Page 22 of Break Me

“Shh,” I soothe. “Your new master will love it. He’ll find you beautiful in your own special way.” It’s a lie of big proportions. Her buyer is going to taunt her and humiliate her for her toothless mouth. He’ll probably punish her for it too, then shove his cock into her mouth and enjoy a nice soft blowjob. But that’s not what she needs to hear, and she readily soaks up my words even though she probably doesn’t believe them deep down.

“Really?” She leans back to aim her hopeful gaze at me, and I repress a shudder at the sight of her empty mouth.

“Really,” I confirm and pull her back into me.

***

After putting the girl back in her cell and ordering Dorin to stay the hell away from her, I pass my sub’s cell on the way back to my office. Stopping outside, I’m tempted to go in and check on her. See if she’s still sleeping peacefully. Maybe lie down behind her and hold her. God knows it would soothe this restless jittering inside me.

I’m about to reach for the door and press my finger to the biometric scanner on the handle when Mikhail appears.

“Did you fix her?” he shoots angrily from across the hall.

“I fixed her,” I confirm, crossing my arms over my chest. “Just make sure Dorin—or anyone else—doesn’t touch her and she’ll be good to sell on Monday.”

He stops in front of me, hands firm on his hips as he aims his angry scowl at me. “You’d better hope so, or the loss comes from your pockets.”

“Yeah, whatever.” I veer around him and head for my office. Usually, I hate when he does this. Seeing the filthy amount of money in my bank account grow with each woman we sell gets my dick hard, and seeing it go down pisses me off. But it’s more out of principle than anything. A small loss like this will barely make a dent. And frankly, right now I don’t give a fuck about the money.

I’m teeming with frustration when I return to my office. I want to go punch Mikhail in the face—blot out his ridiculous scowl and larger-than-life attitude. But it’s not the only urge that has restlessness crawling under my skin. I don’t care to admit it, but holding that toothless girl made me crave more. I need to care for someone—utilize this annoying protectiveness that has awoken within me after years of dormancy. But what is even harder to admit is that it’s not just anyone I want to take care of. It’s that little sub who bears my mark and my piercings.

As I sit there, staring at the surface of my desk and my fingers drumming on it, I almost feel mad at her for what she’s doing to me—for shoving me out of my comfortable routines and making me crave these complicated things.

I want to go punish her for it, but the idea of using my itching fist on her the way it craves to be used makes me sick to my stomach. What’s more is, doing so would create a huge dent in the submission I’ve carefully coaxed out of her.

So instead of taking my anger out on one of the two people who have caused it, I decide to find someone else. After all, this place provides plenty of other outlets. I have a whole pile of possibilities right beside me.

Flipping through the assignments, I easily find the right one. Number 246618 needs pain tolerance training. Usually, I hand these kinds of assignments over to Dorin, but I need one of these today. And since I gave him one of mine, I figure it’s only fair I take one of his.

I go to cell number eighteen and find a curvy girl huddling in the corner. Most girls here are thin—if not on arrival, then after a couple of weeks. We never let them get bone-thin because they need to retain some physical stamina and strength. That is the standard, but this girl has a deliciously round ass, wide hips, and big breasts. She seems to be naturally curvy, but even natural curves tend to fade after a few weeks down here, so either she hasn’t lost the weight yet, or someone has ordered a girl with some padding that will allow her to tolerate more pain and prevent her bones from breaking. Most likely it’s the latter. The last girl I processed was number seventy-eight; this one is sixty-six, which means she has most likely been here for weeks. And the pain-training order definitely points toward that conclusion too.

Grabbing her by the hair, I haul her out of the cell, down the hall, and into one of the whipping rooms.

“Fuck,” I growl as I step in a small pool of blood. I hate it when the trainers don’t clean up after themselves. But more so, I hate getting blood on my boots.

The sight of the blood makes the girl break out into a shrill scream that cuts into my ears.

“Shut up.” I slap her across the cheek, but it only makes her scream louder.

Grabbing one of her hands, I lift it to the restraints on the hook in the ceiling. But it’s a goddamn hassle to buckle the strap around her wrist while trying to keep my boots out of the splatters of blood that her trampling feet stir up.

“Fucking hell.” I shove her to the ground and press a foot to her back as I detach the cuffs from the hook and lean down to strap them around her wrists. Then I lift her feet to my chest as I tie her ankles together.

By the time I finally have her strung up by the hook in the ceiling, my T-shirt and jeans are covered in red splotches, and the girl’s screams are still grating on my ears. I remove my T-shirt and use it to wipe a few blood stains from my boots, then shove the fabric into her mouth and tie it in place with a piece of rope.

Then I hose down both her, the floor, and the walls to make sure everything is clean before I get to work.

Unlike most trainers here, who use all different kinds of whips, canes, and batons, I prefer to use my hands. With this girl, I can even use my fists. I hit her breasts, thighs, and ass, relishing the cushioned feeling of her full curves that allows me to put in quite the amount of force.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins, pulling me out of the grumpy slump and lending me new energy. I keep going for what seems like an hour. I don’t stop until I realize, in a moment of clarity, that the girl is slumping in the restraints, barely able to hold herself up.

I step back and realize that the physical endeavor hasn’t released shit. It has just paused my irritation. I’m still cranky as fuck and want to keep going, but I know it won’t do any good. I’ll only exhaust myself and get even more cranky, and I’ll risk damaging the girl.

I consider shoving my cock inside her and get a quick fuck instead, but my dick is barely hard, and the angry bruises covering her skin are like black stains on a pretty picture, and something about the idea of using her just doesn’t sit right with me.

So I go to search for the fucker who left the bloody mess instead. It takes a while to find out who’s responsible, and as the adrenaline fades and my last ounce of patience dwindles, the itchy restlessness under my skin morphs into irrational rage. The idiot in question is a new trainer here. A young man in his early twenties, who goes pale as a ghost as I give him the full brunt of my anger. He looks like a little puppy with his tail tucked between his legs as he rushes off to clean the cell.

Finally, I go upstairs to my quarters, jerk off in the shower, and go to bed early. Then I spend the better part of another night tossing and turning.