Meeting Her Master by Breanna Hayse Page A

horse. Her wrists were anchored to the underside, forcing her to hug the uncomfortable device, followed by her legs spread apart with her knees and ankles restrained in a frog-like pose. The rounded platform was lowered, placing her bottom higher than her head, and she protested loudly against both the discomfort experienced by her breasts and stomach, and the horribly lewd position she was suspended in.
    Dahlia’ s restraints prohibited her from turning to see what the men were doing and she strained to hear what they were saying without success. The clipping of heels alerted her to Mrs. Alonso ’ s entry.
    “Please tell them to let me go. I promise to be good. Blake promised no medical play,” Dahlia begged.
    “He did no such thing, nor is there any play involved in what you are about to experience. Well, well.” The woman ’ s hand ran down her bare back and across both cheeks. “You don ’ t appear to be quite as cocky in this position, do you?”
    “I am really sorry. This is all new to me and…”
    “And what? Do you think that a new situation gives you the right to display abhorrent manners and disregard for your host ’ s home and rules? I promise you, baby doll,” the woman bent down to whisper in her ear, “when I am done with you today, you will feel and act like a completely different person. Boys? Wash her down.”
    Dahlia screeched as a hard flow of icy water descended on her. Once she was thoroughly drenched, the two men began to scrub every exposed inch with strong-smelling soap, using rough washcloths and bristle brushes. Dahlia tried to twist away from their rough hands, yelping as their fingers sunk into her body to hold her in place.
    “I am not a fucking bowling ball!” she yelled. “Get your goddamn fingers out of my ass!”
    “Easy, boys,” Mrs. Alonso laughed wickedly, “ we don’ t want to traumatize her enough to make her leave, do we?”
    “Is that what you want?” Dahlia hissed as she felt the washcloth being pressed against her pussy and the sting from the soap against her delicate tissue. “He made a deal with me! He wants me to stay!”
    “I know what he thinks he wants,” Mrs. Alonso scoffed, “and it isn ’ t you. He needs control and you are uncontrollable. He wants reverence and you,” she slapped Dahlia sharply across her wet buttocks, “care only what you can get for yourself. He is too generous a provider to allow a parasite like you to suck life from him.”
    “I ’ m not a parasite,” Dahlia suddenly began to cry. “I ’ m not! Please, don ’ t call me that. Don ’ t call me bad things! I just wanna fit in. Please, don ’ t…”
    “So she has some emotions after all?” Mrs. Alonso observed, pulling up a stool near Dahlia ’ s head. She ran her hand gently over the girl ’s wet hair. “All right, darling, name-calling is a definite limit for you. That is good to know and we will respect that. That was an honest reaction and one that will not be used against you. I promise.”
    “Thank you,” Dahlia whispered, her tears still flowing.
    “You are welcome. Now , you and I are going to have a long talk. Just be advised that the longer you take to satisfy my curiosity, the longer your discomfort will be. Depending on the type of masochism that interests you, you will either love what we are about to do or hate it. Either way, I will get what I need from you.”
    “You are a raving bitch! When Blake finds out…”
    “Name-calling goes both ways, honey. So does manners. Is the solution prepared, boys? Excellent. Proceed,” Mrs. Alonso commanded, folding her arms and crossing her right knee over the left. Dahlia squealed as she felt her bottom-hole being probed with something large and firm.
    “It is a special type of plug, darling,” the woman explained. “Not only does it hurt like a mother going in, but it can be inflated to the size of a softball. Ease it in, boys. Use plenty of lube; we do not want to tear anything.”
    “Oh, God, no! I