Girl by Eden Bradley Read Free Book Online Page B

a dozen times a day. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. It’s not supposed to. The only problem is that, for some inexplicable reason, it does . This is a brand of mind fuck I wasn’t prepared for.
    The stairs are bare wood, hard beneath my feet, and I can feel the temperature dropping as we go down and step into a narrow hallway. It’s dimly lit, and at the edge of my vision I can see the framed artwork decorating the walls. We pass several closed doors on either side, and as we move past one I hear a muffled scream. But I hardly have time to think about it before we turn into one of the rooms and the door shuts behind us.
    It’s a simple room in terms of the lushness of the house upstairs. Bare wood floors, although they are gorgeously polished. The furnishings down here are still Victorian in style—a dark green velvet sofa flanked by two large brown leather chairs with high backs, an ottoman in front of each. But this is the Training House, so of course there is a long table against one wall covered in brown leather or vinyl, a spanking bench to one side, upholstered to match. A spreader bar hung with leather cuffs dangles from the ceiling, and there is an open armoire holding floggers, paddles, lengths of chain, other implements. I don’t have time to make it all out before someone comes in behind us—the Master’s driver, I imagine from the heavy, masculine footsteps.
    “I just got the message. How very nice.”
    He has a harsh Cockney accent, which seems incredibly sinister for reasons I can’t explain to myself.
    The driver moves past us, and as he settles into one of the wing chairs, I can see he’s a large man—tall and beefy. He looks as much like a bodyguard as he does anyone’s driver. He probably is. He’s wearing a dark blue suit that makes me think of a Mafia hit man. And of course, me being me, this makes me weak with both fear and desire. He’s handsome in a sort of raw way—a square jaw, a cruel line of a mouth, brown stubble on his nearly shaved head. His hands are enormous.
    “She’s down here until morning with you, Gilby. Do let her sleep a bit, but chained and on the floor.”
    The big man smiles. “Master Damon’s standard orders down here. I’ll see that she’s taken care of.”
    Robert takes the handle of my leash and presses it between my lips, and I know to take it in my teeth. He walks from the room and shuts the door behind him, and I am left with the Master’s driver. Gilby. And although I feel certain the Master will use me more roughly than anyone else in his household, this man’s size intimidates me. The fact that I have no idea what he’ll want to do to me intimidates me. And we are in the basement of the house, with no one to see. Just this stranger and I, and another stranger screaming down the hall. What a madhouse this is. What kind of man would work at a place like this?
    I am restless, wondering, beginning to overanalyze everything, knowing I will never have the answers I seek. I am not supposed to know anything, to be able to really guess. That’s all part of it. I know that. It’s one of the things I must learn to give myself over to, but that’s the hard part for me, no matter how badly I want it. I make an effort to center myself, to sink into the situation, rather than disassociate from it, which is the natural reaction for any human being. But we are not just “anyone,” those of us who sign the slave contracts. Who agree to live in the madhouse.
    For a long time—seemingly forever, but it must go on for fifteen minutes—Gilby leaves me standing in front of him, simply watching me. Crossing one ankle over his knee, he taps his fingers on the arm of the leather chair, but I know better than to glance at his hand. I’ve passed these tests before. And failed just as many. I keep my gaze trained on the floor, but apparently that’s not good enough.
    “What are you staring at, Girl?” he growls. “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s impolite?