Free Tortured Soul by Kirsty Dallas, Ami Johnson Page B

ever remembered how to laugh again. He was my Master; I was his slave, his property. He could do as he wished with me. Curiously, for the first time I could ever remember, I wanted this Master’s touch. I wanted to make him happy. I took his hand and placed it carefully on the exposed skin of my knee. The warmth under his large gentle hand felt soothing, and I could not hold back the soft sigh that tumbled from my lips in a whisper of air. His touch was protective and tender, so unfamiliar yet desirable. The pleasure of this touch was captured in Shakhta’s dark eyes. Any further words were caught in my throat. I was utterly speechless. This large, mysterious almost fearsome warrior was looking at me with such lust and yearning. I couldn’t breathe and didn’t move. While part of me hungered for his touch, I was afraid of it, too. Shakhta’s fingers moved ever so slightly on my skin, as if testing the feel under his hand. There were no scars on my knees; the skin was smooth and blemish free.
    “I can understand that. I’m not fond of sedatives and pain medication for that same reason, but your response to the pain itself is…” He seemed to struggle to find the words.
    “Detached?” I offered, because that was the simple truth. Shakhta nodded, the movement jerky and forced. “Shakhta, I don’t know any other way to be. You’ve seen my body, and if you have even the slightest idea of who Mast…I mean Jonas is, then you have a small understanding of what I have been through.”
    Shakhta shook his head. “I know Jonas took you against your will, Em, I know you did things that you didn’t want to do, but I’m not entirely sure what brought you to this level of detachment to pain. To be honest, I’m not sure I could even handle hearing what you went through. I fear it will make me quite angry.” I sighed, and after a moment’s hesitation, I allowed my hand to settle over his. My hand was much smaller than his; my nails were perfectly trim and smooth whereas Shakhta’s were a little dirty and chipped. I marveled in the difference between my new Master’s and old Master’s touch. Jonas’ hands were perfectly smooth, but delivered such pain. Shakhta’s hands were slightly rough, but had not shown me any pain. Yet.
    “Jonas was my Master, and for a price he shared me in his clubs. I don’t enjoy pain, in fact, I hate it. But I was shared with masochists who got off on delivering pain, even to a sub that didn’t get off on receiving it. Another of Jonas’ subs taught me some simple meditative techniques to help me withdraw from the pain and to cope with it. Removing my conscious thought from the actual physical aspect was something I learned over a long period of time, but it no doubt helped me cope with those occasions, and perhaps these occasions.” I lifted my bandaged finger and concentrated on the pain. It was there, but it was nothing but a dull ache that caused me little to no discomfort.
    “I hate that you had to go through that, Malen’kaya,” Shakhta confessed. I lifted my solemn gaze to his. I wanted to ask him what that word meant. I hated the fear and hesitation in asking something so simple. In the end I didn’t need to ask him, he somehow knew. “Little One,” he whispered. “It means little one.” I liked his name for me; it was so simple, so innocuous. I wanted to gather the name to my heart and never let it go.
    “That was the easiest part of what I went through, Shakhta. Being forced, being physically hurt can break a woman, but over time a broken woman can be rebuilt. Jonas shared me with one particular man, who wasn’t like the others—his hands were gentle—and I hated him because of it. He made sure I found pleasure every time he touched me, and it was always in front of a crowd. Jonas knew how much I hated my body’s response to him, so I was shared with him often and it was always on display. It was Jonas’ way of reminding me that I completely belonged to him, that