“Put on your knickers.” He removes them from his pocket and offers them to me, as the rest of my clothes slide down his arm and land in the crook of his elbow. He eyes them with a frown and a twitch of his nose, I think that, maybe, he might let me put on the rest of them while he’s still got his thumb rammed on the button to prevent the lift revealing my nakedness to anyone on the other side of the silver-grey metal. But he quickly rescues them, sliding them back down his forearm and pinning them there. His eyes never leave my knickers as I slither them up my legs and over my intimate parts. Only then does he release the button, and the door to the lift opens out onto a deep red carpet. Looking the length of the corridor, my eyes absorb wall to wall beige, punctured every so often by closed mahogany doors.

“Let me get that.”

The tie slips from around my neck, and he drapes it around his own. There’s a strange look in his face—like a pain in his eyes, that bore into me until I feel compelled to melt under his gaze—and his fingers glide against my neck, cupping the side of my jaw. His mouth opens, and I wait. But nothing comes out, no order, no endearment. Nothing. Instead, his fingers slip underneath the leather around my neck, and he grips it, tight.

 So, I find myself led by my collar, naked but for my knickers, from the smell of heat and cum in the lift, to the air conditioning and artificial fragrance of the hotel corridor. A door clicks, opens a fraction, and I want him to hurry and open up our room and not leave me exposed like this, but he lingers and watches my face as the door to an unknown guest opens just a bit further, and a pair of male eyes, attached to a reddened male face stares, and the mouth makes some kind of strangled pig grunt. My head’s pounding. I don’t know if I can bear this. Maybe I should stop it all right now; maybe I should tell him I can’t do it, that I don’t want any of this, and that all I want right now of for him to hold me close and kiss me, and tell me, “It’s okay, we don’t have to do this. Why don’t you just sit on my knee and you can tell me what you want to do, what you’re comfortable with.” But he’s not looking at me. If he was, would I be able to say it, anyway? Could I really tell him to stop? No. Because I’m scared; scared that he’ll just—go. That niggling voice that’s been in the back of my mind all of the time finally overwhelms me. That’s it, isn’t it?

Another set of eyes appear, piercing me. Then the door closes again, and there’s muffled voices, getting louder, and an argument breaks out. It doesn’t last long. There’s a moan, and another, and a high-pitched: “You wanna do that? Just because you saw… Oh fuck, yeah…” And he leads me away from the slamming and rapid grunts to room 712.

He opens the door and my eyes grow wide as I peer inside, just as far as the fingers in the collar around my neck will allow me to. This sure isn’t any old grotty hotel room, but I’d figured that much out downstairs at reception. When I flick a glance at him, he’s smiling down at my stunned face.

“Special request, my little love slave. It’s a beautiful room. I’ve been in here before. On my own. Flying visits, usually.”

What’s that supposed to mean? I’m unsure what I’m meant to read into that. A sudden sick feeling swamps me.

He opens our door and walks through, pulling me behind him. But he’s gentle with the tugging now, as if his mind is elsewhere; there’s no chastisement there, just him leading me to where he wants me to go. We stop just inside the doorway, and as he closes it, I take in yet more deep, red carpet, red curtains, and the sumptuous-looking bed, covered in a red duvet with a giant black narcissus straight down the middle. The end of it is flanked at either end by ash wood chairs with red velvet seats.

Once again I feel him change, as his fingers twist tight in the collar and his knuckles cause pressure against my neck. Is it just pretence that’s returned? I don’t know. The insecurity withers away my own smile, yet a quiver of unnerving excitement twists itself all the way down my spine and comes to an uneasy rest in the tops of my thighs. I’m sure he’d never hurt me. Not physically. This is ‘discipline’, is it? I’ve been disciplined and I just have to take it. But all I really want right now is to take him. I want to stroke his face, and slowly, carefully undo every button down his shirt, from his neck to his waist, trailing my fingers over the hot flesh that meets them. I want to kiss his neck until he moans gently, until his breath becomes heavy and erratic, and lead him to the bed so that we can explore every part of each other with our lips and our tongues, and so that he can ease that hardness in his trousers. I want to hold him inside me and caress his cock with every movement within me, until we come together and he holds me until my muscles force him out when I’m ready to release him. Only when I want to release him.

He pushes me until my back is hard up against the closed door, and his tongue sets to work, brushing along my neck, onto my collar bone. I’m kindling in his fingers, and he knows it. The tiniest touch from his lips as he works his way over my breasts sets my flesh ablaze, every motion he makes leaving less and less of me there, replacing me with a mass of desperate need. His mouth runs over my two aroused mounds, until my nipple grows hard between his expert lips that tug gently, interspersed with the flick of his hot tongue. A moan fills the air around us, and it takes me a moment to realise that it’s mine, I’m so caught up in the sensuous motion of him against my skin; this is what I want, and I force the events in the lift into a tiny recess of my mind, quashing the humiliation I felt and that he appeared to enjoy so much, as he plays with me, drawing every nerve ending to the surface with his lips.

His teeth come down hard, and he pulls sharply at my nipple. It makes my eyes stream, and my eyes bolt wide open at him. I don’t understand.

“I’ll tell you when you can moan. You don’t make noises until I tell you to. Do you understand, my little slave girl?”

I nod, a little piece of me utterly crushed as it snaps out of the sensuality and latches onto the pain. Something about my expression makes him grin. “She learns.”

He takes my other nipple in his mouth, and I’m writhing against the door, biting my cheeks to make sure I don’t make a noise; I don’t want punishing, I just want what he’s doing. The wetness is soaking my newly returned knickers, and I hope that, whatever else he does, he doesn’t try to tell me when I can get wet, because I don’t think that I can be any kind of good little slave girl if he tells me to obey that command. I feel myself welling up again, and my pussy lips are swelling and I’m throbbing everywhere. If he looked, it would be changing colour from pink to a deep red, and the veins that run along my lips and up to my clit would deepen from blue to purple, and by the time I come they would be so dark with desire fulfilled that it’s as if they’ve joined me in an underworld of pleasure pain. I’ve no idea how much longer I can stay quiet. The need to express my arousal aches so hard inside me that I feel bruised, wounded.

He releases my now sensitive, aroused breasts, and hurls my clothes onto the near chair. His lips meet mine, parting them gently, and he holds me with a strong hand in the small of my back while his other reaches up and strokes the length of my hair. I melt into this new version of our game—or is this real? I want to believe that it is. That he means this.

Then I’m spun round so that I’m facing the door, and he grabs both of my hands and stretches them up against the door frame. He’s pressed up against me, his knees wrapped around my legs so I can’t move an inch from my lower thighs downwards. The silken tie slips around my arms unnoticed until too late, and he has it around my wrists in some kind of nautical knot that’s so complicated that Houdini wouldn’t get out of it. The sound, the heat, of his breath is in my ear, his lips brush against it as he ties my wrists to the door handle.

“You have a safe word. I’m not sure you’ve remembered up to now. Use it if you need to.” He whispers so softly in my ear that it almost makes me cry. It hadn’t even occurred to me to use it earlier. I wanted to be sure that we would reach the room. I needed to—what do I need? Would I need it now?

“Be a good little slave girl and stay still. I’ll not cut you then.”

What the hell is he going to do? I try to turn my head to see where he’s gone, but I can’t quite see as far as the corner of the room where he’s rummaging around in a bag. I don’t want slicing. I don’t want to be hurt. I’ve told him that already. This isn’t playing. It’s nasty, it’s going to get dangerous, and I don’t want any part in it. But something obtuse inside of me prevents me from using the safe word. My brain goes round and round and I struggle to capture the essence of what it is that makes me so determined not to give in—except I don’t struggle really. I just try to convince myself I don’t know. But I do. I know exactly what it is. It’s the very first thing we knew we had in common. I know what it is.

Whatever he has in his hand, I don’t want it to be a blade. My mouth is try, and I can hear my heart echoing against the door. I can’t look; don’t want to see. He’s behind me, his hand running down my side, catching my breast with his thumb and sending the nipple bullet hard. I’ve never been so scared; so turned on. His hand slides over my waist and around the curve of my hipbone. As he runs his thumb down the inside of my thigh, I hear the snip, snip, feel the cold of metal on my backside, moving from the very top of my thigh towards my waist. It moves to the front and repeats, so that the cold blade runs through the neat, trimmed hair at the front of my knickers, and pressing against my flesh, rendering me still, helpless.

“Good girl.” He breathes the words into my ear, and I hear him fling down the scissors as the material falls away from under me. I think it must be on the floor, but he brings the lace around to face me, so that it’s pressed up against the wood of the door.

“You’re not to make a noise until I tell you.” And then there’s the whisper. “You’ll enjoy it more that way. It will be more powerful. Remember the safe word.”

I nod, and attempt an unnerved smile. It’s then that I hear the laugh, as he thrusts the destroyed material into my mouth. Safe word? Does he want me to submit by force, with no choice, no way of opting out? No way of voicing my fear, or my safe word? Panic floods me and I begin to gag as I struggle to breathe, forget to, knowing he’s undressing behind me. The heat of his nakedness presses over mine, and I want him so badly. Want my fear to stop. His hardness is at the base of my spine, and I feel his balls against my backside. I ache with want. I want whatever he’s going to give me, and I know I can’t speak and tell him that it all terrifies me. No safe word. Nothing, as he removes the butt plug from me.

“Mmm, it looks beautiful. Good girl.”

At that moment, he pulls the material from my mouth, and his finger circles my tight rosebud. He slips down my back, and his fingers pull me apart until I gasp with the touch of his tongue against it, probing, pressing. His finger takes over, circling me over and over. I can’t believe how my muscles want it. He takes my entrance with his finger, easy after the opening being encouraged already. I barely notice him pushing up to the first knuckle, moving round and round again inside, opening me a little further, until he goes further. The pins and needles ache through my body as a second finger, colder than the first, moves inside me. He doesn’t force it, waits until I allow them in further, and he starts to fuck my anus with his fingers, real slow. I begin to back onto his hand, and I’m careful not to make a murmur as he takes my anal virginity.

And then his fingers are gone, and I feel wet again, as his hot cock tip sits at the entrance instead. I tighten up and he knows.

“You can make noise now. You’re a good girl.”

But I’m still tight, and all I can think is what might be on his fingers after being inside me. It embarrasses me, and I think he knows. His other hand feels its way to my clit, and rubs me there, and I open up for him, little by little. His cock pushes inside until the head is all the way, and I keep waiting for it to hurt, keep waiting to use the safe word, but maybe I’m his whore mistress after all, a real proper love slave, because it doesn’t hurt. It’s not what I’ve heard, and I wait again for the pain. I feel it—a bit—as he pushes his shaft into me. He’s slow, and every now and again he pulls out a little, and when he slides back in I feel it wet and I know he’s helping it along. His finger mushes against my clit, and he finds a rhythm of in-out, back and forth, and it drives me wild. I’m not sure which makes me moan. And oh, I do moan. I’m panting before him, and it makes him move faster, until his whole shaft is as far as it can go, and I feel the softness of the skin on his ball sack rhythmically pressing up against me. The gentleness of it in contrast to his driving thrusts almost sends me over the edge, and everything tightens around him.

“You’re not to come until I tell you. Or you’ll be punished. I’ll stop. I’ll stop quickly and pull out, and it will not be nice for you. Don’t come until I say.”

I can just about nod; my face is pressed against the door as I utter something guttural, animally instinctive, as he begins to pummel my backside, and his fingers press harder on my clit. I’m just about holding on. My wrists are sore, I want to touch him and I can’t. It’s killing me; the pain wracks through my breasts, and I want to shove them in his mouth and make him suck. I want to be able to fuck myself with my fingers while he has the rest of me, but the tie has me in supplication, and I hold on.

I feel his girth swell; I can hear the stilt in his breath and I wait for him to give the command. His head grows to its full potential inside me, and still I wait and I wonder, just for a moment, if he’s punishing himself by not allowing himself release. I wonder if, just for a moment, he’s not playing. Suddenly both his hands are wrapped round me, and his voice falls into my ear.

“Now. Come now.”

I don’t need telling twice. We come together, and it’s like burning liquid desire inside of me, and I ache in all the places his cock doesn’t touch.

He groans into my ear, whispers “fuck” over and over. I turn my face to touch his as best I can, and he kisses me on the round of my cheekbone as we both try to regulate our breath.

“Is that as dominating as you get?” I grin at him. “Master?”

The finger he runs down my spine leaves my legs like jelly, and I would melt into a puddle if it wasn’t for the way I’m still tied to the door. His whisper makes me squirm.

“My little love slave, I’ve only just started with you. Next time I’ll make sure you recognise who’s Master. You want it hard, I’ll give you what you ask for.”

I bite my lip. “I do want it to be…hard. Again. My Master.”

He leans around me, his arms encasing me, as he unties my bindings and releases me. “Say that again. Look at me and say it.”

“I do want it to be hard. I want it…”

“Not that part. The other thing you said.” His cock is already twitching and growing against the base of my belly as I purse my lips and open my eyes wide, long lashes only partly hiding their mischievous darkness.

“Oh, you mean—my Master.”

He smiles, holds my face up to his, and looks me straight in the eye. I’ve not seen this in his face before. I don’t know what it is.

“A reward for my good little slave girl. I’ve shown you how I fuck. Now let me show you how I make love.”

He scoops me up and carries me to the bed. He could do anything to me now—tie me to the bed with a bike lock, leave the camera running on our naked bodies, make me call him ‘Master’ while he invites in the men from the lift and lets them watch. Anything, as long as he rewards me.

He lays me down, so gentle it seems that I’m here with someone entirely different. As he holds me, kisses me, takes me with passion and gentleness combined, I wrap myself around him, entwining him with my body, my desire, my ecstasy. Only when he’s kissed every inch of my naked flesh, left me writhing in arousal from his mouth on my pussy, his cock playing a wet tune over my lips, and a release that comes from my very core and binds my body to his, does he gives me my reward. And, as I milk him of every last drop of all he gives to me for being a good girl, and as I hold him while he lays, spent, across my body, then – then there’s no sign of my Master anywhere…

His eyes are closed, his breath soft and even. My lips find his cheek, and I press myself up against his back when he rolls over onto his side, to face the window, not me. I cling tight. Is he asleep? I think he is. And, because of that, only because of that, the words come tumbling across his skin, in whispers, before they disappear into the night air.

“You have me. You’ve always had me. I’m yours. Do you love me like I love you?”

*****

I must have fallen asleep. I can still feel him between my legs, that wonderful full, achy feeling. Memories of laying across his chest as his hand stroked its way down my hair linger, leaving a warmth in my chest and a sleepy smile across my lips. My eyes half open, just enough to know that I’m in the covers of the bed, and the room is almost in darkness.

“What time is it?”

My voice muffles in the pillow as I nestle my head into him. Except there’s a space next to me. The sheets are still warm. I get out of the bed and check the bathroom. I can feel the bile in my throat and the banging in my chest as I run my eye over the floor and realise there’s no personal belongings there. I thought he’d had this room for more than just the time we’ve spent here. Maybe he’s gone out to fetch a bite to eat, or a drink.

Don’t be so bloody stupid.

The little voice eats away at my brain as I catch sight of the small hotel-issue kettle on the long counter top, and the folded piece of paper with my name in capitals on display, propped up against it.

I feel sick. My fingers feel like they are burning. Maybe they can just set the paper alight and I don’t have to open it at all. The inner corners of my eyes are stinging, everything about me feels on fire, yet I’m shivering. I wrap a sheet around me tight, and pick at the skin around my finger until it bleeds, until I regain enough control over my hands to open the folded sheet and read the words.

The room is paid for until 11am tomorrow. Stay the night. Goodbye.

__________________________________________________________

Thank you for reading this far. This was a loooong post. As always, comments and feedback is welcome, as I’ll soon be redrafting the entire book.

Don’t miss the next part -the very next one brings us to the end of Love Slave Book 1!

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