Elliot Mabeuse (20 page)

"Call me
'master'
," I whispered.

Emma sighed and I squeezed her against me. It felt good to use my strength. It felt good the way she yielded.

"Master!" Emma whispered.

I twisted her wrist behind her back and pushed it up, up between her shoulder blades—up until she gasped and her breast pressed into me.

"Again!"

"Conner! God! Master!
Oh! Master!
Conner!"

I pushed her back into a dark little corner, behind a phony column where shadows hid us and only one beam of sickly yellow light could get through and slash across her face and in that light I saw her looking at me fearfully. I kept her arm twisted behind her back.

"You're a liar, Emma. You're a liar but you're going to give me what I want anyway, understand?"

"No, Conner. No, I—"

"Master!"
I corrected.

"—Master! I—"

"Shut up! I'm tired of playing games, Emma. I'm tired of being yanked around.

You're not going anywhere tonight. I'm not taking you back to campus. I'm not taking you back to your car. You're staying with me tonight and you're staying for as long as I want you to stay. I'm not playing with you any more, Emma. Do you understand? You're

coming home with me and you're going to give me what I want. You're going to give it to me if I have to fucking crawl inside your mouth to get it!"

"Conner! Conner!
Master!"

I grabbed her face in my hands and I kissed her. I kissed that lying mouth. I kissed her and I bit her lips and I felt the tears spilling down her cheeks. I was on fire and my cock was hard, stabbing her like a dagger as I held her face in my hands and leaned my weight against her, pressing her back against the wall.

The band was playing and the singer finished her verse and the trombone player must have stood up because as I kissed her and sucked the air from her lungs, I heard the first golden blast of that pure, fat horn on my back and it seemed to drive me harder on top of her, pushing her into the corner ‘til it was like we were in a world of our own, just me and Emma, unseen by anyone. I dropped one hand to her leg, her thigh, and slid it up under her skirt, lifting, and Emma was biting me frantically, and I don't know if she wanted me or she hated me and anyhow I didn't care because it didn't matter anymore either way. Tears spilled down her face.

I abandoned my assault on her thigh and my hand went around to her behind, where I started lifting her skirt, my hand gathering up the soft fabric. I gathered it up until I felt her naked ass. She was wearing some kind of thong and I spread her cheeks apart with my fingers and began to run my finger up and down her crack. Emma moaned and put her hands on my cheeks and now apparently she decided she wanted it because she kissed me, holding my face as if she were trying to hold me steady or make me slow down—

"Don't touch me, slave!" I hissed at her.

She pulled her hands away as if struck and pressed them against her shoulders, clenching them into tight, nervous little fists. I pushed my finger against her asshole and she whimpered.

"Oh God, Conner! I don't know what to do! What do you want me to do?
Master!

Master!
What do you want me to do?"

I didn't answer. Standing in that little alcove with the shadows of the dancers sweeping over us, I pressed her against me and pushed my finger against her asshole while in front my hand slid under her skirt and found her pussy. She had managed to find some naughty things at Dee's after all—a g-string with a gauzy, invisibly fine little panty that clung tight to her little mound like a shadow, no thicker than a piece of cellophane—and split around her pussy so that her labia were revealed to the air and the night. How interesting…

I pressed my weight against her and pushed her into the wall as I slid my hand under her skirt and continued to investigate as if I were learning all this for the first time.

The panties were split, and hanging down in front was a little string of beads or pearls, I couldn't tell, but they hung down so they'd slap against her clit as she walked, as she moved, spanking herself, keeping herself aroused and ready. It didn't matter that I'd made her buy them, that I'd insisted she buy slutty underwear and that she wore them just for me.

They made me nuts for her, filled me with rage and excitement. They must have been spanking her all the time we were walking to the Blue Moon—and now as I

fingered and fondled her clit she totally forgot my no-touch order and totally forgot my rage and anger. She turned on and lit up like a little flare as I touched her, igniting and melting against me, rubbing her hot, open mouth against mine and dissolving into a buttery pool.

"Conner, please! Don't make me… Don't…"

"Come, Emma! You're going to come for me right here you little slut! You're going to come for your Master to show him how much you love him! To show him you love him more than anyone!"

Her face was screwed up into a tight little mask of shame and denial and her body trembled as she fought me but I wouldn't let her win. I refused to let her win. I needed her more than she needed herself, much more than she needed herself, and I played with her clit and pressed against her anus and felt her shudder and sob.

"Conner! Please! Master! Oh God! Master! I can't! I
can't
!"

But already she was gone and as soon as my middle finger broke through her tight little sphincter in back, she sobbed and pushed her pussy at me and I felt a hot little stream when she came, a hot little dollop of her lubricant dripping out into my hand, so utterly filthy.

I loved it—all dressed up in her sweet little outfit, yet you play with her pussy and stick your finger in her ass and the cum drips out of her like juice from a peach. She'd squirted before when she'd come but never like this, never in this precious little drop, and she shuddered deeply, trembling so violently I thought she might fall, so when she

grabbed onto me I didn't object. She buried her face against my chest, mouth open, gasping for air.

"Master, Master!"

"Again, Emma! Again, damn it!"

"No! Please, no!"

The trombone player was still soloing, the rest of the brass limbering up, preparing to dive back in and see the song home, and I felt Emma's thighs quivering, the wad of come sliding off my finger as I pushed her towards another orgasm.

She was helpless when she got like this. She couldn't stop coming. She dug her nails into my shirt. Opened her mouth and bit me. I shoved my finger up into her ass.

"That's it, slut! Bite me, Emma! Bite me! Fucking make me bleed!"

She snarled like a feral cat and her ass squeezed tight on my finger, her snarl becoming a high squeal of release as she came again. My shirt was wet where she bit me.

"Conner, no more! Please, no more! Not here. Please!"

I looked at her—tiny, helpless, her eyes closed tight . The music washed around us in a river of rich golden sound and Emma was caught like a beautiful little tropical fish on the hook of my fingers. I wanted to crush her in my fist and I wanted to take her in my hands and cherish her next to my heart. It was a place she always put me—

paralyzed between boiling sexual rage and weeping tenderness—and in the eye of this testosterone-fueled hurricane, Emma stood and hid against me from my own rage and shivered in constant orgasm. It was more than I could stand.

"Come on!"

I grabbed her hand and led her out through the front of the bar. The band was just getting to its feet and lifting their instruments, all standing and putting their horns to their mouths and blowing—the solid, hard-driving, good-rocking-tonight wide-open final chorus, down the streets of the city and over the roofs of Chicago and out into the darkness over the Lake. I grabbed Emma and led her stumbling with her tear-stained face and shaking legs out through the press of people—some my age, some hers, some who looked at us, some who didn't—out the door and out onto the heat of Broadway in the summer night, across the street, dodging cars and down the block, neither of us speaking, neither of us saying a word.

In the wake of the rain, the air had died and grown stifling and hot and I began to sweat as I led her along by the hand, her having to trot occasionally to keep up, until we came to Carmen and we turned down my street, passed the now-dark windows, came to my door. I opened it and led her into the hot dark inside.

"Come on," I said. "Upstairs."

I remember my mind was unusually sharp as I followed her up, although I'm not quite sure what that means in this context, because I really didn't know what I was doing anymore. Or maybe that was it. I didn't have to worry about sending the wrong message or being misunderstood anymore, so that made things very clear and simple. I didn't have to be careful and try and see things through her eyes and wonder if she'd misinterpret or misunderstand. I didn't have to think about anything at all. I'd taken Emma and she was mine—for the night at least—and at this point there was no tomorrow and no fucking around. I was going to have my way with her.

The front of the loft was totally dark when we entered. There was just enough light coming in from the street so you could make out the chain hoist hanging there from the beam, looking as ominous as a hangman's noose. There was a plain white wooden trunk standing nearby I'd put there earlier while Emma'd been changing. All my gear was in there, things I'd been collecting against this night.

"Go stand over there." I gestured towards the wall near the hoist.

"Conner, what are you going to do?"

"Just shut up and do it!"

She did as I said.

Despite all the windows being open, it was so hot and sweltering in the loft the place was giving off its ancient smell of musty wood and machine oil. It was almost enough to make me feel bad for her, seeing her dressed up in the clothes I'd bought for her. Almost. But then what did I care?

It occurred to me how stupid I must have looked to her, taking her to Dee's. She had no sense of irony when it came to things like clothes and material goods. This was David's girl. She probably thought I'd been serious when I'd taken her there, and as I watched her cross the floor now in that skirt and her white top, the foolishness of this entire affair hit me.

I turned to ice inside. I went to the trunk I'd pulled out earlier and dragged it over closer. I got what I needed—a spreader bar and anklets, the suspension cuffs, a metal carabineer. I went to Emma and stood in front of her and began to buckle the cuffs on.

They weren't simple, having fours buckles each ,and it took some time. Her tits rose and fell with each breath and she kept her eyes closed, waiting. As I worked, I spoke to her.

"You know, this emptiness, it's a female thing. The space in here. It's female."

She said nothing.

"I'm telling you what this means, Emma. I'm telling you what everything means from now on, because I don't think I'm getting through to you."

I finished the one cuff and started on the other. It's funny I hadn't noticed her scent in the bar, or earlier, or ever before in our relationship as far as I could recall, but now I did, very subtle and opulent and sexually arousing, so that I really wanted to bury my face in her neck and inhale her fragrance. And how had she done that? Had she brought perfume in her bag? Had she applied some while I was dragging her down the street? Or was her nervousness making her emit some natural pheromone meant to soothe a male attacker and deflect his wrath into thoughts of sex?

"Darkness is female too," I said. "And silence and quiet and all things that receive and take in and that are passive and horizontal and wet and soft and cool and sweet."

I snugged the last buckle in place and clipped her wrists together with the carabineer.

"And with all this femininity at work, the poet in you asks, where are the masculine influences to counterbalance them? Because in poetry class we certainly learned how important it is to maintain a balance between masculine and feminine elements, between light and dark, passive and aggressive, hidden and overt. Well, here they come…"

I grabbed the chain hoist and slid it over and we both looked up as the cast iron demon swept in smoothly above us on its steel wheels like one of the four horseman of the apocalypse. A -pound capacity chain hoist isn't a huge piece of machinery but it's still handsome and menacing, all manly and metal and dripping chains, and what male doesn't get off on seeing a nice powerful piece of industrial machinery at work?

I locked the brake on the hoist and pulled down the lifting chain, opened the toggle on the stainless steel hook and clipped it to Emma's wrists. When I pulled on the hauling chain, the lifting end ran through the block with a smooth, clocklike whirr, and Emma's hands lifted up to eye level.

"Conner…!"

I bent down and attached the spreader bar to her ankles, buckled the anklets in place, then attached the short chain to the bar to one of the floor shackles and stood up.

Emma stood there and looked at me with her eyes wide in the darkness, her breasts rising and falling. I could feel the emptiness of the loft stretching around us.

The hoist had a thirty-to-one mechanical advantage and as I ran the chain through my hands, Emma's wrists starting rising inexorably, up, up, up over her head.