Punish Me, Please Read online

  She laughed with it, drunk on some kind of deep, psychological soul thing.

  When he would come and open the cage, she would find every way to scamper out and hug his legs or rub herself. I’m your slut, I’m your slut, I’m your slut. Not because she expected mercy, but because she knew, aside from it being true, it would make him angrier and force him to wipe the smile from her curving flesh.

  Oh, yes, god yes.

  She did everything wrong to get to this place, this reality. Jones’ power palpable above her blinded nakedness; his mind a galaxy swirling with calculations of how to hurt her effectively to get through to her soul.

  A large part of her told her she was wasting her time, of course. Jones didn’t care one way or the other if she even existed. He had no feelings whatsoever as he simply went through the motions, torturing a slut the way he might tune the car or buy a new suit.

  Still, there was that other part that wanted him to be bonded to her like she had become bonded to him. Was such a thing possible? Had he died while she was downstairs in front of the elevator door like she had? Did he find his resurrection, choking her in the shower, just like she had? Could he truly feel that kind of connection, attachment...love?

  Love...

  She wouldn’t begin to call it that. Love was weak, love couldn’t hold her. She had seen love in the form of Johnny, running after her but not really wanting to catch her at the restaurant. Love hadn’t even held her in her seat. Love wasn’t half as strong as a good rope, not nearly as convincing as a slap to the face.

  Johnny wanted them to go together to Stone. For what purpose and what would he present? Maybe if he had taken her off to the bathroom and found something new and terrible to do to her that Stone had overlooked, maybe then he could make a claim at originality, at true ownership.

  Finders keepers. Finders beaters.

  One up’s man ship. “Who owns you now, Sheila?” as Johnny thrusts her forward in Stone’s presence.

  You do, Master.

  “Show him, Sheila.”

  Deep green bruises, a tattoo, slut imprinted on her ass, or his initials on her tits, nipple rings, maybe. His initials, branded on her thigh.

  Spoiled merchandise.

  Stone would laugh. “You’ll have to take her now.”

  “No hard feelings, Sir?”

  “Over a cunt? Don’t be absurd.”

  Cigars and brandy all the way around.

  But that was another world, another possible existence that never was, like the smoke of the cigar, the sweet, rich smell of the brandy, ephemeral and ultimately unreal.

  That wasn’t Sheila.

  Sheila was now what she was born to be, the product of the influence of the strongest man in her life. The one most able to re-make her in his image.

  And that was Jones.

  The man’s own aloofness, indifference, even outright toxicity only multiplied her assurance.

  But these were conscious thoughts, and Sheila didn’t have those so often anymore. Mostly she was skin, seeking the whip, a wet cunt, looking for a pounding, or—Jones’ new favorite, electro torture.

  She was raw sweat, dripping, a little pain puppy. Incorrigible. If she ever located, in proximity, Mr. Jones and some instrument of potential torture, she would do everything in her power to bring them together.

  The one thing she could not do was resist him. Self-preservation itself was extinguished in his presence. He was god, the higher cause and ultimate thing, and agony was the substance of his creation. She was a creature, a puppet on a string, dancing to the tune of his will.

  That was all and everything. That it be from the heart, from the bottom of his most sadistic, twisted heart.

  In the back of her mind, she knew this couldn’t go on. Stone was a powerful man, a bored man, a man who went through sluts like candy, who was always making room for the new.

  Eventually, she would have to go. It would happen, the end of her world, the loss of the pathetic, negativistic everything of her masochistic, Jonesian universe.

  The little slave girl would have to grow up. No living in the big house, playing with dolls in her mind, taking the easy way out of having one Master and safely pretending to belong to another.

  That day was bound to happen, and one day it did.

  ***

  Possessing Sheila had been a great letdown for Jeremy. He had anticipated for so long, savoring the potential experience of ownership, week after week, day after day, watching the curvaceous young beauty at her desk, making her perform humble, exacting tasks, running her to and fro, all the while exuding his calm, dangerous masculinity, knowing her fantasies and how he was going to realize them in all the ways she was craving but would never truly be able to handle.

  Everything had gone perfectly. Maybe too perfectly. Indeed, the real taking had reeked of anti-climax. She had been brought down to slavery and used up so quickly. Not even a month after the first night and here she was already useless to him. A hooded, broken, spirited animal who was no more fun to fuck than a rubber doll.

  Jones managed to draw some amusement from her, so he kept her on, making occasional use of her himself. But his mind was already past her. He had new prospects, one of whom was already at work, occupying Sheila’s old place in the office.

  As for Johnny Tremaine, he had proven to be every bit the stand up fellow Jeremy had hoped. The very next day, in fact, following Sheila’s absurd performance at the restaurant, the young man had come to him, asking to have a man to man talk.

  Johnny had told him at that point he was aware that Sheila was Stone’s slave and that he was more than all right with that.

  “I know you don’t need my permission, Sir, I just want you to know I am hoping to stay a loyal employee here,” he said. “One who’s worthy of your trust.”

  Jeremy appreciated this, and he asked him how he was handling his unrequited feelings for Sheila, which were all too evident. Johnny’s answer was sensible. “I’ll be honest, Sir, it’s hard,” said Johnny. “Sheila broke my heart. But I need to be a man.”

  Jeremy promptly promoted him and took him out for drinks a few nights later. Over whisky, Johnny confessed that he was a sexual dominant, to which Jeremy replied that he was welcome to visit the BDSM club where Stone sometimes went for quick, sadistic sexual relief.

  Johnny thanked him, but indicated he was looking for the one true love of his life, albeit a submissive one. Jeremy laughed and told him he would wise up in time, but secretly, he had to admire the young man’s principles.

  He was even a tiny bit envious. Did Stone himself lack a heart to love? Was that why he was so cold and ravenous toward his women? Whatever it was, he couldn’t go changing now. Women were commodities like anything else, short term investments, with limited yield. As far as Stone was concerned, once a woman was entirely used to being whipped, once she crawled of her own accord, clingy and whiny, she was no better than a wife.

  A man like Johnny would get off on having the same woman whimper and mewl the rest of his life, staring starry eyed at her Master forever. Or at least he thought he would.

  Maybe he should hook Sheila and Johnny up, like he had been thinking all along. He could charge Johnny some absurdly high price, in terms of life-time service and loyalty, and at the same time be rid of the woman. She wasn’t worth more than a thousand or two to a slave brothel, and she would be dead of some disease in a year.

  If she were with Johnny, he could enjoy keeping tabs on her. It would be interesting to see what the lad could do with the female at this point.

  He was watching her at the moment, being taunted by Mr. Jones in the living room. Jones had a dildo attached to the end of the stick, which Sheila was trying to get in her mouth through the open zipper. Jones kept her scrambling, letting her get only a few licks in here and there. Occasionally, he would allow her a really deep suck, but only at the price of the bullwhip being snapped against her vulnerable, twitching ass.

  Common sense would tell the female not t
o try so hard to get the dildo, so as to avoid the accompanying torture on her buttocks. But Sheila’s psychology was far too deep into slavery for that. Without the dildo, the teasing, the whipping, she was nothing, too terrified and broken for words.

  Never had he seen a woman ruined for freedom so quickly. The abuse was as much a part of her identity, as much of a need as the air she breathed. He would like to take the credit, but it had little to do with him. This was something going on inside Sheila herself. Not even Jones could reduce a woman that fast.

  Was it her love for Tremaine that opened her so totally to exploitation?

  Time would tell.

  Jones was giving her an extra long suck at the moment. Sheila made the most of it, shoving her mouth against it greedily. She bobbed her head. Pleasing the dildo as though it were a real dick. Her undulating motions were augmented by the steady twitching of her buttocks.

  Jones delivered stripe after stripe and still she sucked.

  As to prove his power, he took the dildo out, removing it to the tip of her lips. He ceased whipping her at the same time. Whimpering, she reached with her neck. He made her follow a couple more steps and then rubbed her cheeks with it.

  Sheila turned her head and gobbled it.

  He let her have it with the snapping end of the bull whip, registering neat little welts. Abruptly, he deprived her. Her head jerked about, searching.

  She began to crawl, but Jones was behind her, taking aim with the dildo. Sheila froze as he pushed it between her pussy lips. Instantly, obediently, like a bitch in heat, she backed up, impaling herself. Face to the floor, ass up, she signaled her submission.

  Sheila no longer moved when fucked. A true slave, she released every muscle, allowing herself to be fully taken. Free women fuck for pleasure, slaves fuck to prove their worthiness to be used by their Masters. The exception being those times when a master might want his female to show passion as part of her conquest.

  Jones made her come on the artificial dick, forcing her to spasm almost immediately. Nothing could be more humiliating to a human being, in Stone’s estimation, than to be masturbated remotely by a long-handled instrument.

  Jones gave her no opportunity for afterglow. Pulling the dick on a stick out with a pop, he brought it around for her to clean off. She licked it clean, with large, eager swaths of her tongue.

  When she had done a good enough job, he simply walked off. The woman heeled him anxiously, trotting beside his shoes. She was a bloody nuisance nowadays, always under foot.

  “Hook her up outside,” Stone ordered. “She’s getting on my nerves.”

  Stone snapped a leash on her collar. She jingled happily at his side, oblivious to the fact that she was about to be abandoned for the foreseeable future.

  Sure enough, she started whimpering at the door, pleading not to be led out. He pulled the leash tight, choking her. He let her cough and gasp a while, inducing the maximum suffering without actually rendering her unconscious.

  After all, where would be the fun in that?

  He released her, at that point, and she fell to his feet kissing them.

  Submissive once more, she let herself be chained to the stake in the yard. Jones closed the zipper over her mouth and left her. She stayed on all fours, at attention, facing the door, her every nerve fiber already focused on his return. It could be a minute or a hundred years but she would be ready and eager, predictably bouncing and disgustingly servile.

  Jeremy picked up the phone to call Johnny Tremaine. It was time to put his plan in action. He just had to be sure not to sound too desperate to be rid of her.

  Let the man think he was getting the bargain of his life.

  Perhaps he was, too, in some strange and twisted way.

  Johnny answered on the first ring. “Mr. Stone,” he identified the number. “What a surprise.”

  “Never mind the pleasantries, Tremaine. I have business to talk. Can you meet me at the Green Room in half an hour?”

  “Consider me there, Sir.”

  “Good.”

  Jeremy was feeling better already. If things went according to plan, he might even enjoy a last screw with the slave later tonight before turning her over to her new Master.

  The last man on earth she expected to own her, probably.

  He would love to see the look on her face.

  But he wouldn’t. Not with the mask on.

  That would be Jeremy’s to take off. Sheila’s face was fixed in Stone’s memory and that’s where it would stay. Along with everything else about her.

  Rising from the chair, he went to get dressed, the happy little matchmaker, feeling surprisingly ebullient. Maybe he would open a little business on the side if all went well.

  He took the keys to the Jag. “Enjoy the girl in my absence,” he advised Jones. “With any luck, this will be her last night with us.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mr. Jones sealed Sheila into a packing crate. She knew it was a crate because of the wooden slats pressing on her knees as she crawled inside. There was a panel of some kind to seal it. He hammered nails to hold it in place. With the hood still on, she couldn’t tell anything more about what was going on.

  There was a dolly underneath. She could hear wheels creaking. Mr. Jones was pushing her along the floor. She was on her ass, huddled, knees to chest. There was no room to lie down or to stand. Had she not already been living with darkness as her best friend, she might well have been frightened to be shut away like this.

  As it was, the scary thing was not being closed in, but having Mr. Jones closed out. Her instinct was to panic, but she was too well trained. She wanted to be a good girl; she wanted him to see she was being obedient, sitting nicely in her crate.

  But he couldn’t see her, could he? He didn’t have x-ray eyes. He would have to open the crate, and she didn’t know when, or even if, he would do that again.

  Was she being taken off to die? That would be okay, so long as it happened soon. She didn’t want time to think of being alone, rejected. They were going down in the elevator. For the first time in ages, it occurred to her she was nude. She had gotten so used to her lack of clothes. It made her so free, and she loved being open to Master and Mr. Jones, for the pleasure of their eyes and prying, pinching fingers.

  Master had not even been there to offer any kind of goodbye. What did that mean? Mr. Jones wheeled her from the elevator. She tried to hear something. All she could make out was the vibrating concrete underneath her. Bad memories came back of the time she was left down here by Mr. Jones, back in the bad old days when she could see and could make wrong choices.

  Mr. Jones stopped wheeling the crate. She felt other men around her. Someone was prying the front panel loose. Was this it? The end of her journey so soon? Maybe it was a test. Oh, god, she hoped she passed. She had to pass.

  But, no, they didn’t plan on taking her out. Hands were reaching in, grabbing her arm. Four or five of them, pushing her down. She felt something cold on her arm, a soft rubbing cotton feeling. Then a pinprick.

  A shot.

  She could smell the alcohol in the air. Wooziness was setting in. It was a sedative of some kind. She felt a heaviness in her limbs, and then she let go, collapsing down to the wooden slats beneath her. She laid her head on her sore arm where she had just been injected. Immediately, the world began to slip away. She was so tired. She hadn’t realized just how keyed up she had been for so long. So much pressure, trying to keep Master and Mr. Jones pleased, trying to keep herself in the right place at the right time.

  It was almost a relief to be shut away like this, no possible chance to crawl and beg. Yes, it was time to be unconscious. Gratefully, she succumbed. It was the deepest she had slept in ages. Sweet and blessedly dreamless.

  Some time later, she was aware of creaking wood, the box being opened again. New hands on her, a single set, firm but not unkind. Someone scooped her up and held her tight. It was a man with a muscular chest. A familiar man, though she couldn’t identify by scent a
lone.

  Murmuring her thanks, she slipped back into sleep. Was it all a dream? Maybe her whole life was a dream. Wouldn’t that be ironic.

  The next thing she remembered was the feel of soft cotton beneath her, springy and tight to her buttocks. She was in a bed for the first time in ages. Someone was standing over her, wiping her down with a damp cloth. She heard him breathing, and again, she had a feeling she knew him. It was so hard to go back in her brain. Everything before Master and Mr. Jones was so foggy.

  Did she really exist prior to their taking of her? Did she really ever live without this hood, these marks on her body, welts and scars, of every degree of healing? Did she ever hear and see and think for herself?

  This being on the bed was making her edgy. Why wasn’t she on the floor? Why did this place smell so strange? Her Master wasn’t here; she couldn’t detect him at all.

  Why wouldn’t this man let her down on the floor where she belonged? Why wasn’t he collaring her? Why wasn’t he whipping her to teach her who she was to him and who he was to her?

  She tried to sit up. The man pushed her down gently by the shoulders. No, that wasn’t right; she wanted to be slapped down. This man was so fucking cruel and confusing. He wouldn’t let her rebel; he wouldn’t shove his dick inside her. She was a naked slut...delivered to him in a box. Was he gay or something? What man wouldn’t grab a girl like her and just take her?

  His hand settled on her belly. Palm down, fingers spread. She felt the instant heat, the calming effect. He had authority, like he knew her body, like he was born to touch her, to handle her. She stopped fighting immediately, anxious; holding her breath to see what was next.

  She gave a little gasp as he ran his finger tips up her side. Intuitively, she understood what he wanted. Her hands over her head. Palms up. He slipped the silk ropes over her wrists. Slip knots, tugged tight and attached to someplace up over her head.

  Now he was rubbing her thigh, very lightly. Taking another stab at mind reading, she opened her legs for him, wide in a spread eagle position. Sure enough, he had ropes for her ankles, too. He secured them both, rendering her completely helpless.