Master Zum Page 2

  Last time I’d been free of binds, but of course, I still hadn’t moved. He hadn’t said I could. Despite me wanting to curl myself up each time he’d whipped my arse, I’d remained flat on the bed, panting, concentrating on the pleasure from the pain rather than the pain itself.

  He was moving again, shoes tapping the tiles.

  His scent wafted over me. He was close, and that electricity crackled again, to my left. My breathing chose that moment to go erratic on me, and I took a few seconds to compose myself, focusing on taking air in slowly then letting it out just as slow. The swish of something had me dying to open my eyes. Softness trawled across my pubis—leather, I would say, incredibly light and lovely.

  “Nice, sub?”

  “Oh, yes, Sir.”

  He walked off again, and I couldn’t work out where he’d gone until the brief touch of material grazed one of my shins.

  “What about this?” he asked.

  The leather was dragged from just below my corset then down over my cunt, ghosting southwards to the tops of my inner thighs where it remained.

  “Beautiful, Sir.”

  “How about those restraints?”

  I tried to lift my body to show him how well secured I was but found the only thing I could raise a little were my hips and arse.

  “You’re held nicely there, my precious. I must say, you look especially lovely tonight. What prompted you to arrive half naked?”

  “I wanted to please you, Sir.”

  “Just me?”

  “And myself.” My confessions were encouraged every week. “I decided to do as you’d suggested and follow what I felt and not worry what other people thought. But not you, Sir. I always worry about what you think.”

  “I see. And it’s liberating, wearing only a corset?”

  “Oh, God, yes. To leave my house like this, to know someone could have been watching out of their window. I haven’t felt free like that before—not when I’ve been by myself, Sir.”

  “You’re learning to love yourself. To be yourself. I like that.”

  How I loved his voice. Such rich tones that rumbled through me and settled in my cunt, the vibration of it setting off sparks of pleasure there. When he hummed against my clit he drove me wild.

  “Your skin is such a splash of white on that sheet,” he said. “I adore it.”

  As I adore you, Sir.

  “And those manacles on your wrists are hiding the red marks. A pity. They’re nice. A sign of your obedience.” He paused, then, “I adore every bit of you, I hope you know that.”

  “I do, Sir. Thank you.”

  He moved the leather, drifted it down one of my inner thighs. I detected strands, more than two but no more than six, I thought, although of course, I couldn’t be sure. Some of them were like the inside lining of my leather gloves, similar to felt, soft and fuzzy, well worn.

  “I’m going to flog your cunt,” he said.

  I nearly opened my eyes. “I’m going to flog your cunt…”

  He’d said it as a statement. No need to question or query if it would be all right. I’d long ago agreed everything was all right unless I said my safe word. Would I say it tonight? Would sugar fly out of my mouth in a less-than-sweet rush? I had no idea, but I didn’t want it to.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  I sucked in a breath. Held it. Released it. Waited.

  And he slapped the strands down onto the inner flesh of my pussy.

  One caught my clit, sending a shock wave of undulating pain deep into my center. I cried out from surprise, even though I’d known it had been coming. My nub hardened, ached, and I instinctively went to draw my legs together. My bones protested, and the manacles on my ankles seemed to grip tighter. I lifted my head but dropped it back down, the strain too much on my neck.

  He whacked me again, harder, the strike seeming to have come from a greater height. My eyes watered, but not from upset—no, never that. The pain this time was a silent splash, a ripple effect that spread throughout my body, exiting through my fingertips. My skin went cold then hot immediately afterwards, and my throat dried as I panted.

  I’d never felt anything like it. The slice of a bullwhip on my arse didn’t compare—that was a different kind of agony that went bone deep. This kind…oh, it was a softer yet totally exquisite sort, something I wanted more of.

  He gave me more, three quick slaps of those strands, the ends sticking to my wetness as he drew the toy away. With minimal time between strikes, I didn’t have a chance to anticipate the next, so all three connections coalesced into one massive whack. I adored it, craved more, and clamped my lips together so I didn’t ask for it.

  “Such a pretty blush on your cheeks,” he said. “And your hair, splayed out that way, looks like a blonde peacock’s fan. You”—he hit my cunt again—“are the most”—and again—“beautiful woman”—again, again—“I have ever seen.”

  That last bite—God, it bit. Harsh, coming close to how it felt when he paddled the backs of my thighs. A flush of stinging rampaged over my cunt, the flesh seeming to inflate, fill itself with pain and pleasure. My clit throbbed delightfully, crying out for more, more, more. I grew wetter, so wet it seeped out a little, and my outer lips…I’d swear they were puffy. I wanted to see, see his glorious handiwork, the color he’d turned my skin, the reaction it had had to his toy.

  “Oh, you look wonderful,” he said. “The blush on your cheeks matches the one on your cunt.”

  A nip of jealousy went through me that he had the delight of looking and I didn’t. And what other delight did he feel, I wondered? Was his cock hard, straining against his trousers? Did he want to pull it out and wank until he came over my abused pussy? See the difference in color between it and the cream of his spunk? Or would he prefer to drive that cock of his inside me, shove it in to the hilt then ram and ram and ram, our skin creating a friction that exacerbated my already burning lips and clit?

  The images my thoughts produced danced through my mind, teasing me, giving my excitement a nudge to the next level. That I couldn’t see him wielding that toy, couldn’t see it flying through the air, excited me all the more.

  Another succession of hits landed, bittersweet pleasure-pain, glorious spikes of heaven-hell sensation. I reveled in the experience, a small compartment of my mind asking the question of whether he would do it again or wait, the rest not caring if he did or he didn’t. For now I’d take what he’d given and let it do what it would to my body. I shook, as though sent out naked into the cold. My skin was clammy. The manacles rubbed against my wrists and ankles, the muscles in my arms and legs pulled to straining point. My cunt lips expanded again, rising, widening, and my clit—oh, God, my clit was on fire.

  Something cold dashed against me down there, and my hips rose involuntarily, as did my head. It was too much effort to keep them up, and I flopped back down, wanting to claw between my legs, press hard with the heel of my hand to make the chill go away. Yet oddly, I wanted it there too—to stay.

  Fingers touched me, Zum’s beautiful fingers, massaging the coldness over the hotness, soothing it, numbing it. I sighed, relieved and yet not, wondering why he had decided I’d had enough, why he hadn’t pushed me further.

  “Good girl,” he whispered. “Such a good girl.”

  I smiled, seeing him in my mind’s eye, leaning over me and fondling my sex. Was he watching what he was doing or looking at my face? Was he undecided as to which blush he liked best?

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Yes. And no, Sir.”

  “Explain.”

  “I wanted you to carry on. To make it hotter, make it hurt more, Sir.”

  “Such a greedy little thing, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t feel he wanted an answer.

  “There is more hurt to come,” he said. “Just not from that.”

  His fingers left me, and again his shoes tapped the tiles. Water splashed. He was at the sink in the corner, then, washing his hands. Shoes tapping again, then the dip of t
he mattress beside me and the blessed feel of a cold, wet flannel being placed on my forehead, left there for a moment then dabbed onto my cheeks.

  “There is a new toy,” he said. “I’m going to try it. Your position is perfect for it.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  He gently swiped the flannel over my face again, down my neck and across my collarbone. The heat in my cunt was almost gone—whatever he had put on it had worked wonders—and it was only my skin under the corset that was still uncomfortable. He stopped cleaning me, and the sound of the flannel slapping on the tile told me he’d thrown it down. Something tugged on my corset—Master Zum pulling on the red laces—and the tightness of the PVC eased, slowly peeling away from my skin to let a rush of cool air bathe me.

  Bliss, absolute bliss.

  I wondered if he stared at me now, spread-eagled as I was, or whether he had gone to select that new toy. But the mattress was still dipped beside me, and his scent was strong—near, he was so near, yet I wouldn’t be able to touch him if I tried. His weight shifted, the mattress springing back up, and he was gone, tap-tap-tapping away. Something rustled, a packet perhaps, then the unmistakable sound of him ripping it open using his teeth, taking out whatever was inside then discarding the wrapper. So it was brand-new, literally, never been used before.

  It tinkled loudly as he placed it down, on the table, I imagined.

  The whisper of his trousers, then the shh-shh-shh as he used the provided antibacterial wipes to clean the flogger or whatever he had used on me. There were discreet cameras in every room, put in place not just for customers’ safety but to ensure all instruments had been washed after use. Of course, when we left the room, an attendant would come in and take the used toys away to be cleaned properly, replacing them with new ones, but to clean them as best you could before that was one of the stipulations. If you didn’t, you were out, never allowed to return.

  I breathed out, slightly relieved that he’d finished with that particular implement. Yet what was he about to use? What new-fangled thing had the powers that be in Marshall’s Cottage dreamt up now?

  Whatever it was tinkled again, and I supposed he was holding it up, examining it. Still, I kept my eyes closed, refusing to disobey him—even if he had his back to me and wouldn’t have known. The point to this, to us, was trust, compliance.

  “There’s something curiously barbaric about this,” he said.

  Oh, God. What the hell is it?

  “I see they’ve even put little rings halfway up the bedposts to secure it onto.” He chuckled. “And there are instructions. A leaflet. With a drawing, just in case we don’t quite get how to use it.”

  That chuckle, along with the unknown, rumbled through me at a speed that had my body hair standing on end again. But in a good way, always a good way with Master Zum. I scrunched my eyes tighter—don’t open them, don’t open them and spoil the surprise—then relaxed my eyelids. In my head, I saw him looking down at the toy, at the instructions, a smile spreading, a glimmer of lust in his eyes. Lust for giving me pleasure-pain and gaining his satisfaction from administering it.

  He moved, and the tinkle sounded again—a chain, most definitely that. Something scraped on one of the bedposts, the reverberation going through the mattress, buzzing on my arse. His footsteps once more, the tinkle, the reverberation on the other side this time. Was he at the foot of the bed? I cocked my head as though doing that would give me the answer.

  “Quite a pincher. Yes, these are beauties.”

  His information had been given that way on purpose, to keep me guessing, to make me disobey and open my eyes. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of being able to punish me for it—if I gave in to my urge.

  “Can you hear that?” he asked.

  All I heard was my breathing, a little ragged, and his, steady and sure.

  “No, Sir.”

  He did whatever he’d done before, and yes, I heard it. A snap. Like the crack of a palm against a cheek. But quieter.

  “That time, sub?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And what do you think it is?”

  “I have no idea, Sir. I couldn’t begin to imagine. It sounds like…bubble wrap?”

  He laughed, low and sexy. “If only it were that soft. No, it isn’t bubble wrap.”

  “May I ask what it is, Sir?”

  “You may, and have, asked. But I won’t be telling you. It’s time that you found out by other means.”

  Chapter Three

  I found out when my nipples were gripped by an unholy set of cold teeth that seemed to bite as though they had the intent to rip them off. The pain was indescribable, the kind that made my hips lift, my head swim and had me screaming. That scream hadn’t sounded loud, though, more like it had come from someone else in another room. Everything was muffled, as though I swam beneath water. Murky water at that. I couldn’t see anything beneath my closed eyelids except sludgy blobs reminiscent of hot wax in a lava lamp, swarming together to create one mass.

  “That’s it, you scream it out, pet,” he said. “There’s more pain where that came from.”

  I sucked in a breath and held it. My body went slack, flopped back to the mattress, and I knew if I tried to move now I wouldn’t be able to. The pain from the bite was easing, changing into a hearty, dull throb. The sensation spread through my breasts and, as had happened with my cunt when he’d struck it, they seemed to swell. I let the air out of my lungs and waited for my nipples to become accustomed. The throb receded as I concentrated on inhaling and exhaling.

  Steady breaths. Listen to the sound of it in your ears.

  The nipple clamps moved, were tugged, and that infernal tinkling rippled through the air again. What, was the chain one that would join the clamps together, was that it? I relaxed a little—he’d used them before, and I’d well been able to cope with him yanking the chain so my nipples distended, drawn away from my body with each tug. Cold—metal, the chains?—touched the lower swells of my breasts for a second before they were lifted, jostling my tits, the clamps gnawing at my nipples with renewed ferocity.

  I screamed again, arched my spine, then slumped back to the bed, panting.

  “You have permission to speak, sub.”

  “Oh, Sir. Jesus…fucking…Christ, Sir. These are vicious.”

  “I can well imagine. Adorable little things, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” I said, unable to deny it. “Adorable.”

  And they were, as well as evil, spiteful.

  My nipples rose, and I braced myself for more pain. Gritted my teeth. Clenched my arse cheeks together. Anything to make me concentrate on something else. One was pulled harder than the other, then harder still, so that the teeth bit more harshly as if reluctant to let go. Then they were pulled even more, lifted so far away that I wondered if my imagination was running riot. It felt as though my nipple was five times its usual length, stretched out, so taut that it might snap.

  “There,” he said. “That’s a chain attached to one of those hooks I told you about.”

  An immediate visual came to mind, of a long chain being an extension of my nipple, joining it to a bed post.

  One? Oh, God, there’s another to go…

  The other nipple was tugged, and at least this time I knew what was coming. There it was, the pull, the stretch, the jostle as he fitted the chain onto the hook. What the hell must I have looked like to whoever might have been watching on the security camera? Wrists and nipples bound to the posts, my arse barely on the edge of the bed, my legs spread wide with the bar.

  “Superb,” he said. “You look divine.”

  I was sure I did to him, because he’d told me once that whatever he did to me, however my body reacted, be it with sweat or a fierce blush, I was beautiful in his eyes.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Now, are you ready for me to begin?”

  Begin? I thought you’d already started. “Yes, Sir. Please.” Please, please, please.

  One of his toes tap
ped on the tiles, then the other. A waft of air went over my legs, and the mattress either side of my arse cheeks dipped. I thought he might be leaning on his hands there, staring at me, inspecting how elongated my nipples were. Having a good look at what he’d done. Watching me to see my chest rising and falling, sweat popping out on my temples, and oddly, a rash of goosebumps that had spread across my belly.

  My cunt quivered at my thoughts.

  Warm air sailed across my slit, and oh, Lord, I knew where he was now. Elbows on the bed, his face inches from my pussy. He was determined to see if I’d keep still even while he licked me out. To see if I’d refrain from squirming.

  The wet heat of his tongue as he drew it up from my hole then stopped just before my clit… I almost writhed, almost jammed my hips up so my cunt was mashed right into his face. I held back curses, bit my tongue while he used his to slide a delicious path all the way back down again.

  Shitfuckshit…

  My hole spasmed, and he’d have felt it, would know he was turning me the hell on. I wanted him to poke that tongue deep inside me then draw it back out and swirl the tip around my clit. I wanted…just wanted, plain and simple, everything he had to offer.

  “You taste wonderful,” he said, breath hot against my exposed flesh. “And you smell wonderful.” He swiped up and down again. “Did you know, after I’ve licked you out and I go home”—he circled my hole—“that I can smell you still, that I deliberately”—he treated my clit to a featherlight lick—“don’t wash my face?”

  I didn’t answer, but no, I hadn’t known that. The thought that he wanted my scent on him, my dried cum clinging to his skin, brought a fresh rising of goosebumps scattering across my belly.

  “And once,” he went on, “when I got up the next morning, I didn’t wash then either. I went to work with you right there.”

  He planted his mouth over my cunt, French kissed it, tongue going inside my hole, his top lip skimming my clit, the bottom one teasing the top of the patch of skin that joined one hole to the other. God, he knew what he was doing, and exactly how to do it. My clit bobbed with my need for more—friction, pressure, proper stimulation, give it to me, please, just give it to me. He denied me that, continuing with his maddening taunt of a kiss, knowing, I was sure, that he wasn’t giving me enough.