His Name Is Sir (The Power to Please #3) (32 page)

Master Brown was Kamun.

Of course he was. Who else could he have been? On this day when only the worst could happen, when only the most despised, unwanted outcome was possible, of course Master Brown would be Kamun.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry.

The sound-man nodded. The two “masters” began to speak.

Michael said, “Time to teach the little whore a lesson, Master Brown. She’s disrespected me for the last time.”

Kamun said, “Indeed it’s as you say, Master Black.”

Michael was a decent actor (and didn’t I already know that), but Kamun was beyond bad, his delivery wooden and flat. The stilted dialogue would have been laughable if it weren’t such a horror show.

Michael said, “And she has no idea we’re filming it. I’ll make her watch the video some time when I’m fucking her.”

Kamun said, “Hey, what about me?”

Michael said, “She’ll suck your cock while I fuck her.”

Kamun: “She’ll like that.”

Michael: “She will. She’s a fuck slut. But she won’t like what she’s getting tonight.”

They both moved behind me, the sound and video men taking up positions nearby. I knew what came next.

Michael began to spank me. They must have turned on the microphone on my hood, because now I could clearly be heard, my small cry of surprise, my cries growing louder with the increasing force of his smacks. I switched back to the wider feed, off the handheld, since the video-man was focusing on my shaking breasts and reddened ass and I really didn’t want to see that.

I wasn’t surprised when Kamun took over the spanking. Master Brown was there to help, the description had said.

I was beyond appalled, beyond shocked. Still numb.

Kamun only struck me a few times before saying that spanking was too easy on me. He picked up a longish wooden paddle from a table and rubbed it between my legs. I remembered that. But, of course, I never heard what Kamun said afterward.

He pulled out the paddle and the video closed in on it, showing wet streaks on the wood.

Michael said, “She’s such a slut.”

Kamun smiled. “She won’t be enjoying herself much longer.”

Then he proceeded to paddle my ass. My screams were so loud I had to turn down the volume on the television. My body was lunging around, I yanked on the chains, twisting and pathetically trying to avoid the blows. I cringed, the memory of that time so clear, wondered that I hadn’t dislocated my shoulders in my struggles. I remembered how hard I tried not to yell, how I wanted to use the safe word but didn’t. I remembered the burn on my flesh.

After seven or so blows, Michael took up a different paddle, tagged out Kamun and took over from him, landing a handful more.

It didn’t last long, watching it here. But when I was in that moment, it felt like forever.

Michael said, “Be quiet. I’m turning off the headphones.”

The three other men stepped back and stilled.

Michael pushed the remote control that he had clipped to his pants. He said, “The first punishment is over, sub. Thank me for paddling you.”

But that wasn’t what he actually said at the time. This was a dubbed line, obvious from the quality and change in his voice, the disappearance of ambient noise, obvious even if you weren’t me and remembered what he actually said. He actually said that the punishment was over and he forgave me.

My response was raspy, reedy. “I’m sorry, Master. Thank you, Master.”

The video showed him giving me a drink. Then he told me it was time for my second punishment. My response was always the same, a weak and frightened, “Yes, Master.”

There were a few dubbed lines of him calling me a slut, telling me I deserved pain, and that he couldn’t wait to hear my whorish screams. “Yes, Master,” was ever my response. Then Michael pushed the button in his remote and the other three men swarmed around me.

The video-man adjusted the lights, Kamun changed out some gear on the table and the sound-man lifted up the camera hanging around his neck and began clicking photos of me, circling, getting different angles.

In the midst of this, I almost missed Michael walking over to the door.

And then he was through the door.

Gone.

He left me there, restrained, helpless, with those other men.

My stomach clenched.

The sound-man looked around, as if he were checking for something. He was. He wanted to see if anyone was paying him any attention. They weren’t.

He reached out, stuck his hand between my legs. He squatted down. I could see from the closer view that he was working his hand up and down, and with his other hand, taking pictures of what he was doing.

Of course I remembered that, except I thought it was Michael. I had basically dried up after the severe paddling, and those fingers inside me felt like they were scraping me half raw. But it hadn’t been Michael’s fingers hurting me. It had been the sound-man’s fingers.

The me in the video began to whimper, which soon drew Kamun’s attention. He strode over and pushed the sound-man away. But he wasn’t saving me; he was taking over.

Kamun drove his fingers inside me and began pumping. The video-man was close behind him, and recorded close-ups of the action. Meanwhile, the sound-man managed to get back in there, snapping more photos.

My whimpering sounds grew louder then, and I struggled mightily in the restraints.

Kamun said, “Look at the slut, thinking she can get away. Guess she doesn’t care for dry fucks.”

The three of them laughed.

It was appalling watching this, degradation of the worst sort. The three men surrounded me like cackling jackals, their leers and insults like so much tossed viscera.

Their masks. My hood. Everyone dehumanized.

And Michael ... nowhere to be found. I was alone. Small. Unprotected.

Foul. Befouled.

I couldn’t watch anymore of it.

I fumbled with the remote control, found and pushed the stop button. The disk menu took over the screen. The remote fell from my hand to the floor.

I sat there, staring at the television, my hands clenched into fists, my temples throbbing and stomach churning. The numb switch wasn’t working anymore.

Horror. To see something happening to me that I wasn’t aware happened -- truly horrifying.

Trepidation. What else occurred that night that I didn’t know about?

Humiliation. Deep humiliation and shame beyond anything I’d ever experienced.

And that was only the beginning. I stared at the menu on the screen, reading it over and over again. “Photos,” “Main Video,” “Bonus Video,” “Sample Other Available Vids.” It became like a chant, a mantra, giving my brain something to focus on that wasn’t nightmarish.

Then one of them stuck. Bonus Video.

Bonus Video.

Bonus Video.

Of me?

I didn’t know if I could stand to discover what was in that video, if I were in it. Couldn’t decide which was worse: knowing or not knowing.

I leaned down and picked up the remote control from where it had fallen. I highlighted “Bonus Video.” I went back and forth, wanting to know, not wanting to know. Finally, after taking a deep breath, I pushed the select button.

A pause, then one word stretched across the screen: “Afterfuck.” There were no multiple feeds this time, just one single, large video filling the television screen.

It was the inside of a large shower, and a big, naked man with a blurred face was fucking a woman lying prone, on her stomach, on the floor. Her face was turned away from the camera and water streamed over her head and limp body, her sprawled legs. Her long black hair was spread around her, all shiny wet and moving with the flow of water.

The woman was me, of course, and the man was Michael, and the cameraman must have been standing in the doorway of the shower. There was sound as well, the sound of the water, the sound of Michael’s grunts, which meant the audio-man was likely there, too, somewhere nearby.

Michael’s blurred head turned toward the camera. He waved an arm, appearing to be waving the two men away. The filming didn’t stop.

Michael turned back to me then, reached down and fisted my sodden hair, making certain I wouldn’t be able to surprise him by twisting around and discovering the video crew. I recalled wondering why he bothered to restrain me, remembered thinking that I didn’t have the strength to do anything more than lie on the floor and take whatever he chose to give me.

One particular underlying sound in the video disturbed me more than others. That sound came from me, the woman on the floor. It was an ongoing whimpering, an undulating keen, not harsh in any way, too low for that. Plaintive acceptance perhaps.

My eye was drawn to one of the shower walls. Since the water had been cool, there was no steam in the room, but there was plenty of spray hitting the glass walls, which distorted whatever view lay beyond them. A shadowy, dark shape grew in one of the walls behind the glass.

It quickly revealed itself as the outline of a tall man. He pressed his face against the glass, peering inside the shower. I couldn’t clearly make out his features, but I knew who it was.

It had to be Kamun.

No more. I couldn’t watch any more of that.

I stopped the video.

Resumed my blank stare at the menu screen.

I couldn’t stop thinking about how many times after that night I had been aroused by the memory of Michael and I in that shower. Too many times to count. Even after I split with Michael, I continued to consider the hours following my punishment as some of the most erotic of my life.

It was the first time I had deeply given myself over to someone else, the first, and still the only time I experienced the ecstasy of submission totally void of any consideration for myself, took it to an extreme I had yet to match. I had thought of it as a peek into what might be, what I might really be capable of.

And that made it sacred to me, in a way.

But now that memory was profaned, polluted by secret intruders with only the basest motives. My achievement made invalid by a lover’s betrayal.

I was nauseated. My gorge rose in my throat. My stomach heaved. There was no stopping it. Not this time.

I jumped up and ran to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before it was too late.

I don’t know how long I stayed in the bathroom before I hauled myself up off the floor, rinsed my mouth and staggered to my bed. I don’t know how long I lay there, either.

It’s no simple task to adjust one’s view of the past, the present and the future. It took time to fully realize that I’d lost my job. That I was currently starring in a pornographic video on the Internet. That people who knew me might see that video. And that any job I might get would likely be in jeopardy because of what Michael had done.

As for his betrayal, my loathing was complete. Now that the initial shock was over, several realizations clicked into place.

The Web site belonged to Michael and it was likely the same one he used to exploit Lilly.

Michael was a stranger to me, had never been honest with me, had manipulated me from the very beginning.

I had been a naive fool.

I found it strange that in all my debating over what might be on the DVDs, I didn’t once wonder who had sent them to my workplace. Now that I had thought of it, I knew Michael had to have been that person.

Why had he done it? Revenge, I could only assume, but for what? Leaving him? Being with Gibson? Not answering his texts and email over the weekend?

I remembered the subject line of the email I got from him on Saturday, “Last Chance,” I think it read. I thought he meant my last chance to be with him. It seemed now that it meant my last chance to stop him from posting the video, ruining my life.

I forced myself out of bed and went into the living room, dug my phone out of my purse. I opened the email app and searched through the trash. There was Michael’s email, not yet erased. I opened it and read.

Dearest Sweet,

I’m through with being patient. You must stop denying the truth. I want you back, I know you want me. You surely realize I can force the issue, and I’m beginning to think that you’re only waiting for me to claim you.

If you don’t answer this, then I’ll know what I need to do.

Your Master

Well now. It was possible that Michael had lost his mind. Or he was just the same old, narcissistic bastard who would do absolutely anything to get what he wanted.

I reread the email, growing angrier and angrier. Claim me. My master. The sorry mother ...

I thumbed up his number and called him. He answered in seconds.

He said, “I was waiting for your call.”

My voice shook from barely-restrained fury, “I hate you.”

He chuckled. “That’s okay. You know I don’t mind that.”