Honor Bound by Joey Hill (speld decodable readers .txt) 📕

“Arms out, soldier,” he barked, and gave her a matching hand-print on the opposite cheek.

“I was falling, sir.”

He put his hand on the back of her neck, exerting enough pressure that she had to strain to keep her upper body up and arms out as he’d demanded. This was bringing back some harrowing memories of Basic Combat Training. But Basic was about breaking the person down, remaking and retraining them, wasn’t it? She swallowed.

Leaning down so his breath was against her ear, he had that implacable hand suddenly caress her nape in a way that sent nerves yearning toward his touch. “If you’re falling, trust me to catch you, Sergeant.”

Before she could respond to that, he’d straightened and clasped her wrists. He’d retrieved gauntlets with lacings, so he could tie her arms together, wrists to elbows. As he worked the fabric down over her forearms and then began to thread and draw the lacings tight, her stomach and ass muscles quivered. The lifted position was becoming excruciating.

But he’d ordered her to do it, and damn it, she’d do it.

His dog tags plinked against her back. The cool metal against her flesh was in contrast to the burning in her stomach and shoulder muscles, the ache in her neck. He was taking his damn time, even though he never faltered, weaving those two gauntlets with smooth precision. Every time he pulled a section taut, the increased restraint coiled up the need in her pussy the same way.

“You like that, don’t you, sweetheart? What would you think of a full corset, one of those cruel hourglass makers that robs you of breath and puts your pretty tits on high display, drawing a Master’s gaze to your accessible ass?”

She shuddered, thinking of how deliciously restrictive it would be. How did he know she’d fantasized about that? She had a couple, but Masters had unlaced her out of them, never into them. Not as if she was their possession, a gift they prepared for themselves.

When she’d fantasized about it, she’d also fantasized about a Master like this one appeared to be.

“Yeah, you like that idea, I can tell. I like a corset on my slave. It shows off how beautiful she is, all those womanly curves, the boning keeping her straight and proud, knowing she’s got nothing to worry about. Because she’s mine.”

She closed her eyes, lost in the pleasure of the thought. She wasn’t a woman who sought the shelter of a man, but for some reason the idea of being his like that gave her a welcome sense of sanctuary, a place she could count on when she needed it. It was a dangerous thought, because loneliness, dwelling on the fact she had no family left, could too often take her down the wrong road.

The leftover lacing was wrapped over the hand he put beneath her curled fingers, as though he were offering a branch to a bird. “Rest your weight now.”

She wanted to hold out longer to prove she could, but her straining body overrode her, her gasping muscles letting out a cry of relief. Then the movement of his body told her he’d pulled his dog tags over his head. He broke the latch, wrapped the chain around her neck twice and snapped it shut again one-handed, an impressive feat. The beaded chain tightened on her throat when he cupped her chin, stroked his thumb along the corner of her mouth to get her to open up, and then slid the tags onto her tongue.

“Close your teeth on them.”

She did, so the edge of one was visible between her lips, the chain swinging against her chin. He stroked her back. “Good girl. You drop them, and I’ll be very displeased. You think this is a cushy environment, don’t you? No dungeon, no clever, cruel metal devices made to torture flesh. It’s too soft. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?”

His voice had that dangerous purr to it again, so she nodded her head, a quick jerk. She didn’t even think about lying.

“You know your Bible? ‘And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight . . .’”

She did know her Bible, but was surprised that he would use it here. Her curiosity about that was short-lived, however. Apparently those compartments held more than man-made items. He brought a thin, whiplike branch into her line of sight. Not a polished switch, lacquered and placed for sale in The Zone’s diverse gift shop. This was one that had been cut and peeled, much as someone might have done in ages past to take a child behind the woodshed. Or an errant wife, in the days of the “one-inch thick” rule.

Holy God, switches hurt. She didn’t know if she could . . .

He was sliding it along her buttocks. “I’m going to teach you that when I give you an order, you follow it, Sergeant. I don’t care how hot you are, how wet your cunt. What you want to happen or you’re nervous about. I’m your Master and you trust and obey

everything I tell you, to the letter. When I tell you not to move, you don’t move. When I tell you to move, you move your ass as if it’s on fire.” The tip teased her pussy and she wiggled before she thought, then froze, but it was too late.

“Fire it is.”

He brought down the switch. Holy Jesus, Gram, forgive me. Three successive strikes and she was yelping against those metal tags, feeling the edges against her tongue, but she wouldn’t let them go. She’d learned her lesson. He’d given them to her; she was going to hold on to them.

He ran his hand over her smarting ass. She was shaking. God, when was the last time she’d shaken like a newbie during a session?

“You want your freedom, Sergeant?”

She was blowing like a winded horse around the outsides of those tags, saliva escaping in an embarrassing display.