He slipped a finger inside her to find the wetness he’d known would be there. He doubted she would ever be a true masochist, but the desire to please him had transmuted into physical arousal like lead into gold.
He had thought the catalyst for her body’s full capitulation would be more physical pleasure, but desire was desire, and her need for his approval had moved between her legs to express itself in the way she knew would gratify him most. It was more sweet than if he’d only plied her with pleasure.
He continued to finger her as her body rocked to keep rhythm with him, then he replaced his fingers with a vibrator until she came screaming around the gag. He pushed her beyond the point of pleasure and waited patiently for her second and then her third orgasm before finally allowing her the mercy of a space without sensation in it.
Leo left her tied down as he removed the gag. She remained quiet, the tears sliding silently down her cheeks. “Are you all right, sweetheart?” “Yes, Master,” she whispered.
But she wasn’t all right. He raised her chin to look into her eyes and was struck by the painful sadness he found there. He was ruining her. And yet, her body responded. She was desperate to make him happy. If he offered her freedom again, it would only upset her more. She was addicted to him, unable to be without him but clearly disgusted with what she’d become at his hands. He was disgusted with the things he’d done to her. And yet… he couldn’t stop. The more disgust he felt, the more desire, the more unyielding the urge to keep going and never stop.
He’d planned to use her mouth, but couldn’t now, not with so much pain and sadness in her eyes. This wasn’t the cathartic crying of a good session. It wasn’t the bittersweet pain that melted back into pleasure. It was genuine distress. He untied her and rubbed the salve on her wrists and ankles, then sat on the table with her, holding her in his arms.
Leo was glad for the integrity of the furniture that allowed them both to use it at once. He stroked her hair and fought the urge to cry with her.
“Do I make you that unhappy?”
“N-no, Master.” Her voice was muffled against his shoulder, but he heard her. And he didn’t believe her. Part of him wanted to punish her for her lies, but the sadness was so deep that to punish her further might break him past the point from which he could recover.
“Can you stand?”
She nodded and got off the table.
“Let’s go have a shower,” he said.
Faith was shaky as she walked. He stayed behind her, guiding her so she didn’t fall.
In the bathroom, he laid out towels for them and turned the water on, waiting for it to heat to the right temperature. “Would you be happier if we called off the wedding?” His family would give him hell for it, and he’d have to hide her during the holidays… but they wouldn’t be happy with the lack of children produced, either. And frankly, none of it was their business in the first place. This had all gone too far. He wouldn’t sacrifice Faith to keep his family relations humming along.
“No! D-do you want to call it off?” She looked so fragile and broken, as if he were doing anything but trying to find the right thing to do to take away the pain. As if he would call off the wedding to hurt her in some way or to use as emotional blackmail to keep her in line.
“No,” he said. “But with how I feel about the sanctity of the institution, what it means to the Church… to force you into marriage… whatever our arrangement otherwise, I can’t do it if it’s going to torment you like this.”
She looked away, her eyes studying the black and silver pattern on the shower curtain. “Please don’t call it off.”
Leo pulled her back into his arms. He pressed his lips against her cheek. “I won’t.”
They got under the spray together, and he gently washed her. She leaned against the wall, quiet and still as a trophy as he ran his hands over her with the soap, not moving until he pulled her under the water to rinse her.
He put the soap in her hands and groaned as she lathered him. Faith lingered on his cock, stroking and squeezing with her soapy hands. She didn’t slow down until he came. He hadn’t asked her to do it. She’d seen his raging erection and had taken care of matters because she understood it was her duty to keep him satisfied. He gripped her shoulders as he rode the fading strains of his orgasm.
Then she went back to washing him as if nothing had happened. When she reached his back, she started crying again. Tears she couldn’t stop or control.
The scars.
When he’d asked Esmeralda to make him pay for what he’d done, he hadn’t thought about how the scars would be a permanent reminder, not just to him, but to Faith, and not just about what he’d done to try to make it right, but what had precipitated the event to make it necessary: that night that could never be erased, no matter how much blood flowed to cover it.
But Faith’s words surprised him. “Your poor back. How could you let someone do this to you?”
Her fingertips traced over the scars as his silent tears blended into the falling water.