Collared

Chapter 2

As soon as the handcuffs holding me up were released, my spent body collapsed to the ground. Pain radiated everywhere. And I meant everywhere. "Red. Red. Red." I continued to silently cry my safe word even though he was gone, disappeared from our play room.

He'd violated me.

My master, my Dom, the love of my life and the man who was supposed to protect me above all else, had just shattered me into a thousand pieces I didn't know that I'd ever be able to pick up.

I couldn't think. All I could do was feel the fat, salty tears streaming down my face and the pain that emanated everywhere. My wrists hurt from where he'd had the cuffs too tight; my shoulders sore from my arms being raised above my head for far too long, longer than he'd ever let them-  even on his worst days before this one. My throat was hoarse and painful from where he'd shoved himself inside of me against my will over and over. My vagina hurt from his rough penetration without proper lubrication. My thighs would be bruised and painful from where his hips had slapped roughly against mine.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd bruised me like that. But it would be the first that didn't bring sexy flashbacks that made me cross my legs in the middle of work meeting. These bruises were the wrong kind, the kind so wrong that they'd forever be burned into the back of my brain and make me want to vomit when I remembered.

Because I was always going to remember.

Reaching around myself,  I cupped my ass, finding it wet. When I pulled my hand away, there was blood.

He'd known my limits.

He'd heard me yell my safe word over and over.

But he'd ignored it.

He'd raped me; he'd raped me in every single one of my holes, even the one I'd never let him have because it was a soft limit and I wasn't ready. My ears were still ringing with the horrible, vile words he'd spewed at me. "Whore." That had been the word he'd used while he'd been slashing me with the whip. With every lash the yelling of the derogatory term louder and louder. It was the first time he'd uttered it in a way that wasn't meant to increase both our pleasure.

Once he'd finished with that word, he'd moved on to "slut." He'd forced himself down my throat repeatedly while he'd slapped my face and made me choke on him.

I was a submissive. I loved rough sex. Craved it. Craved submitting myself to my master. Craved the blurring of the line between pleasure and pain. But this has been different. When I gave him my submission willingly, my body relaxed, becoming pliant just for him and his pleasure. But he'd stolen it from me this time, taken what he thought was rightfully his even though I'd told him I didn't want to give it to him. I'd felt every inch of him making me want to vomit, making me choke, barely able to breathe.

And when it was over, he still wasn't done.

"Bitch." The use of that word had been a limit. Whore, slut, those were okay. I loved the derogatory words especially when they were accompanied by my. Claiming me as his.

But they'd been hateful. I couldn't even think about the things he'd done to me while screaming that vulgar word.

And when he'd finally broken me, taken a part of me I'd never given to him or anyone else, he'd spewed all of them at me, rapid fire one after another, barely breathing between the words.

Broken.

He'd broken me.

Reaching to my lower back and the curve of my ass, I felt there. There was blood there too, less than lower, but the whipping he gave me must have opened my skin.