The hammering of Van’s hips accelerated. The color drained from her face, and she pressed her grimace against Van’s shoulder. Josh aged ten years as he watched beneath the weight of his chains, his perceptions grinding into a jaded palate of anguish, helplessness, and jealousy.
The fact that she wasn’t struggling snarled and thrashed through his head. If he thought about it, really pushed past the shock and fury of his emotions, the truth was painfully obvious. She couldn’t control him with punches and whips, but this...this would leave a permanent mark. She was doing her job by any means possible. His lungs constricted, his mind a mess of twisted conflict.
As Van pummeled into her limp body and pawed at her breasts through the bodice, a wet sheen glazed her eyes. When a lonely tear escaped, she looked at Josh, startled. She quickly brushed it away on her shoulder and averted her gaze.
His chest hitched. She didn’t want this. His belief in that didn’t mute the pain as Van buried himself deep inside her and released with a revolting groan. But it renewed his faith in his ability to expose her goodness and gave him the strength to keep fighting. For her.
Two days later, he lay on his stomach, stretched over her mattress, his nose burrowed in her sheets. Her familiar womanly scent warmed his inhales as the strikes of her cane pommeled his backside.
The passing of time had warped into an ugly mass of emotions, the intensity and direction of his thoughts changing as frequently as her masks. He flailed between hating her, wanting her, fighting her, and praying for her. And through it all was the incessant urge to screw her. The latter formed a knot of guilt in his stomach. After witnessing Van’s treatment of her, his arousing thoughts were selfish.
The air whistled. Crack.
Burning pain stole through his thigh and cut his breath. He held tighter to the chains connected to the wall.
Crack.
His tender skin flinched, shuddering away from the hurt. But the warmth that remained spread tendrils of heat to his groin. When her footsteps clicked over the floor, he loosened his muscles, anticipating her next hit.
Crack.
The impact stabbed his backside, flexing and quivering his gluts. His lungs labored. He relaxed into the lingering twinge, and his arousal mounted.
Crack.
He ground his pelvis against the mattress, seeking relief. He tried to muster the shame in it and failed. He’d reached that place in his head where the pain transformed into a lofty phenomenon, his body floating through an immersion of sensations, every nerve ending devouring her attention. He rocked his hips.
Her knee pressed between his spread legs, and her hand wedged beneath his groin. She gripped his erection and stabbed her fingernails into the throbbing, sensitive skin.
“Slave will not rub Master’s property against the mattress in a sexual way.” Her tone was as cold as the absence of her hand as she stepped away.
Crack.
Fire seeped into his bones and smoldered in his joints. He thrust his arousal against the bed, wanting more. It was strange how badly he longed for her full focus on him, only him, whether or not that attention came with pain.
Her fingers grabbed the hair on the back of his head and yanked, exposing his neck. Her lips caressed his ear, and his penis throbbed.
“Stop. Grinding. Your dick.” She released him with a shove. “Kinky fucker.”
Crack.
Ahhh. He melted into the heat of her strike. He couldn’t remember what the infraction was that led to the current punishment. Couldn’t recall what day it was. Didn’t care. It was during these highs that he trusted her implicitly. And ignorantly. The flow of his thoughts whispered in jumbled bursts of nonsense, his give-a-crap drifting beyond reach.
The mattress dipped as she knelt on the edge.
Time passed. He might’ve dozed. Somewhere along the edges of his drowsiness, her phone beeped. When he opened his eyes, her knees hadn’t moved.
He licked dry lips. It would’ve been delusional to expect leniency from her after every punishment, but sometimes, while the pain ebbed, she gave him a small window of sympathy. Sometimes, during these moments, he tested her.
“Come here,” he breathed.
She sighed, and it was sexy soft. His lips floated into a smile. At least he thought they did. Her gentle response surprised him as much as it had the first time he’d given her the same order. In those rare moments when she came to him tenderly, it didn’t last long before the detached Mistress appeared again. Still, he wanted her, craved her body against his, and this time she obliged.
Black pleather encased her from chin to ankle, and she wrapped all that material around the length of his side, stroking a hand over his sore muscles, soothing him as he fell out of the sky.
It was the only time she held him, and he didn’t try to understand her intent. He simply savored her tender attention, turning his head to peer into her eyes.
In place of a mask was an expression he hadn’t seen since Van had sex with her in front of him. Beneath the yellowing bruise around her eye was pure, unrestrained fear. It paled her complexion, hardened her jaw, and flattened her lips.
“Liv?” He raised his head, his stomach hardening. “What’s wrong?”
She recoiled, clutching a cell phone to her chest. In the next breath, her face blanked, her tone equally vacant. “I’m failing. I’ve tried everything I can think of.” She released a shuddering exhale. “You’re the worst slave ever.”
He wanted to laugh at that, but something was wrong. She hadn’t let up her grip on the phone.
“What’s going on?” His scalp tingled. “What are you doing with the phone?”
She lowered it, staring at it like it was about to detonate. Then her eyes flashed to the door. “Mr. E is on his way upstairs.”
CHAPTER 20
Josh was treated to the soft strains
