as she tried to find a comfortable position with the cuts on her back.
Your fault, ma mignonne.
With the whipping she’d taken, she wouldn’t be able to work for a few days. A bother, but he would keep her busy in other ways.
His cock swelled again, thinking of those ways. This time he let it fill to hardness, grasping it in calloused palms. A few pulls and he was already halfway to orgasm. As he pleasured himself, he thought about Valentina’s softness, the femininity of her curves. He fucked men when he wanted to master leashed power, when he felt rough and aggressive, because men were difficult to hurt. Women...women were different. They were thrilling precisely because they were so easy to hurt, especially for a large man like him. It took skill to threaten and frighten a woman but not really hurt her. Valentina had been a quivering mess as he sodomized her, and yet she fit him perfectly. He had made her fit him and now she slept, secure in her submission to his will.
Soon, he’d take her pussy and perhaps even let her come. That wouldn’t be as painful for her, the little nympho. She’d go mad with happiness. There would be times he’d bring her so much pleasure she’d nearly explode with it, only because it would amuse him to see her that way.
Just wait, little slave girl. With great sacrifice comes great reward.
He came in his hand with a sigh, imagining Valentina in the throes of ecstasy, her vibrant red hair thrown back on a pillow, her legs spread wide, offering herself to him, offering everything to him...
He cleaned himself up with a rueful chuckle. It wasn’t the first time he’d masturbated over her, and certainly not the last. For his part, he would make sure she felt rewarded by the end because that’s how he operated. He’d reward her with skills learned, with greater confidence and inner strength. With affection, and lifelong friendship if she wanted it. He never abandoned his slaves, only set them free to find more fulfilling masters or mistresses, because there was one thing he couldn’t give his slaves, no matter how much they pleased him—romantic love.
Romance? Ugh. Love? He distrusted the very word. He distrusted the idea, the concept. His daughter Sara had forced him, kicking and screaming, to become a father, and he had to admit the experience had greatly enriched his life, but romantic love? It was slippery and risky, the very antithesis of control. His parents had loved one another. Michel understood that, saw it in the way they related to one another, the way they returned to each other, fight after fight, arrest after arrest, like magnets drawn together. He remembered them fucking on the floor, on the couch, wherever the urge struck them, not caring that he watched. By four or five he’d learned to leave the room.
He understood now, as an adult, that normal parents didn’t act that way. Normal parents didn’t fight and fuck and try to kill each other. His parents had been a particular brand of people, and addicted to a plethora of substances. He learned that at a young age too, not to eat the powders and pills they took, after a traumatic trip to the hospital to have his stomach pumped. He learned so many things young children shouldn’t have to learn.
He was barely seven when his mother killed his father in a jealous rage over another woman, or perhaps because he’d stolen her drugs. She’d stabbed him in the heart with a dull kitchen knife. He’d screamed at her until the life blood ran from him, and she’d screamed back, and little Michel Leveille had watched all this and told himself,
never
. He would never love anyone as his parents loved each other. He would never scream and hit and throw things. He would never use drugs.
He would never lose control.
His mother went to prison and he became a ward of the state, assigned to various temporary homes. He sought solace in control, and practiced managing people both older and younger than himself in order to create
Your fault, ma mignonne.
With the whipping she’d taken, she wouldn’t be able to work for a few days. A bother, but he would keep her busy in other ways.
His cock swelled again, thinking of those ways. This time he let it fill to hardness, grasping it in calloused palms. A few pulls and he was already halfway to orgasm. As he pleasured himself, he thought about Valentina’s softness, the femininity of her curves. He fucked men when he wanted to master leashed power, when he felt rough and aggressive, because men were difficult to hurt. Women...women were different. They were thrilling precisely because they were so easy to hurt, especially for a large man like him. It took skill to threaten and frighten a woman but not really hurt her. Valentina had been a quivering mess as he sodomized her, and yet she fit him perfectly. He had made her fit him and now she slept, secure in her submission to his will.
Soon, he’d take her pussy and perhaps even let her come. That wouldn’t be as painful for her, the little nympho. She’d go mad with happiness. There would be times he’d bring her so much pleasure she’d nearly explode with it, only because it would amuse him to see her that way.
Just wait, little slave girl. With great sacrifice comes great reward.
He came in his hand with a sigh, imagining Valentina in the throes of ecstasy, her vibrant red hair thrown back on a pillow, her legs spread wide, offering herself to him, offering everything to him...
He cleaned himself up with a rueful chuckle. It wasn’t the first time he’d masturbated over her, and certainly not the last. For his part, he would make sure she felt rewarded by the end because that’s how he operated. He’d reward her with skills learned, with greater confidence and inner strength. With affection, and lifelong friendship if she wanted it. He never abandoned his slaves, only set them free to find more fulfilling masters or mistresses, because there was one thing he couldn’t give his slaves, no matter how much they pleased him—romantic love.
Romance? Ugh. Love? He distrusted the very word. He distrusted the idea, the concept. His daughter Sara had forced him, kicking and screaming, to become a father, and he had to admit the experience had greatly enriched his life, but romantic love? It was slippery and risky, the very antithesis of control. His parents had loved one another. Michel understood that, saw it in the way they related to one another, the way they returned to each other, fight after fight, arrest after arrest, like magnets drawn together. He remembered them fucking on the floor, on the couch, wherever the urge struck them, not caring that he watched. By four or five he’d learned to leave the room.
He understood now, as an adult, that normal parents didn’t act that way. Normal parents didn’t fight and fuck and try to kill each other. His parents had been a particular brand of people, and addicted to a plethora of substances. He learned that at a young age too, not to eat the powders and pills they took, after a traumatic trip to the hospital to have his stomach pumped. He learned so many things young children shouldn’t have to learn.
He was barely seven when his mother killed his father in a jealous rage over another woman, or perhaps because he’d stolen her drugs. She’d stabbed him in the heart with a dull kitchen knife. He’d screamed at her until the life blood ran from him, and she’d screamed back, and little Michel Leveille had watched all this and told himself,
never
. He would never love anyone as his parents loved each other. He would never scream and hit and throw things. He would never use drugs.
He would never lose control.
His mother went to prison and he became a ward of the state, assigned to various temporary homes. He sought solace in control, and practiced managing people both older and younger than himself in order to create
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