Chapter Five

Raoul woke, feeling the pressure of time. The auction, according to the Feds’ best guess based on their tracking of kidnapped women, would be in about three weeks. Sam needed to be referred before then and in enough time to get approved. When the Overseer made his follow-up visit, Kimberly needed to be well into the slave mindset, comfortable with him touching her body, comfortable with submitting to his will. If the Overseer had doubts, Sam’s referral would get nowhere.

At least, Kimberly wasn’t an inexperienced submissive, even if she’d never gone further than light erotic submission.
He smiled, inhaling the faint citrus scent of her hair, the fragrance of her feminine musk. But no perfume of arousal filled the air.
Kimberly was solidly asleep, her arms curled around his forearm like a stuffed toy, and… He frowned, realizing his hand had cupped her right breast during sleep. No, Sandoval. He released her—regretting the loss of the soft roundness in his palm—closed his fingers, and resettled his hand between her breasts. His cock ached like a torn muscle, and he sighed. This was going to be a long few weeks. And a very long morning.
At least they’d both slept well. Her shivering had woken him once, but he’d been able to soothe the nightmare away before it took her over. Better than the first night when her gutwrenching screams had dragged him from sleep. So much pain yet willing to face the Overseer, to save the other women. Her courage awed him.
He squeezed her slightly. “Kimberly, time to get up.”
Her arms tightened around his, and her breasts enclosed his hand in softness.
“Dios,” he said under his breath. He pulled away slowly and slid out of the bed.
She muttered and woke, pushing herself to sit in the bed, frowning at him.
“Sorry, chica, but I have work to do, which means you get up also.”
Her frown deepened.
“Use the bathroom to take care of business and brush your teeth, then call me.”
She was wide-awake at that point, fear edging into her eyes. But she didn’t argue, just moved into the bathroom.
He entertained himself by picking out the clothes she’d wear today.
A few minutes later, she reopened the door, and he walked in.
After removing his loose pants, he stepped into the walk-in shower and turned on the water. The dark green tile steamed up immediately. Turning, he motioned her in. Her hands fisted at her sides, and she’d started to tremble.
“Show me a number,” he said firmly, snapping her out of panic before it could take hold.
Oh God, he was naked. And fully erect, his cock huge and pointing toward her like a weapon. Her gaze dropped away immediately.
He’d rape her now… Then Kim heard his voice, and a second later the words registered. A number. Ten, twenty, a hundred! With the exaggeration, her brain clicked back on. He wasn’t hurting her. Not even touching her. Really, she’d been more scared than this, hadn’t she? Yes. And she was with Master R, not…a monster. With the thought, the fear edged down further, and she forced her hands open to show him six fingers.
“Good. You did very well at making yourself think.”
The approval in his voice warmed her far better than the steam from the shower. She forced herself to lower her head and wait for his command.
“Look at me, gatita. This morning, you may remain in your pajamas…although you will join me in here. Today you bathe me.” Silence.
Relief eased her breathing.
“Tomorrow we bathe each other. Understood?”
A reprieve, not a stay of execution. But it still helped. A lot. “Yes. Yes, M-master.”
He snorted. “If you are with me long, I will begin to spell Master with two M’s.” He held out his hand. “Come, chiquita. Wash me so I can get some real work done today.”
The brisk tone had her moving forward. His blunt fingers closed around hers, pulling her under the water. Warm spray soaked her pajamas, and they clung to her skin, hiding very little. He said nothing, simply handed her the soap and turned his back.
Well, okay. She worked up some foam and started. Impossibly wide shoulders, down the muscled planes of his back. Skip over his butt. His thighs were as thick as her waist, with light coarse hair. His ankles and feet solid. She stepped back—the metallic taste had disappeared from her mouth—and looked at him. There was nothing graceful about this man; he was sheer blunt power and strength.
His ass remained…and he didn’t turn around. She eyed the soap. “Um…”
“All of me, Kimberly.”
Dammit. Biting her lip, she washed his tight buttocks and between. So intimate, touching him there. “T-turn, M-master.”
His laugh echoed through the shower. “Is this going to give you a permanent stutter?” When he faced her, she could see the amusement in his eyes. Her tenseness retreated a step. At least until his erection bumped her stomach. She jerked back so quickly her feet skidded.
His firm grip on her arm held her up, but he released her as soon as she caught her balance.
“Wash my face, please,” he said gently, the command forcing her to pay attention. The understanding in his expression made tears burn in her eyes.
“Yes, Sir.” She soaped over his forehead, the hard cheekbones, and the blunt angle of his jaw. His morning stubble rasped her fingers. “Rinse, M-master.”
He stepped under the spray and back, wiped his eyes, and stood quietly as she soaped his corded neck, the steely muscles of his arm, tracing the line between biceps and triceps, his thick, powerful wrists. After washing each broad palm, she worked on his fingers, scrubbing thick calluses and short fingernails.
She soaped the soft black hair under his arms, then the inverted triangle of dark hair over his pectorals that hid flat brown nipples. His chest was a solid wall of muscle. Mesmerized, she ran her finger across the ridges of his abdomen. Damn, a real six-pack.
“I like the feeling of your hands on me,” he said softly, unsettling her so she paused to look up at him warily. “Continue.”
She averted her gaze from his groin and washed the front of his legs, his feet, and ankles. Then… Oh God, did she have to do this? But he wasn’t touching her, grabbing her, or forcing her. A shiver ran through her as he stood in place, silently waiting.
Why did he have to be…erect? She stared at the wall, frozen.
“Chiquita,” He lifted her chin. “You are learning to control your fear. In exactly the same way, an honorable man will control his lust. My body desires you, yes. Any living man would, and I’m not dead, after all.” A smile flickered over his lips. “But my body doesn’t get everything it wants, or we’d still be asleep in bed, no?”
The logic made sense. He’d rather have slept in but didn’t. He’d rather…fuck…her, but wouldn’t. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome. Now wash me so I can begin work, and you can take your own shower.”
Wash his cock. Got it. No problem. She looked down and gasped. How had she missed seeing that? “You have a piercing.”
He chuckled. “So I do.”
Oh wow. A silvery barbell with a ball on the top of his shaft went straight through to underside of the head. Straight through. “Didn’t that hurt?”
“A bit.”
Uh-huh. A bit.
He clucked his tongue. “Kimberly? You’ve been given a task.”
Right. Although her fear had eased, worry constricted her chest. His cock was almost the same color as his skin, thick and long with a slight bend to the left. She gave him a quick glance as she touched it, tensing, half-expecting him to grab her and… But he just watched her calmly with a small smile. Her soapy hand slid around his shaft, slickly up…and she brushed over the metal on the tip. Circled it with a finger, then did the one on the underside. How would those feel…inside?
“Most women like it. A few don’t,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “I remove it if it’s a problem or sometimes for oral sex.” He grinned. “Stop playing.”
Realizing she was fingering the silvery piercing, she flushed. But now it wasn’t as impossible to finish, from the head, down over the thick veins, to the springy trimmed hair at the base. He opened his legs. His testicles were large and heavy. Fascinating. She’d had shower sex before, but had she ever washed a man so thoroughly? With this much attention?
When she finished, his face was flushed, and the muscles in his jaw had turned rigid. She knew that expression. Her body tensed, ready to flee.
As she took a step back, he turned and rinsed the soap from his body. When he faced her again, his smile was easy. He lifted her chin with one finger and brushed a kiss over her lips. “Thank you, gatita. Your courage pleases me.” He gave her an infectious grin, and her heart skipped a beat at how dangerously handsome he was. “Your soft hands please me as well.”
Before she could worry about his words, he stepped out of the shower and toweled himself off. “I left your clothing for today on the bed,” he said a second before the bathroom door closed behind him.
He picked out my clothing? Excuse me?
But she didn’t really care…not right now. She stared at the door as the hot water beat on her back. I did it. Hadn’t panicked. He’d even thanked her. She touched her tingling lips. He kissed me. It had been…nice. Not horrible at all.
She started to pull her pajamas off and stopped. What if he returned? But…he wouldn’t. She just knew that.

* * * *

Raoul pushed away from his desk. His work was caught up, and the afternoon was almost over. So far, it hadn’t been a bad day.
At breakfast, they’d gone over schedules and expectations, then gone to their various chores.
After lunch, he’d tried gentling Kimberly in the same way he would a wild animal—start at a distance and move closer, bit by bit. While he’d worked in his office, she’d sat on a floor pillow beside him, close enough he could stroke her hair.
It had taken almost an hour for her to relax. When she’d tired, he’d leaned her closer, pressing her cheek against his thigh.
He’d planned the method to increase her trust in him; what he hadn’t expected was his own peace at having her close. When her psychologist had arrived and taken Kimberly to the great room, his office had felt empty and cold.
But he’d heard Faith leave a while ago. Time for the next step. He rose and stretched, tucked his shirt neatly into his jeans, and went in search of his little slave. He found her still in the great room. Curled up on the couch, she appeared strained. The session must have been a painful one.
Maybe she’d enjoy his way of defeating stress. “Come, gatita. It’s time for something more vigorous than sitting.”
“Yes, Sir.”
She followed him silently as he walked to the front corner of the house. He opened the door and stepped into the room, then realized she wasn’t beside him. He turned.
Almost as pale as her white T-shirt, she stood frozen in the hall.
“What’s wrong, chiquita?”
She moved a step closer, stared into the weight room, and sagged against the wall. “I thought you were bringing me to a dungeon.”
“Ah.” He shook his head. Poor little slave. “I have a dungeon, yes, but it’s on the south side. After we finish here, I’ll give you a tour of the house.”
Color returning, she followed him into the brightly lit exercise room and wandered around, looking at the bench press, the squat machine, the pulleys. “If you didn’t know what this stuff was, you might think you’d entered a dungeon.” She eyed the cables.
“I suppose,” he said noncommittally, not even tempted to tell her how nicely some of the equipment worked as restraints. Attach that pulley to a submissive’s wrist cuffs, add weight… A couple of the subs he’d entertained actually preferred playing in this room to the dungeon. “We’re going to build up your muscles and endurance.” He eyed her loose shorts and T-shirt. Good enough for now. “In a couple of days, I’ll start you on self-defense.”
“I know a little. My father made me take karate classes as a kid.”
“Really. Why did you stop?”
“I—” When she shrugged, her breasts moved in interesting ways, diverting him for a second. “I…didn’t want to be a tomboy anymore.” Her mouth firmed as if she were remembering old battles.
Odd. Something else to investigate.
“But at this point, I don’t think I could learn quickly enough to worry even a ninety-ninepound weakling,” she added, her brows drawing together.
Had he ever seen a woman who was so pretty even when frowning? “With karate, no. I’m going to give you the benefit of my years of street fighting. We’ll start with some of the nastier tricks—the ones they don’t teach martial arts students, since explaining to a mamá why her son’s eyeballs are on the floor is most difficult.”
“Ew.” She stared at him in horror.
“Or why his few fingers now bend the wrong way.”
Her disgust turned to a speculative gleam as she undoubtedly envisioned slavers who could no longer grip a flogger. Exactly the concept he wanted in her head. She wasn’t a victim; she was a survivor—and one who might do some real damage if the chance ever came.

* * * *

An hour later, Kim’s legs wobbled when Master R helped her off the leg extension machine. His hard grip on her arm was all that kept her from flopping onto the rubber mat like a landed trout. “I won’t be able to walk tomorrow,” she moaned.

Dammit, why did he have to have such a great smile? “You will, although you’ll groan all the way out of bed.”
“Thanks a lot.”
His laugh was deep, resonating in her bones. “Now I want you to be clear on the rules we discussed earlier. When working together like in the weight room or cooking in the kitchen, I don’t expect you to be formal. Everywhere else, you will ask permission to speak. You will use my title and be respectful at all times. If I am sitting in a room, kneel before you speak to me, and wait for permission to sit anywhere except the floor or on a pillow.”
“Yes, M-master.” The same rules they’d gone over at breakfast. No contradictions. Did he realize how wonderful his consistency was? She winced, remembering she’d sat on the couch in the great room. He hadn’t said anything. “I was on the sofa before.”
“Ah.” He frowned. “Many masters don’t let their slaves on the furniture at all, but I found that awkward and unnecessarily strict.”
“I found.” Every time he reminded her that he’d had slaves before, the pit of her stomach dropped away.
“If there are no doms in the room, use the couch or chairs and be comfortable. If I enter the room, you stand. If I sit, you kneel. Any questions?”
“No, Sir.” So she should have stood up when he came into the great room. “If you break the rules, you will be punished—probably with a spanking. Is that clear?” “Yes, M-master.”
“Very good.” He rubbed his knuckles over her cheek, his gaze tender. “Is there anything you need now or want to say?”
Why would a master ask a slave something like that? And why did it make her feel…off balance? “No, Sir.”
“No? Then let me show you the parts of the house you missed.” He took her hand in his, leading her.
On the second floor were three guest rooms and the master bedroom. At the end, he opened a door and showed her a sitting room overlooking the ocean. “This is your private area for when you need a place to be quiet. If you’re in here, I’ll know you want time alone.”
Before her relief had taken hold, he set a finger under her chin, lifting her face to give her a level look. “Having a space to use doesn’t mean you’ll be permitted to hide in here, Kimberly. As with all things, that is up to me.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good.” His hand cupped her cheek, and gaze on hers, he lowered his head. A flutter like butterfly wings tickled in her chest, but she didn’t move. A brush of his lips, a slide of his tongue on her lower lip followed by the nibble of teeth. Her mouth softened, and a tiny flicker of heat sparked to life low in her belly.
Not forceful. Gentle, teasing kisses from firm, velvety lips. His palm was warm against her cheek, his knowledgeable mouth on hers, but nothing else touched her. He didn’t even try to push his tongue in, just led her, step by step, into responding to the kind of kisses she’d experienced as a girl, before French kissing had come along.
He pulled away as slowly as he’d advanced, his gaze still intent but…oh, so much warmer. As was she.
She stared at him, setting her hand over her quivering stomach.
The corners of his eyes crinkled, but he didn’t speak, just ran his thumb over the moisture on her lower lip and then took her hand.
He led her downstairs to areas she’d already seen. The foyer and great room, dining area and kitchen, TV room. When he headed toward the south side of the house, her skin went cold. His dungeon. No. I don’t want to go there.
Ignoring the way she hung back, he opened the door and flipped on the overhead light, filling the area with brightness, erasing some of the menace. “Walk around the room three times. Look at everything,” he said in exactly the same tone as when he’d instructed her to do leg presses.
Every fiber in her urged her to flee, but she took one step through the door. Her knees shook as she forced herself to continue. He didn’t follow. She glanced back.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, just watching.
Okay then. Hands fisted at her sides, she managed to get one foot to move, then the other. The taste in her mouth, the way her skin went cold—at age six, she’d gone in a Halloween haunted house. Screams and moans, cobwebs and skeletons. She’d frozen, unable to move until her furious and shamed father had dragged her out and yelled at her for being a coward. “Moores are not cowards.”

But they are sometimes . Yet she pushed herself on, across the empty side of the room, then toward the equipment. Her feet stopped. Breathe. Breathe. She forced her legs forward, tasting blood from where she’d bitten her tongue. She made it past the St. Andrew’s cross and a bondage table. Her stomach almost revolted when she saw whips—so many whips—coiled snakelike on a shelf. A glass-fronted cabinet displayed gags. Masks. God. Pass that one quickly. She came even with Master R.

He held up one finger. “Two more.”

A throne chair with no bottom. A sink and counter. She detoured about chains dangling from the ceiling rafters. Then reached Master R.
Two fingers.
The room was well-equipped, nicer than some of the clubs she’d played in. Leather padding on almost everything. A sawhorse spanking bench. Master Raoul.
Three fingers.
She stopped in front of him and shivered, thinking of all the horrible things behind her. Now what?
“Kimberly, we’re not going to play today.”
Oh, thank you, God. Her shoulders loosened as the tenseness disappeared. “Thank you, Sir.”
“However, I do want you on that. Facedown.” He pointed to the waist-high bondage table, and she froze. He waited, then lifted his chin, his jaw hard.
Don’t make him mad. She crossed the room, ignoring her inner coward that kept screaming, Run, run, run. After she climbed onto the table, she lay on her stomach, every muscle rigid with fear.
“Good, gatita. You’re conquering yourself and doing very well.”
He took her arms, laying them at her sides, and massaged her shoulders with strong fingers. As her muscles relaxed, she opened her eyes and craned her neck to look at him. No lust in his face, just the focused attention he brought to everything he did. “Sir?”
“Master, gatita.”
“M-master, what are you doing?”
He snorted. “Massaging all your tired baby muscles. What does it feel like?”
Oh. “Nice.” Except for the need to run away and hide. “Thank you. Master.”
He worked his way down her body, and she knew he did it to get her accustomed to his touch, but it was effective. She tensed when he dug his fingers into the aching muscles of her buttocks, but he didn’t do anything sexual at all. Down her legs. Her feet. She moaned when his thumbs dug into her arches.
“Turn over.”
Her eyes popped open.
He didn’t wait but rolled her onto her back and smiled down at her. “Such big eyes. Yes, I’m going to massage your front as well.” His fingers curved over her shoulders, his thumbs digging into the muscles around the collarbones.
God, it felt good…but she couldn’t relax, not with his hands so close to her breasts. He worked on her pectoral muscles, easing around her breasts, moving them out of his way. She tensed every time he touched somewhere new.
Finally he shook his head in exasperation. “Your worries are getting the best of you, chiquita. You’re not going to fall into pieces if I touch your breasts.” And then he put his hands directly on her breasts, curving his palms around them.
Her breathing stopped.
He didn’t move as he looked down into her eyes. “Am I hurting you?” He waited. “Kimberly?”
She licked her lips. “No.” Her feelings were too messed up to figure out. Fear—oh yes. But…pleasure? She’d always liked a man’s hands on her breasts, but not now. Surely not anymore.
“Are we okay?” he asked. The firmness in his voice held the expectation that she’d get over this.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl.” He moved down to her feet, working his way up. Leaving her shaken. Always friendly, polite, yet this solid immovable core. More than his self-confidence and ability to give a command, he showed his certainty she’d not only obey him, but that she wanted to.
And he didn’t hide his satisfaction or even pleasure when she met those expectations.
His big hands squeezed one thigh and the other, moving higher until his fingers grazed the crotch of her pants with each movement. Her fear flashed and faded, leaving…anticipation. Warmth.
God, she wanted him to touch her. The realization slashed into her, more painful than a knife stroke. How could she live through rape and slavery and ever want to be touched again? What kind of slut was she? I really am the dirty fuckhole that the—
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said. He’d moved up the table to regard her closely with shadowed eyes.
Not ever. “Nothing.”
“Gatita, I know when my touch heats a woman. Why does being aroused bother you?” He waited; then his voice deepened in an explicit command. “Tell me now, Kimberly.”
The words spilled from her like a dam breaking, releasing a torrent. “I shouldn’t ever want anyone to touch me. He said I was a dirty slut, and I am. I am.” Sobs broke from her. A cunt, an animal, not worthy to be human. She knew it. Like a sewer, filth filled her, running through her core.
“Hijo de puta,” Master R muttered and picked her off the bench. He cradled her to him as he carried her to the small living room.
He shouldn’t touch her. She was not fit to be near a real person. Dirty all the way through. Tears streamed down her face, making her even uglier. A f-fuckhole and a—
He sat on the couch, leaning her against his chest. “Stop.” He shook her lightly. “Stop. Now.” A master’s voice. Her master.
She choked, pushing the sobs down.
“Better. You will listen to me. Do you remember how your memories work?” Memories? “What?” She blinked, trying to focus on his face.
“When something horrible happens, your brain doesn’t process the memories right. It stores everything—sounds, pain, smells, feelings—all mixed up. It doesn’t matter if you believed it or it made sense; it gets stored. Did Gabi or Faith not tell you this?”
They both had. Kim nodded, her cheek rubbing on his chest. His scent came to her, clean as an ocean breeze.
“So if your memory is triggered, you get parts of the mess back—and maybe what you heard or felt at the time. Are you listening, Kimberly?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“He told you over and over that you were bad. Made you feel dirty. So sometimes, when your brain accesses those memories—the ones you haven’t thought about—you’re going to hear those words and feel that way again. Sí?”
She hauled in a breath. He was right. She didn’t normally think she was a bad person. “I guess.”
“Gabrielle told me she was raped when she was a teenager. Is she a filthy slut?”
“No!” Wonderful Gabi, who cared for everyone and brightened any room she entered. “How can you—” She bit her lip. Duh. And neither am I.
“That’s it,” he murmured. He kissed the top of her head, then her lips, ever so gently. After picking up the TV remote from the side table, he said, “Let’s watch something really dirty. Like football.”
As the Saints took on the Packers, she fell asleep wrapped in comfort.