The Boyfriend (The Boss 7)

Then the vibrator turned on.

“Please, please, please,” I shouted until my throat was nearly raw. But there was nothing I could do. I came almost immediately.

A cold squirt of lube between my cheeks preceded the machine speeding up. It was too fast, too much, too deep, stimulating the internal structure of my clit from deep inside my pelvis while the vibrator tormented the external part. If it weren’t for the sparks of cold and the sweat standing out on my skin, I would burn up.

Those sparks from deep inside me came faster and faster now, as quickly as the inhuman strokes from the machine.

Sir popped the earbuds from my ears. “Do you like this, Sophie?”

“No!” escaped my lips before I could stop it.

He slapped me hard. “Don’t lie to us, slut!”

“I’m sorry, Sir! Monsieur!” I shouted, my words punctuated by gasps of pain. “I lied to you! I’m sorry, I’m...I’m...” The bolts of pain from the machine fucking my ass finally merged with the pleasure I felt deep in my pelvis. “I’m coming! I’m coming!”

And coming. And coming. My thighs shook. I was in danger of losing my balance. Sir knew it, but rather than unbinding me, he steadied me with his body. “We’re not finished, Sophie.”

“Turn it up,” Monsieur said, breathless.

“Please no, please no, please no,” I whimpered to myself and got another, harder slap.

“We’ll use you as we please, and you’ll be grateful for it!” Sir cranked the speed up higher and flipped the switch on the vibrator to its highest setting.

“Say thank you, Sophie,” Monsieur commanded.

Somehow, I found my way through the haze of endless orgasms and cruel pain to gasp, “Thank you, Monsieur! Thank you, Sir!”

How could my body withstand anymore? I couldn’t imagine ever recovering, and I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop coming. But I had to. I had to, or it would never end. I would be trapped in this beautiful, sublime moment of pure torturous pleasure forever.

I gave myself up to it wholly.

“Do you want it to stop, Sophie?” Sir asked.

For some reason, I answered, “Yes.”

“Beg us.”

“Please, Sir, Monsieur. Please!”

“Please what?” Monsieur asked.

“Please stop fucking my ass,” I sobbed. “Please stop making me come. Make it all stop!”

“Do you need to use your word?” Sir asked.

I shook my head. I knew my word. I knew “red” would end it all.

But I didn’t want it to end yet.

“I don’t find her begging all that convincing,” Sir said, tugging on the chain connecting the clamps on my nipples and painfully sensitive clit. I moaned, my feet curling in my pumps. “Are you coming again, Sophie?”

“Yes, Sir!”

He jerked the chain, snapping the clamps completely off.

God, I hoped soundproofing had been part of the remodel. Nothing had ever been so brutal, so cruel. Blood rushed back to those sensitive points with a vengeance, awakening pain and heightened sensation. The upward rush toward climax lengthened like a hallway in a scary movie. The closer I got, the further it seemed.

I reached the breaking point and seemingly became stranded there. I was coming. I couldn’t stop coming. I would never stop.

I hung there in my predicament, crying, sobbing, drooling, for what felt like an eternity. It couldn’t have been; Sir would never leave me in strappado long enough to do damage, and he would stop short of causing me any physical harm with the machine. Still, seconds felt like days of sublime pain, wetness coursing down my thighs from my empty cunt, until he finally turned off the vibrator and the machine. He eased the dildo from my body, then held me steady as he released me from the frame and spreader bar and separated the cuffs so I could move my arms again. But he didn’t remove the blindfold.

“Sophie, can you stand on your own?” Monsieur asked gently.

I nodded. “Oui, Monsieur.”

“Stay there,” Sir ordered, and I did, on legs that felt as though they would disintegrate from trembling so hard. My sweat-slick body chilled as my breathing and pulse slowed. There was another scrape of metal, and I realized that if they’d planned any more mechanical fun, I would have to safeword because I was done.

Sir pulled the blindfold from my eyes. He’d positioned a large, oval mirror with a gilded scrollwork frame directly in front of me. The mirror and I had a history; Sir sometimes made me look myself in the eyes while I came. It knew me intimately, in a way I almost couldn’t bear.

“What do you see, Sophie?” Sir asked me, his hand firm on the back of my neck.

“A...I see your whore, Sir,” I said, my voice faltering.

“Not what you think we want to hear, Sophie.” Monsieur’s voice was soft and comforting. This was not a trick. This was not a game.

I gazed at myself a moment. What I saw was a woman whose face wasn’t as full and innocent as it had been a decade before. Who had cellulite on her thighs and the hint of a varicose vein. I wasn’t girlish anymore. I was...a grown woman.