Masters at Arms (Rescue Me Saga, #0.5)(17)
A sense of peace came over her. The time for the ultimate release had come. She smiled, her lips quivering.
“That’s good, baby. Smile. You know, I prepared you for these guys a month ago. They’re going to love finding your secret. They love shit like that.”
When Lyle’s words registered, bile rose in her throat. If she’d eaten today, she’d have vomited. Last month, Lyle had restrained her face down on her father’s desk in the home that should have been her haven. Her legs had been spread open and secured, while her father’s weight held her down so she would remain still enough.
Her stomach clenched into knots as memories of her shrill screams bouncing off the walls in her Master’s office resurfaced in her psyche. No one but her Master and Lyle could have heard her. The waves of pain had come so fast, so intensely, she hadn’t been able to escape to her safe place. When the pain became too unbearable, she’d fainted. Her father revived her by pouring ice water on her face. Gasping, she’d returned to consciousness just as the fire began again on the inside of her labia.
Her heart pounded as she remembered returning to her room that night. The raw pain hadn’t receded. She’d taken a hand mirror and, lying on her back on the bed, discovered her latest degradation.
Branded with her father’s initials.
The branding had healed with much care. But Lyle’s sadistic appetites began to frighten her more than her father’s. Would she survive having her father’s protégé become her Master? Throat suddenly parched, she reached for her water goblet, trying to quell the shaking in her hand.
A heavy weight settled in her stomach as Lyle stood to greet the two Asian men in their matching black-silk suits and starched white shirts—twin-like right down to their black-silk ties. Savannah didn’t attempt to stand, because she’d been strategically placed at the enclosed side of the round table. No escape.
The men bowed in sync to Lyle. He ate up their deference to him with a simpering grin. The three exchanged terse introductions. Then, as one, all three turned their attention toward her, the gazes of the clients creeping slowly over what they could see of her body, lingering too long on her breasts. She swallowed down the rising bile and forced a smile to her face.
Lyle motioned for each man to enter the booth from a different side. The short, wiry men slid along the circular leather seat to besiege her, closing in. Smothering. She tried to fill her compressed lungs with slow, deep breaths, but the men reeked of garlic and body odor. She fought the reflex to gag.
As if in synchronized motion again, their hands snaked out to clamp over her knees, then moved upward, under the short skirt of her tight dress. The sadist on her left pinched her inner thigh, forcing a gasp from her.
Savannah needed to prepare herself for whatever these two men had planned for her. Focus. Separate her mind from the scene. Soon she would put this last scene behind her and go home. Then the slave would suffer no more.
She knew the routine. A quick meal, prolonged only if they got off on feeding the slave, then they would take her to the Master’s penthouse suite—His because He owned this hotel, just as He owned the slave. Her screams would fall on deaf ears in that isolated wing of the historic hotel. The scene would be videotaped to use as blackmail with the clients later, if necessary.
Just another routine SM scene for the well-used slave. Lyle, who would wait in the next room, would never come to intervene. The slave would hold off screaming as long as she could, because no amount of screaming would put an end to the slave’s suffering. Besides, the slave knew sadists got off on her screams and didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of believing they had broken her.
Even after they ejaculated on her, as they always did, she knew the torture would end only when the allotted time had run out. No sense rushing them. Sometimes they became even more sadistic after they’d come. She prayed they’d only paid for an hour, but something told her they’d been able to afford to abuse the slave even longer.
Just be nice to the gentlemen, Savi, and they’ll be nice to you. Only the “gentlemen” were never nice to her. Savannah took a deep breath.
The curtain rose on Act Three—the final act.
*
Damián stuck his head through the open elevator doors and saw a tray of dirty dishes on the floor outside the penthouse suite. He pushed the cart into the hallway, wheeling it toward the room. He started to bend down to retrieve the tray of dishes when he heard a woman scream in pain from inside the suite.
“Acccchhhhh, God, no!”
Damn. He didn’t have a key to the room.
“Lyle! Make them stop!”
Were they screams of passion? Or did she need help? This floor was isolated from the others. He should at least check on her. But he had no way of gaining access to the suite.
“Accccchhhhhh! Rape!”
Mierda. Was this for real or a role-playing thing some chicas got into? Sure didn’t sound like she was having fun. Damián dropped the dishes into the cart, breaking a wine glass. He pounded on the door.
“Everything all right in there?”
“Fire! Fire! Help me!” The woman sobbed now.
What the hell was going on in there? Damián ran back toward the elevator and pulled the fire extinguisher from the wall, then returned to the door. His heel striking against the handle barely made a dent at opening it. After three more kicks, the door finally crashed against the inner wall.