Club Mephisto (Club Mephisto 1)

The first lash, a molten flick across her bottom, took her feet out from under her. She hung in her bonds, gasping for breath through tears. "Up," he ordered, delivering another one to the outside of her flank. She struggled, she fought, but she went nowhere. The lash kept falling, on the back of her thighs, her ass, her back and shoulders. Jamie was silent, but no doubt he was enjoying watching her take this punishment he'd caused. With that thought in mind, she tried to steel herself to dignified silence, but that only lasted a few minutes before she gave way to whimpers, and soon enough, screams. She never knew where he would strike her next—and each strike was clearly focused. He wasn't just flailing, but hit her in areas calculated to hurt. The sound of the crack of the whip scared her as badly as the searing contact. She started to shake, gritting her teeth to stop from begging for mercy. It had been fifteen minutes at least. Twenty minutes. Half an hour.

Finally he stopped, but only to turn her around and fix her with her front facing out. Still she screamed, jerking in her bonds as he flicked fiery pain on belly, thighs, nipples, breasts. In between screams, she sobbed, and then she fell silent, praying inside her head. She didn't pray to God. She shut her eyes tight and prayed to Master. Please, please, come and get me. Please, I miss you. I love you. Why did you leave me here?

"Look at me!"

Her eyes opened, focused and unfocused. Why did he look so angry? Jamie was watching over his shoulder, aroused, fisting his cock. If he tried to fuck her again she'd gouge his eyes out, with her teeth if she had to.

"Look at me," Mephisto barked again.

She stared in his eyes, flinched and moaned as he landed the lash on each breast. She knew what he wanted, although it was a struggle to get there. She disciplined her face to blank acceptance. He wanted her to acknowledge him as her Master, with the right to hurt her if he wanted, without anger or resistance on her part. She relaxed her body and let her arms fall open to him. I am yours. I am yours. She repeated it in her mind until she managed to convince both herself and him. Once her eyes communicated that submission he sought, he coiled the whip in his fist. He went to hang it up, returning with a set of clamps.

He wiped her tearful face with rough fingers as she stood unresisting. I am yours. I am yours. Use me. Hurt me as you will. Without words he applied a clamp to each nipple, and then drew a center clamp down her belly, down between her legs, where he parted her pussy lips with clinical detachment. He drew back her clitoral hood and clipped the last clamp directly to the throbbing flesh there. From violence and the battle of submission, she was copiously wet. Her breasts seemed to swell and her pussy clenched at the exquisite torture centered on her clit. Again she was climbing to the precipice of arousal. Not a precipice. A plateau, where she would wait and ache and remain unsatisfied.

He left her there perhaps another half hour, retiring to the bedroom with his friend. Finally they came out and Jamie left. It was late. She was hungry and tired, and mentally exhausted from the trial she'd endured. Still four more days to go. The thought of it almost destroyed her. But it was really only three days, because this day was nearly over, and her Master would come for her sometime on the last day. What if he doesn't come though? some part of her whispered. What if he is delayed? What if you have to stay another day? Another week?

That thought brought her to tears again. He stood four or five feet away, just watching her cry.

"It's hard, girl, isn't it?"

The tenderness in his voice hurt almost as much as the lash he’d wielded. He came and removed the clamps, then released her from the cuffs that held her. She didn't want to be touched, but she couldn't stand on her own and so he picked her up and carried her against his chest. He took her to the kitchen and set her on the floor, fixing a dinner in the stultifying silence. Molly was thankful for the speech restriction that had seemed a burden just a couple hours ago. If he had asked her to express her feelings or thoughts, she couldn't have done it. She wanted silence and solitude. She was stuck in a battle of wills between her outraged sense of justice and her desire to be a good slave.

When he sat and offered her food, she took it only with the greatest reluctance. When she almost vomited he didn't give her any more, but he made her drink water, holding the cup to her lips when she would have refused it. After that he soaked her in his tub, in warm, soapy water, carefully inspecting the few whip marks that had broken her skin. Molly knew they would fade by the time her Master returned, leaving no noticeable scars, but he still made her stand while he cleaned and applied antibiotic cream to each cut.

By that point she wished for nothing more than bed. Caged isolation. She crawled in gratefully when he opened the door for her, and was almost asleep by the time she heard the lock slip home. The last thing she thought before she drifted off to sleep was three more days. Please let me survive three more days.

The Fourth Day

The dungeon looked different in the light, she thought. She was on Mephisto's lap, her back to his front, being fed lunch at his work table. She was plugged and harnessed again after a welcome night of respite. She couldn't have summoned the energy to masturbate last night anyway. But he was wise to have harnessed her now, because the days of teasing and denial were starting to take a toll on her.

And the teasing never stopped. He'd loosened the harness enough to slide a couple agile fingers down the front. He tormented her every so often, running fleeting touches over her slick clit. He'd use those same fingers to feed her pieces of bread and hummus, so she would taste herself on them, an added seasoning that only reminded her of her frustration. Longing sauce.

She'd slept late, having vivid dreams of Master, and Mephisto had been kind enough not to wake her until she came to wakefulness on her own. She still felt groggy and was thankful that—for the moment anyway—Mephisto was in a relaxed mood. She leaned her head back on his shoulder and he absently toyed with her breasts between swipes at her aching pussy. She felt loose and surrendered, letting his warmth seep into her from the muscles at her back. He started humming a tune she knew, murmuring the words against her ear as he fed her a piece of pineapple. Kiss, kiss Molly's lips. Kiss, kiss Molly's lips...

It was a song she knew, a song she used to listen to years ago, but it unsettled her to hear it from him. Not that his singing was bad. His voice was actually quite seductive, like everything about him. Rich and yet sensually raspy. No, it was something about him saying her name. Knowing her name. But of course he knew her name...she'd worked for him once upon a time, in another life. He sang it again, turning her head to lick pineapple juice from her lips, noting the gravity in her expression.

"What is it, girl? Forgot your name? It's Molly." He was teasing her. He kissed her again, more deeply this time. He was a passionate, talented kisser, a skill that melted her. Master kissed her often, but his kisses tended to have a paternal, doting quality. Mephisto kissed her like the boys used to kiss her behind the gym in school. As he kissed her, his fingers grazed her clit again and she moaned a feeble protest. He pulled away and she pressed her head into his neck, ashamed to be complaining. He didn't seem angry though. He threaded fingers through her hair, his other hand still pressed against her pussy.

"I know a lot about you, girl. You'd probably be surprised," he went on in a softer voice, almost as though he were confiding in her. "I know your maiden name was Molly Grace Belden, and your married name is Molly Grace Copeland. I know your birthday is April seventh, and that you were born and raised in Bloomington. I know you have an environmental science degree from IU."

Molly tried to block out his words, not wanting to remember her life before Master. Not that she hadn't enjoyed it. It was just...the past. Something she'd given up. No, not given up. That sounded so negative. She'd left all that behind for something better. Master, and Master's happiness. His warmth and the soothing structure of his daily requirements.

"I know something else about you," he said. "I know you didn't really come yesterday."

She wished he hadn’t told her. The only thing that had made the unfairness bearable was that she thought he really believed she’d done it. But all along he'd known Jamie was lying. She hated him suddenly, even his soft voice, his tenderness. She tried not to let it show, hiding her face against his neck. Willing herself to subordination. He nudged her back, gazing down at her.

"You're wondering why I punished you when I knew? I was punishing you for speaking, for protesting. For your tone. And because it pleases me to hurt you sometimes just because I can. Just because I enjoy pushing you to your limits and watching the breakdown."

His fingers moved again on her clit, splintering her attention with soft provoking taps. She tried not to move her hips, not to press against him begging for more. He chuckled softly, no doubt feeling the vibration of need she could never really hide.

"It's the same thing with the orgasm denial, kitten. I enjoy watching the build up, seeing how far I can tease and wrap you around my fingers. How much I can make you dance." She pressed harder against his neck, the quiet, pedantic tone of his voice mesmerizing her. Meanwhile, his finger kept stroking her in the same lilting rhythm of his speech. "The denial is just a tool for winding you up so I can watch you writhe and wriggle for me."

Oh...ohhh... Despite her best intentions she moved her hips and whimpered a little. He wouldn't let her get away, but held her closer instead, subjecting her to his tempting ministrations. Her pussy was clenching on the protrusion inside, wanting more stimulation. Even an assfucking...

"You see?" He chuckled softly against her ear. "Not letting you come...it's like the rubber band on those little wooden airplane toys: You twist and twist them until you can't twist them anymore, then you let it go and watch them fly around the room."

Molly frowned, seeing his perspective, but wishing she could verbalize her own. If you twist too much, Master, the toy will break. She turned away from the haven of his warm skin, from the curve of his neck. He pulled his hand out of the harness and grasped her face, forcing her gaze back to his.

"You have to trust me, girl. I think you don't trust me. I know we haven't had a lot of time together, but I'm being careful. Perhaps you don't see it, but I am."

She tried to go soft, tried to be pleasing to him. It was a struggle. This is so hard. It was so hard to trust him, even though she knew he'd promised her Master not to damage her. A moment later, he stood her up and fastened the belt tight again.

"Listen, I want you to really clean and straighten up the play space today. There's a big party tomorrow. A private party. An orgy," he finally clarified. She swallowed hard. She'd heard about Mephisto's "parties" and the idea had always fascinated her. Thirty or forty people, men and women, unchecked kink and sex. Perhaps...perhaps tomorrow at the party he would let her fly around the room, so to speak. Release her from her enforced denial. She couldn't quite keep the hopeful speculation from her face.

"You're going to be fucked, yes. A lot," he said. "But no, you won't yet be permitted to come. I'll let everybody know. And girl, you won't want to be punished in front of everyone if you screw up. So beware. It might be best if we did a little more edging practice tonight."

Mephisto pinched her nipples, slapping her breasts lightly, while she fervently prayed to never have to endure edging "practice" again. "You know, I might not permit you to come at all until you're returned to your Master. What a gift that would be for him, no? To return you absolutely wild with horniness. Maybe he'd find he liked you that way. I could give him lots of advice about an effective denial program. And that harness is going home with you and him. Hopefully he'll make good use of it."

She blinked, barely restraining herself from shaking her head in horror. No. Master would never... Master loved to see her come... He would never... Would he? She hated that Mephisto appeared amused by her panic, and stuffed down those feelings, returning her face to an equivocal mask.

"Nice try, kitten. But everything you think and feel is written on your face, clear as daylight." He slapped her ass. "Now get going. I better not find one speck of dust."

* * * * *

She cleaned until dinnertime, trying not to imagine the various equipment she polished being used at the upcoming party. Being used on her. She ached to be released from the harness, to be touched and used by Mephisto, but at the same time she dreaded it.

But Mephisto made no more mention of edging "practice" as he ate and absently fed her while leafing through a local scene magazine. Then he had her sit below his desk, licking and sucking him while he did paperwork and answered emails. She only half-attended to him, part of her mind thinking back to the last time she'd sucked him off under there, when her Master had just left her. Master. She touched the cool metal of her collar as she serviced Mephisto, her other Master. The Master she served with her mind but not her heart. No, her heart was already taken.

Mephisto reached down and slapped her cheek lightly, a silent reminder to focus. She applied herself to her task, drawing a shuddering orgasm from him at long last. She was tired of the taste of latex, the feel of it inside her when he took her. She yearned for Master's taste and Master's warmth. Master's hardness and his semen on her tongue. Mephisto seemed to have forgotten her, so after she removed his condom with gentle fingers, she laid down at his feet huddled into a curled ball. She dared to run her fingers over the smooth leather of her harness, between her legs and up over her hips. God, she missed coming. She missed talking, too. Mephisto had taken privileges away, privileges she had always taken for granted. It had challenged her submission, and more than once, made her question whether she was even meant to be a slave.

But of course she was meant to be a slave. Just not his slave. Some irritating voice in her mind said, But you still like him. You want him. She did want him. She wanted his intensity, his sensuality, his intelligence. She wanted to serve him because he demanded it. She rebelled because she so often fell short.

But did she really fall short? She hadn't come in days, not since that one time she'd lost control the first day he edged her. But her mind—her attitude—fell short at times. She pledged to herself to do better. She was a good slave. She wanted Mephisto to think so. She wanted to believe it herself.

"Come, girl," she heard him say. His laptop clicked shut and she scooted out from under the table, crawling behind him back to his bedroom. She watched his ass as he walked, swaggered really. His confidence was so compelling—as was his gorgeous physique. Don't get turned on. No matter what he planned, she knew carnal release was not on the menu for her tonight.

He had her stand in the bathroom as he inspected the few unhealed nicks from last night's punishment with the whip. He took off her harness and washed her himself in the shower. He was so much larger than her, and his golden nakedness was intimidating in the enclosed space. His hands moved over her skin, surging into all her naughty crevices, washing away the evidence of a day of unassuaged arousal. She clung to him, her fingers braced against his iron arms. He was so breathtaking, his abs a neat, defined lattice. His chest was smooth power capped with broad shoulders that looked like they could hold up the world. She wanted to wash him too, wanted to run her fingers over every inch of his body. With a half-smile, he handed her the soap.

She took it, blushing under the stream of warm water. Everything you think and feel is written on your face, clear as daylight. She decided she would just stop trying to hide anything from him. The more she tried to hide, the more it seemed he dissected her every thought. Not being able to speak seemed to make her more, not less, transparent. With words, she could dissemble, spout pretty phrases. Without words, she was an open book.

She soaped him up, enjoying the feel of his skin under her fingers. She wondered when he would let her talk again. Was that another thing to be denied until her Master returned for her? She didn't miss the words as much as the sexual release, but she didn't want to forget how to use her voice. She gazed up at him, framing the question in her mind, to see if he would somehow hear and answer the way he'd uncannily done so many times already. But he only stared back down at her, his lips parted in a faint smile. Her fingers trailed down his stomach, stopping just above his steadily hardening cock. He lowered his head to hers and kissed her. She shivered, even in the warm steam of the shower stall. His lips parted hers, and his tongue played across hers in a teasing motion. She moaned softly, nipping at him and feathering her fingers over the ridges of his abs and the indents of his iliac furrows.

He made a low growling sound that resonated in her chest. She grew bolder, pressing her breasts against his chest, feeling the delicious slide of her nipples against his skin. His hands were roving over her back, then up to squeeze her shoulders. Then down…down to caress her sore ass cheeks. He took her ass in his hands and closed his fingers on it, then slipped one thick digit down from the back to tease the entrance of her pussy. She danced around on her toes at the brief, fleeting contact, pressing closer to him, wanting more. She heard his soft chuckle of approval. The denial is just a tool for winding you up so I can watch you writhe and wriggle for me.

She moaned again in her throat, missing words, missing the ability to beg him. Please fuck me. Please, I'll do anything. Just fuck me and let me come.

He turned off the water abruptly, and Molly stood dripping. Dripping water from her hair and the contours of her body, but dripping between the legs too. He gave her an assessing look. "You horny little piece of ass. You wanton sex doll. Keep a hold of yourself." He pulled her from the shower and toweled her off roughly, then pushed her ahead of him back into the bedroom. "On the bed, face down. No, wait a minute."

He opened a drawer and pulled out a folded piece of plain ivory cloth. She watched with a sense of anxiety as he spread it over the bed sheets, right in the center. "Okay, now," he said, drawing back. "Face down."