Hostile Takeover by Hill, W (best novels to read for students .TXT) 📕

she moved, she winced at the light movement of fabric over her ass. Removing the gag, she moved to the full length mirror in his closet, where he kept spare changes of clothes. Holding her skirt at her waist, she twisted around to look at her abused flesh.

Holy God. It was not only red, but she could see the individual marks of the cane, short lines, welts. It should horrify her. Instead, it made her pussy clench against that thick plug he’d put there, her anus contract on the other one. That night at Surreal, he’d left marks like this on the three women. Ben was a sadist who enjoyed exploring the top limits of pain. He wanted the women who served him to earn the pleasure he gave them. It was all tied up together. She thought she would endure almost anything for that. Her body was vibrating with stress, shock…and raging desire.

He’d put a chastity device on her, so she’d keep herself only for him, preventing not only the touch of other men, but her own touch. Her body was his, not hers.

She fixed her hair, her face, did some deep breathing. Nothing seemed to steady her hands. The plugs were short, so she could move in them, but that clit piece was sheer torture, rubbing against her as she walked. It wouldn’t move enough to make her come, but she’d remain hyperaware of the desire to fuck, to be fucked, to have an orgasm that would shake the foundations of the building with her screaming.

He’d left something else at her desk. A small pillow. Like the handkerchief, the gesture made her smile, squeezed her heart. But when she lowered herself to it gingerly, she came back up just as fast. That was when she saw the note he’d left on her desk.

“Sit on this to reinforce the lesson. Else you’ll be thinking too much of misbehaving. No perching on the edge. Square in the middle. If you need to go to the ladies’ room, you may remove what’s necessary, but then the plugs go right back in.”

Passing her hand over the pillow, she felt the tiny pricks through the fabric, like a vampire glove. Not long enough to penetrate skin, but enough to make it feel as if she were being stuck with pins.

Holding white-knuckled to the edge of the desk, she lowered herself onto it. When the barbs dug into her tender ass, she suppressed a groan. She could do this. She could. Though she really wished he’d given her a different punishment, like writing I will not sass Master a million times.

A desperate smile crossed her face. No, that wasn’t Ben’s style. He wasn’t treating her like a child. That was what was important. He was making a point. If she couldn’t handle this, she needed to give up now.

She took steadying breaths, picking up the file she was going to review, the first thing on his to-do list for her. Every minute movement of her body shifted her against that pillow, renewed the agony. One small mercy—the plug for her pussy and the covering for her clit protected those more tender tissues. Though her outer labia were pricked, the clit and inner petals were protected.

Despite the fact she had no idea how she was going to endure this for the hours he was gone, she was all too aware of the fact she was soaking wet. All she wanted to do was hump herself against the clit piece until she came, screaming through the pain and pleasure.

Yeah, she was twisted. Twisted for him, willing to endure anything for him, just for the right to call him Master to his face. She used his handkerchief to wipe away the tears that kept falling from her eyes, the result of stress and shock. Her mascara was wasted today.

“I’m yours, Master,” she whispered, looking toward his office. “You won’t break me.”

At least not that way. Not until the breaking had to do with him accepting her as his slave, now and forever, and breaking her down so that she could surrender to him utterly.

She was well aware that wasn’t the most difficult problem she faced though. Could she make him believe she truly loved him? Even more challenging, could she get him to realize that he loved her? Because he did. She was sure of it.

I know it’s silly, but I love hand writing letters. How many emails do you think they’ll find in the future, versus packets of love letters people have kept in their treasure boxes, tied up with ribbon? A dried, pressed flower in between them, the fading scent of perfume where a woman offered a man her scent? Plus, I think better when I write it out, and I like the way cursive looks. I could be one of those monks who did the calligraphy and hand printed each book.

Marcie, letter to Ben, sophomore year

(in cursive, on elegant, scented stationery)

 

Not silly. Little things matter far more than big ones. We remember them longer. We can’t control the big things, brat. If you think about what’s happened in the past, it will be the small moments that come to the forefront, not the big transitions. The big things were just history. The small moments are yours. The books those monks printed are still preserved centuries after they were gone. Little things matter.

Ben’s reply

(in block print, on preschool writing practice paper, oversized and lined)

Chapter Five

“You going to explain what the hell that was?”

Lucas asked the question as soon as Ben got in the limo. Matt had already lifted the privacy screen between them and Tobias, their driver.

Ben wished he’d figured out some credible way to meet them there. He needed some space, big time. But his ability to keep every hair in place during a shit storm was one of the reasons Matt paid his exorbitant salary. So he sat square across from the K&A CFO, met his