That’s how much he had me by the cunt, the female version of the proverbial balls. Esther, Domme by night, held hostage by a man who could rule my waking hours and my dreams without even trying. Fucking had to wait, though. He was giving me a taste of my own medicine tonight, being all masterful instead of me dominating him. I wanted that—needed that—and nothing was going to stop me coming until I was spent like a dull-colored penny. Dirty. Handled. Well-used. “Are your arms aching yet?” he asked from behind me. They were but I wasn’t about to admit it. Not yet. Not until I couldn’t take anymore. I hung from chains screwed into the cellar ceiling, leather manacles chafing my wrists. I stared at a rough cement wall, its hue the kind of gray the sky goes before a hasty but stream-swelling shower. My toes barely touched the floor, my muscles would scream if they could, and I was on the verge of doing that myself. Screaming from frustration. He was taking his time, something I didn’t want him to do.
