The Master Ch. 02

Story Info
The master wants Chloe's mind as well as her body.
3.9k words
4.55
92.9k
61

Part 2 of the 3 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 09/05/2017
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I slept well, all things considering. That I managed to get any sleep at all was a miracle, considering I'd slept the whole night in my rapist's arms. As I stirred under the covers, I found that I was lying on the sheets instead of his chest. I felt around in the dark for him, but he was gone.

Finding that he was gone left me feeling partly relieved and partly frightened. Relieved that my predator was gone, frightened that he might be lurking in the shadows, waiting to reenact our earlier coupling. After several tense moments of waiting, I calmed down and convinced myself that he really had left.

I ran my hands across the back wall, feeling around in the dark for the hidden light switch. When I found it and flicked it, the electric candles reilluminated the luxury bedroom. I squinted at the glare, even though the lights weren't all that bright, having been permanently set to dim to give that gothic sex mansion vibe. Looking at the dark little hallway, I was even more relieved to see that there was no sinister figure waiting in the shadows to rape me.

Also, I needed to pee.

Still stark naked, I climbed out of bed and looked around the hobbit hole of a bedroom. The door at the end of the little hallway looked like the exit, but there was another small door nearest to the bed, tucked away in the shadows.

I turned the handle and stepped into a five star en suite bathroom decorated with marble and gold, a much lighter and happier choice of decor than the gothic, luxury dungeon atmosphere of the bedroom. Aside from the usual fixtures, there was also a shower cubicle and a jacuzzi tub, both of which looked big enough for at least two people.

I turned the little turnkey to lock the door, but all the turnkey did was change the sign from green to red. The door was closed, but there was no way to lock it, from the inside or the outside. That was a stupid design oversight by the architects, I thought; anyone could walk in on whoever was bathing or showering if they wanted to.

Then I realized: that was probably the point.

I suddenly felt a lot less secure using this bathroom, but I still needed to pee, so I did what I needed to do and finished as quickly as possible. I barely paused to notice that my crotch looked freshly shaved, an observation I hadn't made until now, and one which made me vaguely remember that I used to have a small bush down there.

I still didn't remember a whole lot from the past 24 hours - or maybe it was 48 hours? But it was clear that I had been specially prepared for this, from the creepy bedroom setting and my nails being trimmed to a harmless length, right down to my freshly-shaved crotch.

Finishing up and washing my hands in the sink, I looked around at the incredibly luxurious bathroom. I could definitely use a refreshing shower right about now, even at the risk of being ambushed.

I stepped into the cubicle and switched on the shower, letting the warm, soothing water run in rivulets across my skin. It felt like liquid heaven running down my body, washing away the accumulated sweat and dirt, as well as momentarily clearing my mind of thoughts regarding this surreal prison and the rape I had suffered.

I half-expected him to come marching through the bathroom door and violate me in mid-shower, but I tried not to think about it as I took some body lotion and lathered it all over my skin. It had a wonderful citrus smell to it, too. I could stay here pampering myself forever.

Eventually, however, I had to finish up so I could explore the rest of my prison. Besides, the longer I kept washing myself, the greater the chance of him coming back for a second round. So I switched off the water and stepped out.

The lack of privacy in the bathroom was evident in the transparent glass door, as well as the giant head-to-toe mirror on the other side. Still dripping wet, I looked at myself in the mirror.

I had long blonde hair reaching down past my shoulders with gorgeous blue eyes and a button nose. Even at 29 years old my breasts were still full and ample, as well as all natural, perfectly complementing my venusian curves and my toned bubble butt. I looked ten years younger than I actually was.

In fact, I remembered my rapist also had blond hair and blue eyes. Perhaps that was his type? Preying on women who looked like himself? Quite an ego.

After my moment of vanity in front of the mirror, I grabbed a towel and dried myself off. I noticed something else weird: a tampon dispenser beside the door. I remembered that I'd been on birth control before I was kidnapped, something that would have been taken away whilst I was unconscious. The implications of that fact set off a flurry of butterflies in my stomach.

No time to worry about that now. After drying off, I returned to the bedroom with the towel around my body and was taken aback by what I saw.

I couldn't have been in the bathroom that long, and yet in the time that I'd been gone, the sheets had been changed and a portable clothes rack set up with an outfit prepared for me. It was a sheer, sleeveless black dress with an open back, complete with a set of black lace lingerie and a pair of four inch stilettos. Evidently someone wanted me to look my best.

I felt a slight trickling sensation run down the inside of my thigh. At first I thought it might be water from the shower, but when I reached down and wiped it away I noticed it had a sticky consistency to it. It was my rapist's semen from earlier, dripping out to remind me of his violation of my pussy.

My heart leapt and my blood ran a little cold as I recalled. But as violated as I felt, I still had to find out where the hell I was and how to get out of here. And before I could do any of that, I had to get dressed.

Putting on the outfit, I found that everything was exactly my size. The bra was my cup size, the dress fit perfectly, and the heels fit, too. They must have measured me when I was unconscious, another chilling thought. Who would go to that much trouble with a sex captive?

Departing the bedroom where I had been raped, I walked down a narrow little corridor, my stilettos clicking uncomfortably loudly on the floor, and emerged into a cavernous living room.

The lighting was as dim as the room I'd just left, but the walls were lined with bookshelves and artwork reaching all the way up to a high ceiling painted to look like a starry sky. A set of sofas and grand-looking armchairs were arranged in a semi-circle around a giant fireplace, with a huge inferno blazing behind a protective grill, providing almost all the light in the room.

This was beyond surreal. The whole setting with its dark lighting and gothic luxury reminded me of the haunted castle from Beauty and the Beast. As soon as that comparison occurred to me, I couldn't help but see all kinds of creepy parallels.

The floor was entirely carpeted, making it harder to walk on in heels, but easier to be stealthy as I tried to sneak past. I tip-toed, or rather strutted, behind the high-backed armchairs and the grand sofa positioned opposite the fireplace, terrified that someone - maybe even my rapist - might be lurking there.

"Come over here." Said a commanding voice with a British accent.

I froze up and remained deathly still. I recognized the voice from last night immediately, and hoped that it might be talking to someone else.

"Pretending not to be there won't help you, Chloe." The voice continued, "and I won't ask you again."

The tone of the voice wasn't at all threatening or even raised in volume, and yet it carried an authority which I was reluctant to resist or defy. Stiffening up, I walked around the edge of the grand sofa to face the speaker.

It was him. My rapist lay reclining along the length of the sofa, propped up by comfortably positioned pillows, watching me with his icy blue eyes. A young woman lay on top of him, face down with her limbs snaked around his body whilst his own arms embraced her like a prized possession. They were both completely nude, and seeing their naked bodies made me want to avert my eyes on a prudish impulse.

"Are you embarrassed?" My rapist asked.

I was, though he clearly wasn't. I also couldn't help but be reminded of how physically attractive he was; his alluring blue eyes, his square jaw and masculine face, his toned and sculpted muscles, all on display without the slightest hint of embarrassment.

I could even see the head of his penis poking out from beneath the young woman's body like a serpent lurking under a rock. Just seeing it triggered fresh memories that made me want to tremble, and not entirely out of fear.

"Who are you, and why am I here?" I demanded.

"Why you are here is complicated to explain." My rapist replied cryptically, "although, if you really are curious, you will certainly find out in due course."

That reply wasn't just cryptic, it told me absolutely nothing.

"Well, you know my name," I said, "what should I call you?"

"We call him the master." Said the young woman a little dreamily. Then she looked up the 'master' nervously, as if she had just spoken out of turn.

"It's fine." He reassured her, stroking her cheek, "it's your cunt that I own, not your tongue."

The young woman purred contentedly and settled back against his chest.

I was bewildered by all of this. The sinister Beauty and the Beast setting, my rapist snuggling naked with a woman who clearly seemed to be under his thumb, the creepy, BDSM-sounding title 'master'. And his casual use of such a crude word like 'cunt' seemed at odds with the flawlessly British sophistication of his accent.

"And what about you, Chloe?" He turned to me.

"Well I'm not going to be your sub or slave or mistress or whatever, if that's what you're asking." I replied, my tone hardening in defiance, "what I want is for you to tell me where the hell I am and how to get out of here."

"I'm afraid I can't do either of those." He said, abruptly standing up to confront me.

I backed up a little but otherwise stood my ground against him, refusing to be cowed by male arrogance. Even though I was wearing stiletto heels he towered over me by several inches. His sheer brashness was incredible, the way he confronted me completely naked, muscles calmly but assertively flexed, his manhood on full display before me.

"I had you brought here for a purpose." he continued.

"I'm not gonna be your fucking sex slave!" I shot back, raising my knee to his groin.

My knee never connected with his crotch. He agilely sidestepped and grabbed my leg in mid-air, yanking me violently off my feet. In the heels I was wearing, I lost my balance and almost fell over as he caught me and pulled me in towards him.

He was standing behind me, holding me so close that his bare chest was touching my skin through my backless dress. One hand was around my throat, squeezing with just enough pressure to keep me compliant. He had slipped the other hand right up my dress, seeking out my panty-protected pussy and trying to worm his fingers inside.

"No violence." He growled directly into my ear, "especially not in the form of a cheap shot like that."

"You don't own me and you won't break me." I retorted defiantly.

"Two naive statements rolled into one," he hissed pulling me over to the center of the carpet in front of the grand fireplace, "both of which have the merit of being true."

The contradiction in his words barely registered as he forced me down onto all fours and hiked up my dress over my back. Out of fear, I dared not fight back as he yanked my panties all the way down and forced my knees apart until my panties snapped. He then took a hold of my hair with one hand and forced my face down to the carpet.

Tussling with and subduing a woman was apparently something he got off on, because he was already hard when his cock touched the entrance to my pussy. To my burning embarrassment, I was already wet down there. I could feel it, and so could he. My body was anticipating this alpha rapist taking ownership of me a second time, and I got wetter and wetter as he rubbed the head of his penis up and down my slit.

I turned my head left, away from the blinding light and blazing heat of the fire, to look back towards the furniture. The young woman the 'master' had been snuggling with had come over to watch, kneeling obediently a few feet away with her knees apart and her hands resting on her thighs.

As she knelt there, quietly watching me about to be raped, another woman appeared from the shadows and knelt down in the same position next to her. The second woman was older - perhaps in her mid-thirties - and heavily pregnant. Both women, I noticed, had jeweled piercings in their navels and between their legs which glittered under the fire light.

My rapist was done teasing me.

He slipped the head of his cock in between my well lubricated labia and pushed his hips forward. I buried my face in the carpet, hoping to bury the sound of my pained gasp as his horse-like hard-on pushed into me, inch by thick inch.

"You are quite right that I don't own you." My rapist said to me, pulling my head up again to speak into my ear, "not all of you, anyway. But I do own your cunt. I took possession of it when I entered you last night and released my seed into you. It's only your cunt that I own, and the only part of you that I need to own."

He started thrusting, and I gritted my teeth to suppress the noises I made every time he thrust inwards. It was only slightly less painful than before, that massive manhood of his, ramming back and forth inside my wet and warm womanhood. But it was bearable, and I would bear it.

What he wouldn't do was break me.

"You're a deluded rapist," I hissed angrily at him, "nothing more!"

"I am certainly a rapist," the 'master' conceded, "but I have no delusions. I know exactly what I want and why."

"To break women." I said with a disgusted tone.

"No! Not to break women." He replied, "I hate that term: to 'break' a woman, as if she were a piece of porcelain. No, a woman is creature of flesh and desire and passion and spirit. I don't want to 'break' any woman, I want to tame her."

His words baffled me. 'Breaking' and 'taming' seemed like a distinction without a difference. But it was getting harder and harder to think straight as his merciless rutting began to affect the rest of my body. There was no direct pressure on my clit, but the rhythmic movement of such a powerful male member inside my most intimate space was causing pleasure to build up inside of me.

It was a steadily growing cloud of latent ecstasy slowly subsuming the pain of him stretching my pussy walls, a building climax just like the first time which threatened to crush what little dignity I had in a public orgasm. It was also getting harder to suppress the grunts I was making as the pace of his unwanted fucking began to pick up, especially as the grunts began to morph, little by little, into moans of involuntary pleasure.

"I brought you here for a specific purpose," my rapist continued, still managing to speak in between thrusts, "to understand the female completely."

That statement made absolutely no sense, and I was too fucked out of my mind to try and parse it.

The two women were still kneeling next to each other, quietly watching the whole thing. Part of me felt anger and betrayal at them; how could they just sit there and watch a man force himself on a fellow woman?

Then it occurred to me: perhaps that was the point. The first time the 'master' had raped me had been full of creepy symbolism: the shaving of my crotch when I was unconscious, the ritual preparation of my naked body, the low, erotic lighting, the trimming of my nails so that I couldn't fight back, the mirror on the ceiling so that I could watch what was happening to me.

All of it was symbolic of his power and my powerlessness.

Of course the two women weren't intervening to help me: they didn't dare to intervene. The 'master' was raping me in full view as a naked display of his masculine power, of his god-given male right to use a woman for his pleasure, and to remind them he could and would do the same to them.

My rapist wrapped his fingers around my throat again and pulled my head back, then reached down with his other hand to my crotch to touch my clit. He pulled himself in close to me as he fucked me harder, his stomach rubbing against my back with each thrust. My theory would explain a lot, even the position of our mating: he was fucking me the way a dog would fuck a bitch, and the symbolism wasn't lost on me.

Aside from the slapping of flesh on flesh with each powerful stroke, there was the wet sucking noise of his penis, slick with the feminine juices of his prey, moving in and out of me. Yet another reminder of the raw sexuality being forced upon me with the aid of my own pussy.

The fireproof metal grill kept the flames and some of the heat at bay, but I averted my gaze so as not to be disoriented by the light. I looked over at the two women kneeling obediently and my theory broke down: they didn't look terribly frightened or intimidated. In fact, both women's hands had slipped away from on top of their thighs to between them.

Were they enjoying this spectacle?

My rapist was fucking me with a bestial frenzy, one hand still clamped commandingly around my throat whilst the fingers of his other hand massaged my clit with merciless skill. Clearly he'd done this before, no doubt to both of his two obedient little mistresses, and it was making it untenable to resist the treacherous orgasm building in my belly for much longer.

Then he came. His orgasm was heralded by a beast-like snarl of raw pleasure, and he forced his hips against my ass, driving his cock all the way inside me. The first rope of cum shot into me, the intrusive sensation of sticky warmth sending me over the edge. I moaned aloud in spite of myself as the ecstasy in my belly blossomed into a full-blown orgasm, made unbearable by the sensation of his cum shooting into me in one gluey jet after another.

As our orgasms collided, he hugged me close to his body, keeping a firm grip on my throat and crotch. Out of sheer instinct, I reached up with one arm and pulled his head down towards my own, holding him so his ragged breathing was in my ear and his chin was resting on my shoulder. It was a mutual embrace as he filled me with his dangerously potent seed.

I could feel our mutual contractions rippling in sync with one another. His cock twitched and pulsed and writhed like an excited serpent as it shot his cum into me, while my pussy contracted in perfect sync, massaging his muscular cock and enticing it to surrender every drop it could give. I could even feel my cervix contracting rhythmically as it vacuumed up the invading army of sperm being deposited inside me without my consent.

We crested down from the peak of our mutual orgasm together, and his ejaculations grew gentler and gentler until he was dribbling the last drops of his semen into me. On another impulse, I reached down with my other hand and grabbed his testicles.

He froze up in alarm as I did that, but couldn't do anything to stop me. Men were most vulnerability immediately after cumming, and he clearly knew he was.

I had my rapist by the balls.

"What are you doing?" He growled directly into my ear.

"Holding you by the balls." I replied, unintimidated.

There was a pause.

"Be very gentle with them." He growled low, his grip on my throat tightening dangerously.

I didn't squeeze. I didn't dare to. This man was twice size and strength; if I wanted to survive this, how stupid would it be to hurt him by actually squeezing his nuts or biting his ear off or something?

Even so, the sudden shift in power felt incredible. I had a gentle but commanding grip on his most sensitive and delicate body part, and one directly connected to his masculinity. Simply holding his sack in my hand felt so empowering.

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