Click click.
She was up and posed for him almost before she actually awoke, crouched in her little crate-cage, face down, hips up and back to pressing her holes against the bars the way he'd drilled into her with his clipped voice and a chain clamped to her clit. She'd started letting her instincts take over; they reacted faster than she did. It was easier to let her body go first, and try to figure out what was happening after.
Three days. She'd been here, been his, for three days now. During that time he had tortured her, humiliated her, fucked her--sodomized her--collared and plugged and clamped and belted her, and edged her out of her fucking mind. He still hadn't let her come. She knew that really shouldn't be a priority for her right now, but somehow, he'd made it one. He'd reduced her to a creature of need.
Emma had always liked hanging out with animals more than people. She'd even looked into vet school a couple times. Once, in a biology class, she'd learned that the affectionate behaviors people saw in their pets were actually submissive responses: rolling over to expose the throat and belly displayed vulnerability; crouching and fetching and kneading paws were attempts to curry favor with a dominant creature.
Submission was a social transaction, expected to yield rewards. Food. Comfort. Safety. Pleasure. It was an animal response, and he'd made an animal of her.
He was training his animal, too. Stick and carrot, punishment and reward, and a cue: a little hand clicker, the kind one might purchase from a pet store to teach one's pet a simple trick or two. He'd made her take a close look at it, wrapping her white-blonde hair around his fist and holding her still while he straddled her to fuck her mouth. Through her watering eyes, she'd seen that it was nothing more than a little piece of bent metal in a blue plastic casing.
"Not much to it, is there, Emma?" he'd said, pushing slowly, cruelly into her choking throat. "Wouldn't think--" he'd grunted and groaned a little, making her jerk at her restraints before he pulled out and let her breathe again. "--wouldn't think that something so small and simple could absolutely control you, a full-grown human being, in all your rich complexity. Would you?"
He pushed back in, taking speech away from her. She had to assume it was a rhetorical question.
The clicker had become her alarm clock now. She'd been surprised at how deeply she slept in the cage, curled up on a pet bed and covered with a thin blanket, but something about it made her feel... safe, at least a little. He never hurt her while she was in there; he never even growled or threatened. But when she'd been a little slow getting into position, a couple of times after being put down for naps, the consequences had been--her mind skittered away from thinking about them too long.
So when he clicked, she got up and presented, like the well-trained, domesticated animal she was. His hand reached through the bars to stroke her hair, then clip a lead to her collar; she contained a shudder. "Good morning, Emma. Are you ready to start your day?"
"Yes, James," she said quietly.
He opened the door and led her out. He had a small bag in one hand, as usual, which he set on top of the cage. "Put your hands and nose on the wall," he said, "bend at the waist, feet apart." Emma bent at the waist. Emma spread her legs. Emma put her hands and nose on the wall, bracing herself literally and figuratively. He'd been letting her sleep without her plug-belt in; it was better than the alternative, but she didn't look forward to having him reinsert it when she came out.
Emma pictured herself for a moment: naked, and pale shivering a little, visibly submissive and exposed. Her hair made a fine curtain that just touched the wall, rendering her momentarily faceless, only her ears peeking through. Thick black collar snug around her neck--that never came off. The pink of her nipples and the darker colors of orifices between her legs would be the darkest colors on her body.
James snapped on a thin glove with satisfaction she could feel without even having to see, and then she hear him lubricating his thumb and fingers. Again: better than the alternative. Emma took a deep breath but didn't quite finish it, letting out a tiny squeak when his two firm fingers slid into her cunt and his thumb followed into her ass. She was getting used to this kind of businesslike penetration, but it was still a little overwhelming, especially when he flexed his hand or curled his fingers, making sure the lube covered her well.
Not that her pussy exactly needed it. She was so
wet
all the fucking time now. She woke up sopping even without the plugs, walked around (or crawled) with the stubby dildo working her slippery cunt all day, and every time he grabbed her hair and bent her over the nearest available furniture for an inspection, he made her suck herself off his fingers. Sometimes he'd find a place where she'd dripped, point the clicker at it, and have her lick it up. Compared to the gritty taste of the floor, having to suck up her own wetness was almost pleasant.
James withdrew his fingers at last, and she heard him peel the glove off and drop it on her back as if she were an end table. But instead of getting out her belt, he paused. "Want to learn a new trick?" he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
Emma really, really didn't, but she couldn't bring herself to speak. She felt him part her lips again and slip something long and thin and blunt inside her, probing; she couldn't suppress a grunt when he brushed what must have been her cervix, and she involuntarily rose up on her tiptoes. James chuckled softly but moved the tip of his tool away, somehow going--around it, but deeper. Then he placed the heel of his hand against her, just above her pelvis, and began to press. Hard.
Emma lifted up onto her tiptoes again, in part because the sudden pressure took a lot of weight off her feet. She was making noises again, halting high-pitched breath sounds, as the tool deep inside her began to hum and throb. It wasn't like a vibrator, not exactly. It was like a pummeling massage focused on one tiny point, exactly opposite the pressure from his hand outside. It was--doing something. It was building, it was pressure, it was building it was building she couldn't help bear down oh
fuck
With an involuntary, panicked laugh, Emma clenched and jerked and squirted, a sudden jet of something splashing on the hardwood floor and James's boots. Her fingers clawed marks from the wall paint, and if not for the fact that he was still lifting much of her body weight, she would have collapsed. She'd never done that before. She hadn't thought she
could
do that. Yet here she was, gushing like a goddamn pump spigot, the last of it dripping out of her as her knees nearly gave out.
But she didn't come. That was unbelievable. He'd made her fucking ejaculate and she still. Hadn't. Come. That single bark of laughter almost turned into a sob as she realized exactly what he could do to her, to her body and her cunt, without letting her off this ledge of unwilling need.
James eased her to the ground, and then--oh no. He picked up the little blue plastic thing and pointed to the puddle she'd made on the floor.
Click click.
"Nnnnnno," she heard herself say, a little whine she couldn't quite believe was her voice.
"Do I have to say it twice?" James asked, his voice mild.
Emma put her hands on the ground, fingers spread, pressed to either side of her ejaculate where the spray had beaded on the hardwood. She let herself down to her elbows. Something in her stomach threatened to heave, but she wasn't sure if it was in contemplation of what she was about to do, or at the thought of what James would do to her if she refused.
She lowered her face. She closed her eyes. She let the dumb, scared, curious animal take over.
It was mostly just water, she learned. Warm water, a little salty, and the faint taste of the varnish underneath it. She knew she couldn't get up all of it with her wet pink tongue, but she could lap, curl and flick and swallow. If she tried not to use her nose when she breathed, there was barely a taste to it at all.
"That's enough," said James finally, lifting her head and using his sleeve to wipe her messy face. Their eyes made contact for a second, and Emma didn't know what look was in hers, but the expression in his was--distant, as if he were thinking of something else. There was a flicker of something warm, like kindness, so brief she must have imagined it. And then she dropped her eyes, afraid of the consequences of looking, her body still sending every submissive signal it could.
Emma expected him to get out her plug-belt next, but he didn't put it on her. Not yet. Her insides tightened as she tried to guess what that might mean. He just took the short, thin lead attached to her collar and gestured for her to lead the way down the stairs.
He directed her out of the stairwell at the main floor, into the walkway between the plush living room and the kitchen. The floor was marble tile, cold on her feet. Normally--and it was disturbing to think of any of this as "normal"--he would have led her down it into the round room to take up a position on her kneeling charge-pad. Instead, he took her to one side of the walk, turned her to face him, and put her back to the wall.
"Tiptoes," said James, "legs apart. Hands behind your back. Good, Emma." He took her shoulders and pushed back until her posture was slightly arched, legs only trembling a little, heels off the ground. He ran a hand over her upper arm, then the curves of her torso, as if brushing lint from a prized, shiny object. Emma felt her skin prickle at his touch, and had the fleeting thought that James only touched her when he was certain it would produce exactly the sensation he wanted.
"Stay," he said, and walked away toward the--not bedrooms, at the end of the house. What were they? Spare rooms. Chambers. Cells. Emma knew what was coming next.
