4
Cole
At the end of the second day, I gave up and left her a message. That Kie was free. That Kie may or may not still be dangerous to her. That she should take precautions.
It was a simple message until I messed it up. That if she wanted to come and stay on the compound, for any reason at any time, all she had to do was text and I'd send a car for her or come myself. That I wouldn't bother her again unless she wanted updates on the Kie situation.
Did she want updates on the Kie situation?
Would she update me if there came a significant contact from Kie?
There were no answers to any of my texts or voicemails.
I wondered where she was. If she was eating right. If she was okay. Wondering if she was eating right brought an unwelcome throb of heat. That was one of her habits we'd been working on correcting because so often she ate crap. Or nothing. There were a lot of times she'd make coffee and a piece of fruit a stand-in for breakfast, and reminding her to eat – forcing her to eat – punishing her for not eating… those things were very enjoyable.
So I thought about that as briefly as I could. Then I made myself go back to work.
Marilyn screamed. The girl could take amazing amounts of pain but right now she seemed to be screaming for no reason, the slightest touch setting her off.
"Cole!"
Wait. She never used my name. Arm upraised to deliver another strike with the Lexan cane, I stopped and stared at her.
It was obvious she'd safe-worded, maybe minutes ago. There was a strike across her torso, absolutely out of bounds, and it looked like it was close to being bloody.
I stopped instantly. Put the cane down on a stand nearby and helped Marilyn to her feet. When had she knelt? And if she had knelt, sure indication that she was done and needed care and rest, how had I raised the cane to strike again? Images of the flexible cane slashing down across her face made me feel sick.
"You're not here today," she said.
I opened my mouth to demand she go back to her knees and that she bow her head to the floor and beg me to forgive her that trespass. At the same time I realized how wrong that was. I was out of control. I'd ignored a safe word.
Not just ignored. I hadn't even heard it. I'd come very close to hurting her. What she'd said to me, there had been no accusation in her voice but there was fear. It made me sick to hear it. Making submissives afraid is what I do. But not like this.
She'd said my name because it was the only way she could get my attention.
I took her hand and helped her the rest of the way to her feet. Even so, I was wondering at the sudden penchant for submissives to call me by my first name, uninvited. Marilyn had used it to jolt me out of whatever headspace I'd fallen into. But Annie had done the same thing and she'd ended up leaving. Annie had used it to divorce herself from the submissive Annie who called me Sir. It had been a declaration.
Ariel had called me by name and wrapped herself around me and comforted me, all of that outrageously wrong in our dynamic.
I'd lost control because of Vincent and Kie, because of what happened to Annie. Ever since my space had been violated and my slave had been stolen I'd been in a rage, trying to get even.
I shot and killed Vincent Geddes, but so had Annie. She was a cop. She was a black belt. She'd hit him at the same time I shot him and there was no way to know which of us actually killed him, because her blow had driven the cartilage of his nose into his brain.
As vengeance goes, it was more than enough. He was dead, and the girl he'd stolen was one of the two people who killed him. The man he stole her from was the other.
But I wanted control. He took that from me and then died before I could do anything about wresting that back. He'd weaponized Kie, as well – already knowing she wanted to go after both me and Annie, he'd made it look like she was dead. Some other beautiful Asian girl had been shot in the face and left in place of Kie. Dead or not, Vincent had almost managed to kill both me and Annie with that one.
Was I out of control because of what happened to Annie? Because I honestly couldn't accept that maybe it was Annie who killed Vincent and not me? Or was it the fact of Annie choosing to leave, as if there were no contract between us.
As if everything I did to her didn't make her soaking wet between the legs.
As if she didn't want me.
I looked at Marilyn again. She was shivering. It was too cold in the pain room. I took my shirt off without thinking and wrapped her in it. Her teeth were chattering as I pulled her into my arms and so I did something I'd never done with anyone but Annie.
I carried her into the holding cell – holding suite? – that Annie had occupied, and through into the beautifully appointed bathroom that was mine when I stayed here. I seated her on the closed commode and started the water that sprayed out of two opposing shower heads. Plenty of warm water for everyone. Then I helped her up and when she was disinclined to release the t-shirt, I let her keep it, picking her up again and stepping into the natural rock-lined shower, holding her cradled in my arms until her shivering stopped, then letting her slide down my body. I still held her, slowly prizing the t-shirt away from her and off, throwing it into the corner. I didn't care about her being naked. I thought she'd be warmer under the hot spray without it.
I washed her hair. Her back. I washed her beautiful long limbs and I kissed her neck. I went to my knees and kissed and licked between her legs until she grabbed my hair and let her head fall back, the telltale swelling and pulsing of her sex letting me know as well as her moans that I'd pleased her.
I asked for nothing in return. How big of me. I'd seriously hurt her. The blow to her torso was already bruising and I wasn't going to let her leave for another couple days unless we went to one of the handful of doctors I trusted who were in the scene and could tell me there was no lasting damage. I didn't want to think I'd done any damage to her organs.
When we got out of the shower I wrapped her in a thick soft robe and pulled her with me into a huge easy chair where she could curl in my lap. She put her head on my shoulder and kissed my neck.
"Something is wrong with you, Cole," she said quietly in a kittenish voice and then, "Sir."
I smiled into her hair. Marilyn was a fuck buddy and a pain slut. It was strange and somehow pleasant to hear that she cared about me, even if it was only in relation to what I'd done to her.
"Is there anything I can do?"
Time travel, I thought. Get me back to the night I thought it was a good idea to auction off Annie before I realized I cared what happened to her. Or back to the day that Vincent realized he hadn't gotten what he wanted and his own slave had been beaten for hurting mine and so he determined to take Annie. She was supposed to be his for a number of weeks. He'd paid $5.5 million for her at that dinner party auction, but I hadn't let her take him. He was too brutal, too dangerous and I had developed a fondness for Annie. At the time I'd seriously meant to let him take her, only later. When she was further through training. When I'd brutalized her body enough times that her screams wouldn't drive Vincent into a frenzy of hurting her more.
Or to the point where she acknowledged to herself what she enjoyed, what she wanted and needed in her life. The beatings. The breast play. Knife play. Breath play. The things that made her cry and beg and to which she didn't always realize she was smiling. Humming. Moaning.