Club Mephisto (Club Mephisto 1)

He yanked her back up and grabbed both her nipples between brutal fingers. He squeezed until she cried out, pleading for mercy.

"Don't come," he warned. "A little reminder. If I don't tell you to come, don't dare."

Molly deflated, ashamed and disappointed. But if he didn't want her to come, she wouldn't. She knelt still and open and let him take her ass in an ever-increasing rhythm. She existed to serve him. She would be his vessel. Finally he came with a groan, pounding her ass cheeks with broad hips. He pulled away, leaving her spread and open on the bed as he sauntered to the bathroom. Still she didn't move, didn't rest her trembling arms or close her thighs the way she wished to.

He returned and she felt more probing at her asshole. A toy—a large one.

"Can't let all that lube I had to use go to waste." He drove it home and she felt her internal walls adjusting to the broad intrusion. It was either glass or metal, because it didn't give one millimeter. "If we need to lube you up just to take my cock, you could probably benefit from some more training." He slapped her ass. "The correct answer is, 'Yes, Master, thank you for training my asshole.'"

"Yes, Master. Thank you for training my asshole," Molly repeated. Her legs were trembling, and worst of all, her clit still ached for satisfaction.

"Okay," he said, pulling her up off the bed. "Time for breakfast. I'm starved."

* * * * *

He led her to the adjoining kitchen and pointed to a spot beside the sole chair at the table. She was alert for signals that he wished her assistance, but he turned his back on her as he prepared his breakfast. She sat back on her ankles in silence, looking around the modern kitchen with her hands in her lap.

Once at the table, he fed her bits of pancake and omelet from his fingers, and sips of orange juice that never quite quenched her thirst. At the end of the meal he gave her a tumbler of ice water that she drained.

"Want more?" he asked.

Molly considered the fact that he might choose to keep controlling her bathroom breaks, and that a full bladder could result in discomfort for her. She gazed up at him nervously.

He refilled it and handed it down to her. "Drink if you're thirsty. You're going to be put to work today, and dehydration would inconvenience me."

She drank, searching his face for that ghostly faint smile. After that, he had her wash the dishes and tidy the kitchen while he sat in the chair and watched. She moved awkwardly, still aware of the plug deep in her ass and the fading welts on her backside. She was clumsy with the heavy iron cookware, and slow at washing it. She hadn't done dishes since she was single in her own apartment, and then she'd never cooked, but mostly eaten take-out meals and frozen dinners.

"Not much of a housekeeper, are you?" he finally asked.

"I'm sorry, Master."

"What do you actually do for him?"

She paused and turned to him, feeling like one huge cringe. "My Master keeps a housekeeper and chef for tasks like these. I am mainly to serve as...to serve for—"

"For his pleasure. Pleasure slave." He laughed softly. "You have the looks to pull it off. I suppose he doesn't like you ruining that expensive French manicure."

She looked down at her nails. She'd learned to do them herself, to his exacting specifications. Length of nails, color, even the angle of the curves was honed to suit his preference. But if Mephisto wished her to be the spoiled slave in his eyes, she wouldn't make the mistake of contradicting him. She only bowed her head and said, "Yes, Master."

"What do you do all day? He sends you out shopping?"

"I...I am mostly unclothed in his service. But he buys me some things, according to his pleasure. For when we go out."

"How often does he take you out?"

"When it pleases him."

"For his pleasure. When it pleases him. You know the lines well. Now answer my question. How often does he take you out?"

Molly thought a moment. "At certain times, like at the holidays, we attend more parties and events than other times. But I would say on average he takes me out three to four times a month. Perhaps four or five times a year, I help entertain guests in our home."

"Vanilla guests?"

"Yes, Master. Work parties and dinners."

"I bet you're amazing at that sort of thing. Hostessing."

"I try to pleas—"

"Please your Master. Yes. Thanks for the recap. Besides pleasing him, what do you do with your time?"

Molly swallowed, reaching back to touch the counter, feeling unbalanced by his persistent questioning. Somehow it seemed easier to take a deep, pounding assfucking than to endure this probing interview. "I... Well, I read."

"What do you read?"

"Erotica. Current events. History books. Whatever Master feels will improve me."

"Do you watch television? Go online?"

"No. Not without his supervision."

"What else do you do, besides read?"

"I exercise. Master has a gym and a pool. Sometimes I help Mrs. Jernigan with housework. But I'm not allowed in the kitchen."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. My Master's rules. He controls what I eat."

He thought about that a long moment. "Controlling can be fun. And you enjoy this control?"

"Oh, yes, Master. I'm so thankful for it."

"What if he grows tired of all the work of controlling you?"

She drew in a soft breath, and swallowed hard. He stared at her, his cruel question lingering in the air between them like some noxious thing.

"Yo

u'll grow old, kitten. You won't be attractive to him forever, even if he does manage not to grow bored of you. What will you do then?"

"I don't know, Master." She spoke honestly. She didn't know, and she preferred not to think about it.

"Do you speak to your family?"

"Sometimes. Birthday and holidays. He doesn't keep me from them, but...we're not very close."

"Hmm," he said. She didn't know what to make of that hmm, but he asked no more questions so she turned and completed her task, wiping down the counters and hanging the dishtowel carefully over the bar beside the sink. She was just going to turn to him and await more instructions, but there he was behind her, his hand on her back.

"Hold the bar. The one you just hung the towel over," he said when she hesitated.

She reached for the bar with a sense of dread.

"Don't let go." He pushed down on her back a bit, so she was bent over the counter. Then he left and Molly stood, uneasy and nervous, listening for the sound of his return. Perhaps he would make her stand there holding the bar for eight hours, simply to test her. Perhaps he would come back and fuck her again. That would be the best she could hope for. But part of her knew he wasn't coming back to fuck her.

She looked over her shoulder as he re-entered the room a few minutes later, going hot and cold at the sight of the whip in his hand. It was like the one Master used, the one that had raised the welts just yesterday.

"Eyes forward," he said without anger or any other emotion. "Don't let go of the bar."

The whip came slashing down against her ass cheeks. She cried out as a second blow followed, and went up on her tip toes from the spreading, heated pain. "Oh, Master. Please!"

Another stroke, and another. She writhed, trying to evade him as best she could without letting go of the bar she clenched, but he only put his hand on her back and pressed her harder against the counter. Now she was helpless to get away and the strikes kept coming. Stripes of fire across her ass, the tops of her thighs. She cried out at each one, panicked pleas that did nothing to dissuade him. She knew her only task now was to endure what he wanted her to endure. If her pleas for respite and mercy aroused him, she was happy for that, but she derived no pleasure from the capricious blows of the whip.