Master's Vlogger Page 2

  Me: I can make you Fruity Pebbles.

  Master: No. I hate that cereal. That’s your favorite.

  Grumbling under breath, I curse him for detesting the best cereal ever crafted. Who doesn’t love Fruity Pebbles? Crazy people.

  Me: Fine. You can have your Wheaties.

  Master: No. I told you I’d be home in an hour, baby. I’m busy. You’re making this take longer. I’m not bringing Maddox home. Get the big plug from the chest and stick it in. Then shackle yourself to our bed and wait for me to return. Do not touch yourself. And remove your fingers from your hole right this instant.

  What? Huh? How…

  Heaving another sigh, I comply, but it doesn’t mean I like it.

  Hungry for a new toy, my pucker opens and closes as I climb off the seat and amble over to the toy chest. Which is basically a dresser with plugs lined up according to size on the top. I select the biggest one like he commanded, lube it up generously with the flavored stuff, bend over a little using the toy chest for balance, then push out as I work the toy in. It’s not easy. I grunt, fucking it in a little at a time. My rim burns, but I power through until the fat, tapered head breaches my ring and sucks inside with a loud pop.

  Gripping the top of the dresser, a tremor passes through me as I adjust to the invader. It’s a lot larger than I’m used to. Not that I haven’t worn it before. I have—only once.

  Finished, I shut down my video to edit later and carry my phone in to the bedroom, which is directly across the hall from our playroom.

  Flipping the bedside lamp on, I crawl to the middle of our four-poster bed, atop the silky, neatly lain covers, and slip my ankles in to the padded leather restraints at the base of the bed. We use them so often they’re a permanent fixture in our bedroom.

  Me: I dunno how you knew I was touching my hole, but I am now wearing the big plug, and my ankles are secured to our bed.

  Master: It’s your reflex. If my dick isn’t there to fill you, your fingers dip into your pretty little hole. It needs to be stuffed, baby.

  God. I can’t believe he notices that about me.

  My cheeks heat.

  Me: I’d rather have you inside me.

  Master: Fuck. Baby. I wanna be inside you, too. Right fucking now. I’m hard just thinkin’ about it.

  Giddy at the prospect of stimulating my man while he’s busy, I cup my cage and close my eyes to picture Master carding his fingers violently through his graying hair as he grinds his teeth and growls under breath. The heel of his palm would rub his erection and he’d snarl, ready to fuck me raw.

  Jesus. That sounds delicious.

  Perhaps he’d even let me fuck him in return. We’ve been doing that more frequently. Me topping, that is. But it’s not so much as me topping as it’s us taking turns. We both come inside each other, then lay tangled up in our limbs, sweaty, coming down from an amazing fuckfest.

  Feeling guilty for not having completed his orders, I secure my left wrist in another soft, leather cuff, leaving me a free hand to continue flirting.

  Me: My hole needs you.

  As if agreeing to my statement it clenches around the silicone.

  Master: I need it too, baby. Almost as much as I need you.

  Awe! A kaleidoscope of butterflies take flight in my belly and chest. This man is too much to handle sometimes. He spoils me rotten.

  Me: I love you.

  Master: I love you so much more. I’ll be home soon. Leave your one arm free just in case I text you again.

  I smile. He’s so considerate. Dom or not, he’s not controlling like some.

  Me: Okay. I guess that means no more sexting.

  Master: That would be correct. I gotta finish this shit up so I can get home to ravish you.

  Me: Ravish me how?

  Master: Michael.

  I can practically hear his growl through the phone.

  Me: Master?

  I chuckle, knowing that I have to be driving him nuts.

  Master: Stop testing me, you minx.

  Me: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Master: Uh huh. Sure ya don’t.

  Me: I don’t. I’m innocent.

  Master: Right. I’ve dealt with better liars in my courtroom today. Now, rest. I’ll be home to rim you soon enough.

  Me: But I want your dick.

  Master: Then you’ll have to work that sweet ass for it.

  Me: Yes, Master

  Master: That’s my Michael.

  And get that big dick, I shall.

  Eat your heart out, other submissives. Master is mine.

  Michael

  Staring out the window in Master’s SUV I watch the countryside fly by. It’s a beautiful day out. The late spring, early summer weather is crisp and warm but not hot. The birds are dancing across the clear blue sky. It’s the perfect day to take a secret road trip. Okay. Not the secret part. I’m not a fan of surprises. However, I don’t have much of a choice because Master refuses to tell me where we’re going. I’m merely along for the ride, which he assures me isn’t long. Whatever long means. He isn’t forthcoming in the slightest, which is why I’ve given him a tepid shoulder. Not a cold one since I can’t freeze him out completely. I love him too darn much for that.

  Another text vibrates on my jean-clad lap. Yes. Jeans. You heard that correctly. Bleck! They’re so uncomfortable. I don’t know how anyone wears them. Silently protesting these garments, I tug on the hem of my graphic t-shirt. At least the cotton is buttery soft and has a funny saying on it—Master’s Masochist. Courtesy of Mary and Price—Master’s brother and his best gal. They bought it as a Christmas present for me last year. It’s one of the sweetest presents I’ve ever gotten, and is now my favorite shirt. It’s navy blue in color with bright white lettering. Master wasn’t keen on it at first, but has since warmed up. They got Master a similar one that coincidently says Michael’s Master across the chest. He wears it occasionally. Not as much as I’d like. Today, he donned his typical garb—a stark white tee that pulls tight across his pecs and snug around his defined biceps. His jeans are dark wash and pair nicely with his heavily worn motorcycle boots. He’s the epitome of a drool-worthy silver fox.

  As James Bay croons through the speakers, I read my latest text.

  Mary: He still hasn’t told you where you’re going?

  Me: Nope. Not a word. Did you pry it out of Price?

  Mary: He won’t spill. I’ve threatened not to clean his apartment for a month, and he won’t budge.

  Me: That bastard.

  Mary: I know, right? lol

  Beside me, Master pipes up, tone neutral. “Who’s texting you?”

  “Nobody,” I lie, not wanting to talk about it.

  I’m too busy sulking over here. I’m not in the mood to share. This morning, he woke me up early, told me to pack a bag, and said I’d better be in the Range Rover in twenty minutes. No good morning kiss. No sex. Just a grumpy man ordering me about. Normally, that wouldn’t faze me. Today, I didn’t like it. He’s been standoffish ever since Wednesday when he left me cuffed to the bed for six hours—not one. Only to come home to me sleeping on my back still in the restraints. He didn’t even make good on our texts. Just took a shower, untied me, and played the big spoon to my littler spoon when he fell asleep. A small part of me is worried he’s escorting me back to the commune—the place he rescued me from about a year ago. My suspicions have elevated, because there are three duffels in the back. Plus, a pile of something conveniently covered by a ratty blanket. When I’d asked what it was, he practically bit my head off. Thanks to self-preservation mode, I’ve been withdrawn and quiet ever since.

  A pregnant silence descends upon the cab, and I sigh inwardly, thankful for no further inquiries.

  Twenty minutes tick by at a sluggish pace before we turn on to a country road I recognize. It’s the same one that Nowhere, a local biker bar, is located. Master’s brother, Price, is a member of the club that frequents there. As we approach, a million questions fly through my b
rain, about why we’re here and where we’re going, but I keep them to myself.

  Master slows and turns in to the gravel lot of the bar. The building set in the middle of nowhere, hence the name, looks like something out of an old western film. Except where there should be horses tied out front, there’s a line of chrome and black that gleams in the midmorning sun. It’s quite a sight.

  Creeping around the back of the building, Master doesn’t park in the lot, which peaks my interest further. In the rear of the property, there’s a forest and what looks to be a dirt road cutting through the dense trees. Master maneuvers toward it, and my suspicions are confirmed as we ease on to the tight lane that’s barely wide enough to fit our four wheels. Fisting the steering wheel, Master hunches over it, a guise of determination set in his features. The muscles in his angular jaw jump as we slowly make our way through the endless path that turns and straightens every which way as we travel deeper into the bowels of the forest.

  A pothole rocks our vehicle violently, and Master’s arm shoots out, slapping my chest to keep me steady.

  I pat the back of his hand, smiling and pleased. “I’m fine.”

  Gaze pasted on the dirt road, Master nods firmly. “Right ... Right. You’re a man. My … fuck … I didn’t think this would be so damn bumpy. You’re sure you’re alright?”

  Peeling his hand from my chest, I place it back on the steering wheel. His arm fights me the entire way as if he doesn’t wanna let me go.

  “I’m fine, Master. The real question is, are you?” I counter.

  Expelling a rush of air between his lips, Master’s overwrought shoulders soften a fraction. “I’m nervous,” he reveals, stunning me. He never shows weakness if he can help it.

  Knowing I can’t wave him forth with my hand and he see me, I rest my palm on his thigh to offer support. “Care to tell me why?” I keep my tone smooth and soothing to guide him in the right direction.

  He’s not great at handling emotions when it comes to us. Other people, he’s logical and clear headed. With me, he’s a basket case. It took me months of living together to get a full read on him. To be honest, I think I overwhelm him. And by that, I mean the strength of his feelings for me. They’re so powerful that there’s no denying he loves me with all that he has. But, that love is what hinders his logical thought process, and skews his mental stability often. In other words, he runs scalding hot or ice cold with the flip of a switch. It’s both endearing and frustrating.

  Master doesn’t respond to my question right away. Instead, he ponders it for a moment as he maneuvers the SUV around another bend that wildly jerks the cab, throwing my shoulder in to the door. I bite back a curse, ignoring the dull pain.

  “Son of a bitch,” Master hisses, pounding the steering wheel with the side of his fist as he finishes the turn.

  Pulling in to a makeshift parking spot beside an old oak tree, he kills the engine with a belated grunt. With flourish, he tosses the keys on to the dash and slumps back in to the seat, bleeding all tension from his form. In the distance, that couldn’t be any more than twenty yards, is a row of three motorcycles, three tents, a fire pit surrounded by large rocks, and sawn logs that resemble the exact makeshift stools they have at Sniper’s. He’s one of Master’s buddies, the Prez of the Corrupt Chaos MC, and the husband of my good friend Whisky. She owns the vintage bakery in Carolina Rose, the small town we live in. That vivacious redhead makes the best chocolate hot cross buns you could imagine. Hell, my mouth is watering just thinking about them. Guess that’s what I should expect since I didn’t get a chance to eat breakfast before we left.

  Releasing a deep breath, Master gestures toward the campsite with the lift of his chin. “Before we head over there, there’s something you need to understand about our little outing.” He fidgets in his seat, nervously scratching the top of his pant leg with his fingernail.

  “And what’s that?” Unlatching the seatbelt, I turn toward him.

  He scrubs both hands down his face and groans. “Promise you’re not gonna freak.”

  Shit. That doesn’t sound promising. Clasping my hands together in my lap, I will my outward appearance to remain calm as the storm of fear and uncertainty begins to brew inside. This is precisely why I loathe surprises. They’re never good. Not from my experience anyhow. Surprises usually result in Johns bringing more Johns to fuck me. “Surprise, Mike. I brought a friend to take you after I’m done. Here’s another twenty.” That’s what I get for living on the streets for so long—distrust. At least the commune was better. I knew beforehand who I was screwing, and it was agreed upon. No surprises … until the day they found out I was leaving with Master and they ripped me in two. I sure as hell hope this surprise is way better than any of those. But from the looks of those bikes, I’m not so sure. The only thing keeping me from freaking is Master himself, who I have faith in.

  Swallowing thickly, I nod once, afraid my voice will betray me should I speak.

  “Good.” Master unfastens his own belt and turns toward me, forcing eye contact. “You know I love you, right?”

  Pokerfaced, I nod again.

  Nothing good ever comes from “You know I love you, right?”

  My stomach drops.

  Master sighs. “I know you love bein’ friends with Whisky, Mary, and Margret. I’m happy you’ve found someone else to be close to besides me. But, aside from Jake, you consistently recoil from men. I know this has to do with what happened last year. I get that you’ve needed time to heal. This is why I haven’t tried to push the issue too much. The problem is, you’re not overcoming your fear in any capacity. And by ignoring it and shying away from every half decent guy trying to even talk with you, you’ve pushed away some potentially healthy friendships. I’m not saying I expect you to be friends with everyone. That’s absurd. But, what I do expect is for you to overcome your past and stop flinching every time a man tries to lay a hand on your shoulder or hold more than a five-word conversation.”

  I don’t like this one bit. So what if I stay away from men? I never expect him to. What does it matter if I feel more comfortable with women? Sure, their girly shit drives me insane. But they’re safe. And, to me, safe beats out unsafe every day of the week and twice on Sundays.

  Frowning, I counter, “Your brother and I talk.”

  Master arches a skeptical brow.

  “What? We do.”

  “Through texts … like once a month. That doesn’t count. And three words at family get-togethers doesn’t count either. The one time he tried to clasp ya on the shoulder, you fucking flinched and jerked away. We’ve tried to talk about this before, but what do you always say?”

  “That I’m fine. Because I am.”

  I’m not. I know this. It’s a mask I’ve worn for nearly a year. I’ve known since the moment we left the commune, when Master rescued me with Price’s club brothers, that something broke inside me the day I was gang raped. Before that, I was friendly, albeit cautious around others. However, it was never this bad. Now I can’t even look a man in the eye without wanting to crawl into myself. I hate it, but have no clue how to fix what’s broken. When everything else in my life is perfect, I wish this part of me was fixable, too. But it’s not. I’ve tried and failed time and time again. My brain knows that it’s illogical to feel this way. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop it from happening—the clamming up, the fear, the anxiety. It’s all-consuming. So what do I do? I ignore the men and retreat to the safety of women who aren’t a threat to me.

  Master shakes his head, unconvinced. “You’re not fine. Which is exactly why we’re here today.”

  “To do what?”

  “As your master, it’s my job to push your limits, even if you don’t want to. Today, Michael, is the day we tear down your walls.”

  I gulp. “H-how?”

  “Tough love. Do you remember the gay couple we met at Whisky’s with their daughter a few months back?”

  “Justin and Asher?”

  He nods. “Yep. Justin and Ashe
r, plus Bonez and Jake are here today to help you.”

  “Bonez?” My voice spikes.

  Dear God, he’s the worst person to bring to assist. When he’s drunk, Bonez is a horn dog, always soliciting me or Master for sex or a blow job. He’s the most out and proud man I’ve ever met. No holds barred with that one. It’s not that I dislike him, but let’s just say I don’t trust him. Jake, our neighbor, I trust. The other three men I’ve barely said five words to.

  “Jake said Bonez is havin’ a tough time right now. So he wanted to bring him. I said that was okay.”

  My empathy radar upswings. “What happened?”

  “Something about a rough breakup. I didn’t ask specifics. His personal life is none of my business.”

  Right. It’s none of mine either, but that doesn’t stop me from being concerned. Regardless if I talk to the guy, I’d never wish heartbreak on anyone.

  Nodding, I press my lips together, uncertain of what to do aside from protest that I don’t want to be here. I think that’s a given. Even if Master means well, there are times I hate my submissive nature. Half of me, right this second, is on the verge of climbing out of the vehicle, ready to do whatever Master pleases. Whereas the other portion is ready to fight tooth and nail not to have to do this. As always, my heart flutters at the prospect of pleasing my man. So I do what I do best and take a deep breath before forging ahead—regardless of my current state of unease.

  Grabbing the handle, I shove open the door and jump down on to the forest floor coated in dead leaves. Master follows suit and meets me by the hood of the SUV where he takes my hand and links our fingers together. He squeezes reassuringly, sending a jolt of happiness through my veins. I’ve pleased him, and there’s nothing better than that in my world. Not even hot cross buns or my favorite plug, which is currently nestled inside my cavity where it belongs.

  As we stroll toward the campsite I hear men murmuring inside their tents. Each of the temporary homes are evenly spaced from the other, one at twelve, three, and nine o’clock, as the fire pit serves as sort of a communal area, front and center. Master draws us to the one at our left, the nine o’clock tent, where he wordlessly unzips the door, steps in, and pulls me in behind him. Thankfully, we don’t have to duck. The ceiling is tall and the one room space wide, with a full-sized blow-up mattress taking up half the floor.