The familiar smells of her house did little to reassure Ellie Sadler, as she crawled in a world of darkness and lust. He had her by her hair, dragging her along. Before he'd put the blindfold on her, Master had put a plug up her arse with a pink, protruding handle that curved upward like a pig's tail.
She felt the plug pressing against her inner walls with each shuffle of her knees, reminding her of its presence, reminding her how ridiculous she must look.
Every fibre of Ellie's naked body should be rebelling against the humiliation. Instead, the thrill of it ran straight to the nerves of her cunt. Her clit throbbed and her breathing came in shallow gasps.
Finally, a stronger jerk of her long hair came, and she fell onto her side.
His voice rang in her ears. His calm baritone, so capable of warmth and humour, sank now into dispassionate cruelty:
'In position, now.'
She clambered onto her knees, hands on her head, chest pushed forward.
Listening keenly, she tried to make out where she was. She heard the low whir of a computer's hard drive. Her study then?
His fingertips dug back into her hair, twisting her head back and around. His lips met hers hard, his tongue pushing forward for a savage, invasive kiss.
'Stay kneeling,' he said, breaking away, 'and press your filthy face into the floor.'
Obeying quickly, she knelt with her back arched and the left side of her face pressed into the rough fibres of the carpet. She knew the view he would be getting: arse cheeks spread, cunt visible, her arsehole lewdly gripped around the obscene curves of a butt plug.
Without warning, she felt the thing being eased outward with a constant, unrelenting pressure. She gasped as it pressed at the tight ring of muscle and groaned as it popped free of her body.
'Return to position, little slut.'
Something new pressed against her lips. Before she'd even realised it was a ball gag, the thing was jammed between her teeth, the straps fixed around the back of her head. Only then was the blindfold released.
It was her study. Her computer whirred away happily in standby, and she could just make out pen and paper on the desk, next to the big yellow copy of the Writer's Handbook. This was her sanctuary. Her escape.
Then she noticed something that didn't fit. On the floor, in the shadow by her desk, rested a red and white dog bowl. She stared at it with something like dread.
'Interested, whore?'
She glanced up. His smile gleamed with savagery.
'Want to see what's inside?'
He nudged it forward with his foot. She still couldn't quite see. His shoe – immaculate suede leather – pushed it forward another inch. Ellie frowned. Inside the red and white plastic dog bowl were two dozen pieces of folded up paper.
'Think you're a writer, do you, Ellie?'
She looked up in confusion. He picked up the fountain pen from her desk and dropped it at her knees.
'You will learn, bitch, that everything you are belongs to me: your mind, your skin, your pen.'
A shudder danced a cruel waltz along her spine.
His voice turned soft, like he was speaking to a little child. 'Pick up the pen, Ellie. We're going to play a little game.'
She obeyed, the cool metal feeling foreign in her fingertips, so out of place with her current situation.
'It goes like this,' he said, talking with slow care. 'You pick a piece of paper. I tell you a body part. And you write what it says, where I've told you to write it. Understand?'
Ellie nodded.
He slapped her. Then grabbed her by the throat. 'I didn't hear that, cunt!'
'Guhh, gur-guhhh!'
'Better,' he said, and laughed. 'Start now.'
The hand was gone from Ellie's throat. She leaned down and picked up one folded piece. As she opened it he ordered, 'stomach - to the left of your navel'.
The words were type-written, as cold and dispassionate as his voice.
