Muscle Domme’s Slave Man
The taste of his blood was bitter. When he looked in the mirror, two black eyes would stare back.
That looks funny. In the clutch of an angry woman who can squeeze you to death there no humor.
Terror forced out involuntary words.
“I’m sorry …”
Domme Anya shoved him against the wall. Crushing him siphoned off a bit of rage. She enjoys any reason to flex her mighty physique. Never more than when hurting him.
“I should shove my fist up your butt and beat you from the inside.”
Everything she said frightens him. He never knows what Mistress Owner may do.
“I could kill you. But that is too easy. I won’t even break a leg. I enjoy your fear. I eat your misery like ice cream, bug.”
Bug is one of her names for him. Sometimes she squashes him underfoot.
She squeezed his throat. He could not breathe. She released him. Domme Anya enjoyed cat and mouse games with his nervous system.
She knew how to inflict pain without rendering him nonfunctional.
Coming home late with her food was bad enough. But he made excuses. He should have thrown him shelf to the floor and begged her to stomp on his head. Unconditional self-abasement earned less punishment.
And he had cried. Tears only made her more wrathful.
“I’ll eat this even though its cold. Go stand outside in the middle of the yard until I call for you.”
Domme Anya could pick him up, hold him overhead with one hand. Then toss him against the wall. She had.
It was freezing and raining outside. He went without argument.
If he were lucky, he would catch pneumonia. Hospitalization would be a relief.
She never called for him. He stood soaked and shivering until morning. He got sick. Rather than a release it only increased his anguish.