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The Handlers stop and I am lowered to the ground. Master Erek leans over me, a large hunting knife in his hand, and he grins as he draws the flat of it across my throat, then down the center of my chest and my belly. As my body responds with tiny shivers just beneath my skin and a yearning for him to really use the knife on me, I look up to see his blue eyes catching the sunlight, and the tiny flecks of gold within them.
“I’ll cut you eventually, pretty Girl,” he tells me, as if I had any question about that, as if he read my mind. But that’s a Master’s job, isn’t it? To anticipate. To read us like sheet music.
His voice, his words, make my body surge.
Need you.
But of course, I will have to wait. Perhaps forever. It is not for me to say.
He straightens and gets to work cutting the ropes from my ankles, then my wrists, and my limbs come to rest on the ground.
“Take her inside,” Master Séverin orders.
But to my surprise, it’s not one of the Handlers who picks me up, but Master Erek himself. He tosses me over his shoulder, and I can feel how broad and muscular he is. He smells so good, like a crisp, white t-shirt, but with something dark and dangerous beneath it. I don’t know how to explain that; I simply recognize it.
My pussy clenches.
Slung over his strong shoulder, I only see where we’re going in reverse: up a wide, shallow flight of wood stairs, then across the planks of a porch before he opens a door. We walk into a structure—a cabin, maybe—and then across another plank floor before I am dumped in front of a wide stone hearth.
I immediately get on my knees and into the classic slave presentation position most Masters seem to prefer; kneeling with knees spread, hands palms-upward on my thighs, spine straight, shoulders back, eyes cast down to the floor.
Heavy black boots approach, and I’m not sure who they belong to until he speaks.
“Expose,” Master Séverin orders, his voice firm and deep.
I immediately clasp my hands behind my neck, back slightly arched, my breasts pushed forward, with my chin up, but my eyes still cast down.
I wait.
If I listen closely, I can hear him breathing. Then he puts a hand on my forehead, leaving it there for a moment, barely touching my skin, before he roughly shoves my head back. I do my best not to look at him, but in this position it can’t be helped. I keep my gaze on his wide black belt, yet I can’t help but see the zipper of his khaki pants, and the beautiful bulge straining beneath the fabric.
I know things are about to get rough. And I want it. Need it. Yet I am still very much afraid of these two, and him in particular.
“Open,” he commands, shoving his fingers into my mouth the moment my lips are parted. Once again there is a thorough examination as he presses hard on the roof of my mouth, then down onto my tongue. He leans over me and inspects my teeth, then straightens up, and with a small, wicked chuckle, rams what feels like his whole hand down my throat, and after some time—I have no idea how long—I’m gone again.
When I come to, he’s lifting me to my feet, and he holds me against the fireplace, the wood mantel digging into my upper back. I can still taste the flesh of his fingers on my tongue. He brings his face very close to mine, his hand clamped like a vise on my jaw. It hurts, but not nearly as much as the ruthless gleam in his eyes. It hurts now only because I know it’s going to.
“Girl,” he says. Demands. “Do not look away.” He gives my head a small shake, his fingers biting deeper into my jaw. “You will look me in the eye when I command you to. Do you understand me? Speak.”
“Yes, Master,” I respond, my voice a bit rough from being choked out.
“Good. What is your name?”
“My name is Girl,” I say.
He slaps me with the flat of his hand, and my cheek burns with the imprint. Why does this always make me fall a little in love with them, those who are in charge of me?
“What is your name?” he demands once more.
Again, I respond the way I have been trained to. “Girl, Master.”
Again the slap, harder this time, and I have to blink several times before my vision clears.
There’s a vicious edge to his voice this time. “What. Is. Your. Name?”
I don’t understand what he wants, what I am to say. This is what I’ve been taught. What we have all been taught. To lose ourselves in our slavehood. And yet, somehow my answer is wrong.
I try again. “My name is…Mina, Master Séverin.”
