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  • Writer's pictureGina A. Jones

The Colors of Ash-Chapter Nineteen




I wake to darkness and wonder how long I’ve been asleep. The drawing of Ash is next to my face, his red eyes peering into me. It’s almost frightening like he’s been watching me this whole time.


I wonder what time it is, and reach for my bag at the foot of the bed. Reaching in, I grope for my cell phone—2:00 a.m. Ash has to be asleep somewhere in this huge house. I reach for the lamp on the side of the bed and switch it on. I find a bottle of water sitting on the nightstand.


He came in…after I fell asleep? Did he see the drawing?


I reach for the water and break open the cap. After several swallows of water, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I guess I was pretty thirsty.


Now that I know he must be sleeping, I decide to be brave and check out more of the house. Leaving my room, I find the same low lights on in the hall. I quietly pad down and stop behind double doors. This has to be his room; it looks so grand. But then so does the rest of the house from what I saw. I press my ear to the side of the door, hoping I can hear anything. Nothing. So, I quietly pad down the stairs in my bare feet. It’s dark, and the only light illuminating the space comes from the bright moonlight spilling in through the wall of windows. I use the light to move around the large room, making out the shadows that fill the space—furniture, statues, liquor cabinet. I then walk over to the windows and look out through the darkness. The moon profiles the trees with the same brightness. It’s so isolated up here. But I bet it’s peaceful. Does he live here full-time? I’m not even sure what he does for a living. But I could guess he does well for himself.


“What are you doing out of your room?”


I spin around, searching through the darkness. I can’t see him, not even his profile. “Excuse me? I wasn’t aware that I couldn’t leave.”


“You are now mine. I will let you out when I want to play and will put you back when I’m done. No different than a child’s favorite toy. I make your decisions.”


“I…I thought that was only when we are making love…”


“I don’t make love. I take my pleasure. There is no love involved in what I do and need.”


“Sorry, when we have sex.”


“We don’t have sex. I fuck. You are only here for one purpose.”


“And what’s that?”


“Therapy.”


I’m not sure what he is talking about. Therapy? Like when one sees a shrink. I still can’t see him, but I know he is close.


“Now I must punish you.” Oh no. Are we going down to that…dungeon again? A light flips on beside a chair, and now I see he has been sitting there this entire time, watching me. He’s in jeans with no shirt and barefooted. His look is again all different. It’s not as scary, and I actually can see a hint of a smile. Like he’s been waiting for this moment.


“Are…are you taking me downstairs again?”


“I wasn’t planning on it. Before you so rudely interrupted my meditation, I planned on bringing you to my room. But now, yes, I will be taking you downstairs.”


I’m not sure I like that place. It screams anger. And now I’m thinking about all those instruments of torture. Red. Red. Red.


He gets up. “Follow me, Sub,” he says, and my feet are reluctant to move. He gets to the door leading down to his punishment room and swings it open. “Down, now,” he orders. My feet scamper across the marble floor, then stop right at the stairs. I look up at him.


“Am I still allowed to use the safe word…red?”


“If you must. But let me warn you, I do have a limit on how many times a safe word can be used before I terminate the contract.”


Terminate? Then I’ll be out on the streets. I must be strong. “Yes, sir,” I say, and begin my slow descent. I wait at the bottom, assuming he will be giving me instructions.


“Remove your robe, eyes to the floor,” he says, his voice low and assertive. I do as I’m told. He flips on some light, and again it’s more of a red glow. But I can see everything around. Then I remember my eyes are to be looking at the floor. Will I ever get this right?


He takes me by the wrist, pulling me over to a beam that looks more like a cross. “Turn around and place your back against the St. Andrews Cross. Spread your arms out. I will be shackling you to the cross.” With my eyes still on the floor, I feel my wrist being clamped to the cross. I still have the use of my legs…if I need to kick.


Red. Red. Red.


He walks away and then returns with something in his hands. It looks like a bar with cuffs on each end. “This is a spreader bar. I will be locking your ankles to each end.” I watch him cuff my ankles to the end of the bar. My legs are forced to be spread. I think I get the idea of this instrument. But then he brings a chain from each side of the wall and clamps it to each cuff. I cannot move my legs in or out. I’m totally trapped in this vulnerable position. What is he going to do to me? Punish me.


“How does it feel, Sub?”


Strange he doesn’t ask how I feel, only how it feels. “Like punishment,” I say. I hear a low laugh.


“Sub, you did not properly address me.”


“Like punishment, sir.”


He walks away and returns with something else in his hands. I can’t tell what it is. My eyes are still on the floor. But then I see him smack it in his hand a few times. It’s a riding crop. He’s going to hit me with it? How is this therapy? I can’t help but close my eyes when I feel the cold end of the crop come between my legs. He slowly rubs the crop up the inside of my thigh and stops at my center—my pussy.


“You think this thing is power, don’t you?”


Am I to answer? “Not sure, sir.”


Smack. I jump from the impact. I feel the sting from the smack of the crop and somehow, my pussy feels like it wants something. I can feel the walls of my pussy clamping down, getting wet. How is this possible?


“Only I have the power to give that pussy what it needs. You have no power over me.”

Smack. Smack.


“Ah. Yes, sir,” I breathe out.


“This pussy belongs to me.” Smack. “Only I will pleasure it. And only I will punish it.” Smack. Smack. Smack.


“Ahh! Yes, sir.” The Stinging increases, and I’m squeezing the walls of my pussy with need. Why is this turning me on? He rubs circles around my clit, and I begin to moan and beg. “Ahh, yes. Please, I need more.”


“Sub, do not get confused. This pleasure is not for you. It’s for me. I will smack that pussy to the cusp of an orgasm, and then I’m going to fuck it—hard.


“Yes, sir.”


He continues with the crop, alternating between smacks and circles. Then tells me to open my mouth. “Taste yourself, Sub. Taste how much your pussy likes to be punished.”


I open my mouth, and he places the end of the crop in. I can taste the saltiness of my arousal. My hips move with need. I want more, but then he walks away. No! I need to come before I explode.


When he returns, he’s completely naked, and I watch him roll a condom on his hard erection. He then closes in, and in one hard push, he enters me with force. I cry out from pain.


“Ah, yes. Your pussy is so tight,” he growls in my ear. “I will tear it up.” He’s pumping in and out of me with so much force and speed. It’s like he can’t control himself. Biting my shoulder and whispering threats in my ear. The roughness of the cross pushes into my back with each thrust. “This is what happens when you tease me with it. When you think it has power,” he rushes out, thrusting harder and faster.


It hurts, and gone is the need to come earlier. He was right, he took me to the cusp of an orgasm, and now he is tearing me apart.


Red. Red. Red.


“Yes, Cinder,” he rasps out my name. It’s not threatening. It’s not anger. It’s…


“Oh, Cinder. I’m going to come. Cinder…I need…” He doesn’t finish his words and stiffens himself, milking out his orgasm inside of me. He shudders a few times and then falls to the floor. He looks up at me, and there is a look I’ve never seen before. The look of a child, pleading.


***


The Colors of Ash © 2024 Gina A. Jones rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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dashafehrenbacher
16 de jan.
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Ooh I see some issues Ash needs to work through later.

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Gina A. Jones
Gina A. Jones
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angie jones
16 de jan.
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shannon Cheripka
15 de jan.
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Wow!! This is getting so good!!

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Gina A. Jones
Gina A. Jones
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