed his cock into me. There was little pain. The plug and his fingers had opened me, unlike the first time when he had taken me so violently.

"Will you cum on my cock, sweet girl?" he asked, echoing my thoughts. He began to thrust, short strokes at first, then pulling out almost the full length of his penis and then sinking back in, an even rhythm, neither fast nor rough. His continued manipulation of my clitoris, awkward though the angle was, maintained my arousal, and the motion of his cock stimulated areas that had never known such a touch.

"Yes, Master," I whispered. I was aware of nothing but the sensations between my legs, and even the residual pain in my breast and thighs somehow enhanced the excitement. My head swam, I quivered, my buttocks contracted and my belly clenched, and suddenly I was floating on a cloud of pure contentment, a moment I wanted never to end. I cried out as the wave of pleasure crested, my anus tightening around his cock and my vagina pulsing. His fingers dug into my hips, he gave a mighty thrust, and his penis twitched as he climaxed.

"Yes, sweet girl. Oh, yes, you are remarkable," he groaned. He rolled us both to our sides, let his penis slip out of me, and pulled me against his body with his arm around my waist. He held me as his breath calmed. I could hear his heart, feel his pulse slowing, and he kissed my cheek. He backed away from me just slightly and scrubbed at the back of my neck with a finger moistened in his mouth. "You need not suffer under your handler's belt," he explained. "I will leave just two marks."

Why?

Why would he do that? He had been so angry, so harsh, and now ...

"Why, Master?" slipped from my lips.

"Because I wish it, sweet girl." He turned onto his back. "I am ..." I waited for him to complete his thought, but he did not. He tugged on my shoulder. "Lie on your back," he said.

I shifted to my back, and he kissed me, working his fingers up under the blindfold, then lifted it clear of my face. I squeezed my eyes shut. Was this a test? Why? Why was he so confusing?

"Look at me, sweet girl. I want to see your eyes."

"Forgive me, Master, but I was told I am never to see the face of my client, though I do not wish to defy you."

"Open your eyes."

My eyelids fluttered open, and the face peering down at me did not at all match the image of a monster that had filled my imagination. Indeed, my master was quite handsome, not a day over thirty-five, with light brown hair tied at the nape of his neck. Deep brown eyes stared into mine, and he was smiling. I allowed my gaze to wander, down his muscled body, to his penis in its nest of brown curls, his long, muscular legs. Oh, he was beautiful.

"Blue," he said, sounding satisfied. "As you said. You are lovely."

"Thank you, Master," I breathed.

"Do not be alarmed. No one ever need know. I will send you back now, but I will see you tomorrow, my lovely girl. Sweet dreams." He replaced the blindfold, kissed me again, and then I heard him dressing himself.

The door opened, and my handler's familiar voice ordered me to my feet. He escorted me back to my room, shut and locked the door, and removed my blindfold. He did not speak until I had finished blinking.

"Two marks?" he asked, dubious.

"Yes, Sir."

"How is that possible?" He examined my neck, touched the marks, then very pointedly studied the cut on my breast. "Was this a punishment?" He crouched in front of me, indicated the cane welts on my thighs. "And this? Explain."

"Yes, Sir, they were punishments. My Master felt I deserved only two discipline marks. That is all he told me."

A flicker of disappointment crossed his face. "And I am informed he wants you again tomorrow. This is very strange."

"Yes, Sir." I understood it no better than he did.

"Very well. Two marks. I shall use you tonight, and you will take twenty with the paddle to the buttocks."

He had implied I would be required to service him, but this was the first time he had demanded it. "Yes, Sir, I understand." In truth, I did not, and my stomach roiled at the idea of having his penis inside me, though I did not know why.

"Bend over the bed," he ordered. He had opened his trousers and was vigorously stroking his cock, which appeared to be considerably smaller than the only other one I had known.

I did so, more fearful of his penis than of the paddle. He moved up close behind me, grasped my hips, and penetrated, thrusting hard and rocking me into the bed frame. It was over quickly, and I found myself remembering my master's treatment, his attention to my own pleasure. Perhaps that was unusual, and it was this impersonal use I could expect from others.

'Will it be pain or pleasure this evening?' my master had asked that first night. The line was becoming blurred.

My handler finished. "That was unsatisfying," he grumbled. "Next time, you'll suck me off instead."

"Yes, Sir." Maybe he had hoped for a negative reaction from me. He had been in turns very kind, very cruel, and sometimes barely tolerant, but he had shown no special care or affection for me. If he was now irritated, I might find my life here becoming more uncomfortable.

The paddling was perfunctory, almost boring compared to my master's flair, and delivered with little enthusiasm. His discontent was clear, but I was beginning to think I was not the cause.

"I'll have a meal sent over. Eat, bathe, and go to bed. I'll begin some fellatio training in the morning. Your master's only complaint was your inability to swallow his essence. His only complaint," he repeated in disbelief. "You will please him tomorrow."

"Yes, Sir." I touched the cut on my breast. "Sir, do you need to tend my wound?"

"It is a clean cut, not deep, and has stopped bleeding. It will heal. I will have ointment sent to you with your meal, if you want." He was already edging toward the door.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you."

He spun on his heel and left me alone. I wanted to ask why he was so impatient, but he was gone before I found a respectful way to word the question. Even if I were not the cause of his annoyance, there was a very good chance he would take it out on me, and that concerned me greatly.

My meal arrived, and I sat at the table and ate with half a mind, the image of my master's face sharp in my memory. The emotion in his expression was the most prominent detail. I no longer believed his tenderness was false.

More puzzling even than his apparent interest in me, though, was my own growing interest in him. My handler was right: I would please my master tomorrow, but not out of fear of either of them, but because I wanted to.

I needed to.

And that was the most frightening thought of all.