Masters at Arms - By Kallypso Masters Page 0,19

night for months for her Maman to come back and rescue her, but she never heard from her again.

At first, she’d been more angry at her mother than her father. How could she leave her there with such a monster? Although, Savannah didn’t remember him being a monster until that night….

She shuddered. Escape had never been an option. Becoming self-sufficient was a pipe dream. Her Master had too much power in southern California for her to be able to escape Him. And He’d threatened to sell her to a pimp on the streets if she disobeyed. A shiver of fear coursed down her spine. At least with Him she was being tortured by a higher class of clientele, and, when she wasn’t being pimped out, she was fed, clothed, even schooled in a fashion.

She watched the bus boy clear another table. She felt badly about the way Lyle, her Master’s puppet, had treated him. Of course, she had been intensely aware of the bus boy’s eyes on her. How could she not? He reminded her of the hero in her fantasies, Orlando Bloom. Just yesterday, in her Master’s screening room, she’d seen a preview for Orlando’s upcoming movie, Pirates of the Caribbean. Last night, she’d dreamed he had swung into her bedroom window on a rope tied to who knows what and whisked her away from her private Hell.

Was that why she couldn’t take her eyes off the Orlando look-alike across the room? The bus boy’s shoulder-length hair was pulled into a queue at the nape of his neck. He sported the same goatee and moustache Bloom had had in the movie trailer.

Savannah wondered what his moustache would feel like against her face. Her lips. Her breasts. She was surprised to find she wasn’t fantasizing about Orlando now, but the bus boy. The way he had clenched and unclenched his fists as Lyle tried to humiliate him, he looked as if he were ready to punch Lyle in his asinine mouth for his ridiculous accusations.

Someone willing to defend her honor. Well, that would be a first.

Out of the corner of her eye, Savannah watched as the bus boy lifted the heavy bin of dishes. The muscles in his forearms corded and his biceps bulged under his polo shirt. Judging by the front of his pants, they weren’t the only things bulging.

And there the fantasy ended. Typical man.

From the first time her father had raped her, sex had equaled pain, control, torture. Until she’d turned eighteen and He’d lost interest in raping her. But she hadn’t gained her freedom. Instead, He and His junior partner, Lyle, had prostituted her as their pain slut for the past year, using her well-trained masochist’s body to solicit new clients for their firm.

For whatever twisted reason, her father had prohibited clients—or even Lyle, for that matter—from penetrating her. They could torture her as much as they pleased. But no intercourse. Thank God for small favors.

Why anyone would engage willingly in the sex act was beyond her. She preferred her romantic dream lover, Bloom, over the bus boy or any real man. The bus boy was like all the rest, ogling her body and becoming aroused without knowing anything about her other than what she looked like. He didn’t care if she had a brain in her head. No different from all the men she’d ever known.

All were sadists, getting off on a woman’s pain. Ah, and into the restaurant just walked her next two clients. Lyle puffed himself up.

“Here they come.”

Savannah quaked to her core to think how much Lyle reminded her of her father. She wouldn’t be surprised if Lyle was slated to inherit her body after her father died. No, there wouldn’t be a “slave clause” in His public will. But she was certain her father would never release His hold over her, even from beyond the grave.

Her lungs clenched, squeezing out the meager amount of air in them. Some days, she actually welcomed death over continuing to exist this way. Ah, the ultimate betrayal of the obedient slave—to execute the body the Master thought He owned. Her only regret would be that she wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing the look on her father’s and Lyle’s faces as she reclaimed control over her body.

Razor blades? No, too messy. Pills? She’d read that as few as a dozen Tylenol would shut down a person’s liver. What would a whole bottle do? Would death be fast? Painless? Well, it couldn’t hurt more than what