Collared (Masters of Desires)

Lauren found herself at Master Trice’s feet. Her blonde tresses covered her nudity. Her sky-blue eyes were cast to the dark floors. Her breath was hoarse with anticipation but steady with zeal.

A purr escaped past her lips as her master looped a chain around the hoops on her nipples and clipped the last tweezer on her clit. With a facile tug from Master Trice’s expert fingers, her breasts doubled in size, feeling every pinch of the tweezer. Her clit began to swell with uncured desire.

Guided by her master, she wandered to the St. Andrew’s Cross that hung on the wall. He cuffed her wrists and ankles so that all the weight in her body rested solely on her toes. Master Trice pulled an overly familiar mask from his left pocket. His cautious fingers swiped her curls out from her neck as he zipped up the mask that concealed everything but her nose. Yet another rebellious gesture that went unheeded.

Lauren swallowed the forlorn sigh her body pleaded she release.

In the years they’d known each other, he never failed to treat her like the broken porcelain doll she’d sworn never to become again. He drowned in a glass of water when inflicting so much as a bruise on her body. He’d whip her no more than three times and demand she’d take a month’s rest. It was his inability to see her as more than a broken doll that brought her back to the horrid past he desperately wished she’d forget.

To Lauren, Preston was father and mother, brother, and sister. He was, in all intents of the word, her family. She miserably wished to one day mean the same to him. And because Lauren’s optimism was greater than her unrequited love, she received the little Preston allowed of himself without reproach.

Master Trice released a full breath, powerful enough to extinguish a forest fire. Now her face was covered, Master Trice could do what his mind needed without the fear of remorse.

“Tell me when to stop,” he whispered in her clad ear.

“Yes, Master Trice.” Lauren held her eyes tightly shut, fearing the sting of the crop. She pushed forward, rubbing the tweezers against the wall. It created a pleasurable sensation. She focused on it, rather than the bite of the crop. She bit her lip, holding back a whimper as the end of the crop slapped the area where her thigh met her buttocks. If she pretended to like it maybe he’d let himself go—maybe he’d love her as much as she loved him.

He slapped her again and again.

On her back.

Between her thighs.

Her shoulder blades.

There was not a spot on her back the crop hadn’t grazed. Tears streamed down her reddened cheeks, pooling at the hollow of her neck. She’d forgotten how many times he’d whipped her, enthralled by the need to be worthy.

Lauren had no intention of shouting her safeword. She wanted to meet Master Trice. She wanted him to hurt her. Hurt her deep and hard until he felt privileged to fuck her. Fuck her like the superb sub she’d been for the past five years. Fuck her like he would his new shiny virgin sub. Jealousy threatened to fuel her veins with vengeance but simmered at a convicting thought.

She’d seen many subs come and go.

None lasted more than a few months.

None but one.