The prince sighed. “Forgive me. I can see my poor attempts at diplomacy have failed. I will be frank. The women are not the issue. You are the issue.”
Ellis stared, dumbfounded.
“You see,” the prince continued, “I have learned to go on my instincts, and my instincts tell me that you, sir, are not a good fit for my girls. I understand things may be different in your country, and I apologize again for the inconvenience, but I cannot in good conscience release one of my girls into your care.”
Ellis stood, outraged indignation dwarfing the fact that the prince’s instincts were actually pretty sound. “How dare you,” he raged. “I’m as good a Master as you. Better in fact. Just ask M if you don’t believe me.”
“All right,” the prince said calmly, startling Ellis. “Let’s go ask her.”
He walked from the room and Ellis, not knowing what else to do, followed. The prince led him down a long hall into an open, airy space draped with silks and plump cushions. There were easily ten women there, half of them naked, the others dressed in soft silks and gold jewelry. Ellis didn’t see Zahara, but M sat among them, her pale skin and bald head making her stand out. She was just popping a fat grape into her mouth as the men entered the room, and as she looked in their direction, she started to choke.
The woman Ellis recognized as Jira patted M’s bare back. “Are you all right, dear one?” she said.
“Jira,” the prince said. “Please bring M and come with me. We have some matters to discuss with the Americans.”
~*~
M felt a stab of fear pierce her gut as the four of them walked down the long hall and through the lavishly furnished rooms of the palace to a small room with leather furniture that had a decidedly masculine feel to it.
She hadn’t wanted to leave the harem, she realized. Once she’d managed to deflect conversation away from herself, she had quite enjoyed listening to the easy banter of the lovely, gracious women who had surrounded her since their arrival. True, even while relaxing in a hot, fragrant bath or lolling on the soft cushions eating fruit and listening to the women talk about nothing in particular, a part of her had been waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it always did eventually. With the pleasure always comes the pain, Sir had taught her over and over again.
Now as they marched through the house, M worried about what was happening. Was she in trouble? She kept trying to see Sir’s face to gauge his mood, but he was just out of her line of sight as he moved beside her, his arm proprietarily around her bare shoulders.
Once they were all in the room, Prince Kamau closed the door and waved his hand. “Please have a seat.” Sir sat on a chair and M sank to the thick carpet by his feet. With uncharacteristic gentleness, Sir stroked her cheek and then surprised her still more by leaning over and kissing the top of her head.
Jira and the prince sat side-by-side on the sofa across from them. The prince said something rapidly under his breath to Jira in a language M didn’t understand. M glanced up at Sir but he was staring at the prince, a thunderous expression on his face that made M inwardly quail. Again she wondered with something approaching panic, what had she done wrong?
“M,” the prince said, his expression and tone kind, “I believe in being honest and direct, especially in matters of this sort. Your Master and I are at odds. I am sorry to tell you that Zahara will not be returning with you to your country. Jira and I agree that our girls are not suited for the lifestyle the two of you have chosen. I appreciate that there are cultural differences between us that perhaps I do not understand. Your Master assures me he is a loving partner and that you are happy and well cared for in his home. He went further, suggesting I ask you to verify this claim.”
M sat stunned as she tried to absorb all the prince was saying.
“Tell me,” Jira said suddenly, reaching across the space that separated them and placing her hand gently on M’s shoulder. “Are you happy, dear one? We have room here for you, if you would like to stay and visit a little longer. I am sure your Master would understand.”
M waited for the prince’s sharp rebuke at Jira’s daring to interrupt him, but none came. Then she processed what the woman was saying. A part of her ached with sudden yearning at the woman’s offer, but she pushed the mutinous feelings down. She belonged to Sir. He was the Master of her body and soul.
She felt Sir’s hand close on her shoulder, his fingers hard as iron as they dug into the muscle. “Tell them, M. Are you happy with me?” She heard the warning in his tone, though he was smiling down at her, that movie star smile with the dimple that she realized she hadn’t seen in ages. Not since…she couldn’t remember.
The fingers digging into her shoulder reminded her that Sir had asked her a direct question, and she knew what he wanted to hear. “I came to Sir seven months ago to learn true submission at the hands of a Master,” M said, fixing her gaze just to the left of the couple on the sofa, somehow not wanting to meet their eyes. “I came willingly and of course I can leave at any time. Not that I want to. Sir is my Master, and he makes me very happy. He takes care of all my needs and satisfies all my wants. I am truly the luckiest girl in the world.”
“Remember what we talked about, dear one?” Jira said softly.
M nodded, wishing the woman would stay quiet, because now, she knew, Sir would want to know what they had talked about. Jira had quizzed M about the circumstances surrounding her time with Sir, and she’d seemed upset when M couldn’t remember the details. M had found herself becoming distressed as well, and had considered making something up, but had instead fallen back on the script, which, she realized, she’d just parroted verbatim.
Jira murmured something in the foreign language to the prince, who placed his hand on her knee and shook his head. Turning to Sir and M, Prince Kamau said, “We have different ways, perhaps, than you do in America. We will not presume to impose our ways on you, and hope you will offer the same consideration.” Reaching for a small bell on the table near his arm, he shook it. A moment later a young man M recognized as having carried their things in from the boat appeared.
Turning to the young man, Prince Kamau said, “Please escort our guests to their quarters. They will be leaving in the morning.”
The prince stood, and Jira stood as well, taking his arm. Prince Kamau bowed formally in their direction. “Again, my apologies that things did not work out as we planned. Now I will bid you goodnight.”
He walked out of the room with Jira at his side. M almost imagined she could hear the soft plop of the other shoe falling, and she felt her heart sinking like a stone.
Chapter 12
Kamau lay on his stomach, his eyes closed as he drifted in the jasmine-scented steam from the hot bath waiting for him. Aware of his deep agitation over having to confront the American, Jira had convinced him to strip and lie on her massage table, where he knew she would take him apart, bone by bone, muscle by muscle, ligament by ligament. Then, as he slid into peaceful slumber, she would put him back together again, much more perfectly than when she found him.
Humming softly, Jira soothed away every knot of tension that had coiled inside him since the Americans’ arrival the day before. Kamau was glad they were leaving in the morning. He’d have had them leave immediately, except the yacht captain was attending a wedding that night on the mainland, and though Kamau knew he would drop everything if the prince asked him, it was the captain’s daughter who was getting married. Kamau could be patient for one more night.
The fault lay with himself, he knew. He should have paid attention to his misgivings when the man had first emailed. He should have listened to his gut. Instead, because Zahara was so eager to see America, and because she had been so excited by the idea of being placed in a home with a sister submissive, Kamau had ignored his better instincts, a mistake he wouldn’t make again.
“What is it, Zahara?” Jira said suddenly. Kamau turned his head in surprise. The girls knew better than to interrupt the prince in his private chambers.
“Please forgive this girl for coming to see you without permission.” Zahara dropped into a graceful curtsy. “But I felt I had to come at once.”
Kamau lifted himself and swung his legs over the side of the massage table. Zahara was deeply submissive and had never once, at least not wittingly, broken the harem rules. To do so now meant she was deeply troubled.
The girl curtsied so low that her head nearly touched the floor. Kamau could see that she was trembling. He felt his gut clench with apprehension, certain Zahara’s unusual behavior had something to do with the Americans.
“Rise, Zahara,” he said, keeping his voice even and calm for her sake, “and tell us what has happened.”
Zahara lifted her head and sat back on her heels, her arms behind her back. “Thank you, dear Prince.” She blew out a breath and Kamau knew she was gathering her courage. He waited.
Finally, again looking down, she said, “While you were speaking with the Americans I did something. Something I should not have done. I did it because I am afraid for the American girl. I don’t like that man, that handsome Ellis Hughes.” She looked up now, meeting the prince’s gaze with a look that was almost defiant. “You have told us that it is better to be loved than feared. Yet I saw the fear in M’s eyes. I heard her say the words of love, but I did not feel them in my heart.”
Jira, who normally would have shooed anyone out of the room who interrupted one of her massages, must also have realized the import of the situation, because she simply moved to stand beside Kamau, placing her hand lightly on his arm. “Tell us, dear one,” Jira said gently, “what you did.”
“While you were talking to the Americans in your study, I went into their rooms.” Zahara tugged nervously at her lower lip with her teeth.
“Go on,” the prince said, keeping the shock he felt at her behavior locked behind a mask of calm. “We are listening.”
Zahara took a breath and continued, “Jira and I were worried by the way M seemed to be at once there and not there, if you understand me. You have always taught us, dear Prince, that submission is a gift, freely given, lovingly accepted. I know the American ways might be different in some things, but in matters such as this, matters of trust, there is only one way.”
Kamau nodded. “I agree. Though he seemed otherwise online, in person Ellis Hughes does not appear to practice a loving kind of dominance. But it is not for us to judge what others choose. There are many, as you well know, who would condemn what I do here, and who would see me jailed and all of you scattered to the winds for the kind of training we practice. In fact, in sending the Americans away empty handed, I am already taking a sizable risk that he will attempt to make things difficult for me.”
“Oh!” Zahara said, her cheeks suffusing with color. “But I couldn’t—”
“No,” Kamau agreed firmly. “Of course you couldn’t go with them. I wouldn’t have permitted it. But I don’t dare interfere in the affairs of our foreign guests. M is a grown woman in a consensual relationship. It is not our choice to make.”
Jira spoke as she lightly stroked Kamau’s forearm with cool fingers. “Are you sure, my love? The words she spoke to you are the same words she said to us women when we were alone, as if she had memorized the lines. And it is not right that a slave girl does not know her own name, even if the relationship is consensual. This is deeply troubling to me.”
Zahara brought her hands from behind her back at last and held up a small dark blue booklet. On the cover was an engraving of a stylized eagle, the word PASSPORT imprinted above it in English. “That’s why I went to their rooms,” she said earnestly. “I went to find her name.”
~*~
Ellis sat at the small lacquered table in their suite drinking the very expensive single malt scotch he’d been planning to give Prince Kamau on their departure as a thank you gift. Fuck that. The only thing that bastard was going to get was a bill for the chartered jet.
Ellis took a long swallow of the liquor, which he was drinking straight up from a blue water glass. It felt good going down, a slow burn that matched the fury stoking in his gut. He glanced over at M, who appeared to be asleep in the bed. It had taken every ounce of restraint to keep from taking out his rage on the girl. But that would have to wait until he got her home.
He never should have agreed to let her be alone with those other women. Obviously she’d done something to queer the deal. God only knew what she’d said to them. Stupid little bitch. She would pay. And since he couldn’t make that snotty little cunt Zahara pay, M would pay for that, too.
He poured another several ounces of scotch and drank it more slowly, as he imagined all the things he was going to do to M when they got home. He would make her wear her highest heels, the shiny red ones. He would put a matching red ball gag in her mouth. Then he would suspend her by the wrists from the dungeon ceiling, ratcheting the chains until she was pulled taut. He would start with a single tail, snapping it over every inch of skin until she was marked from torso to ankle with lovely little welts. Then he’d use the cane on her ass and breasts, the thin, whippy bamboo cane that cut the skin if you weren’t careful. And he didn’t plan to be careful.
He would whip her until she bled. Then he’d leave her there awhile to ponder her sins. When he finally let her down, he’d make her suck his cock, and he’d spurt over her face and chest. He wouldn’t let her wipe it off. It would dry there, a reminder that she was just a fuck toy, an object to be used and debased.
No toilet privileges until she’d atoned for her sins. No, she could use newspaper on the kitchen floor, like a dog. No hot water, either. And she would sleep in the punishment cage, curled up like an animal in the dark. He would only take her out to fuck her or torture her, then back in she would go, until he was good and ready to let her out.
Maybe he would brand her. Yes, he would have a branding iron custom made with his initials, and he’d burn them into her ass as further testament that she was nothing more than property—his property.
Ellis’ cock tented his pajama bottoms as he contemplated the delicious tortures he would inflict on M for ruining his chances to take home the lovely Zahara. He slipped his hand into his fly and stroked his shaft. He glanced again at the sleeping girl whom he’d allowed into his bed so as not to arouse the suspicions of the nosy, judgmental prince and his entourage.
It was a shame to waste a good erection. He set down his glass with a clunk and stood. He moved toward the bed. Reaching for the coverlet, he jerked it away from M’s body and grabbed her shoulder. Her eyes flew open, the surprise and fear in them making his cock harder.
“Get on the floor and suck my cock, bitch. Now.”
“Oh!” she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. But she obeyed, sliding from the mattress and kneeling up in front of him like the good little whore he’d taught her to be. She took his cock, gripping the base with one hand and cradling his balls with the other as she slid her hot, perfect little mouth over the head.
Ellis groaned with satisfaction, bringing his hand to the back of her bald head to press her down onto his shaft. He didn’t stop until he felt the crown of his cock lodge against the back of her throat. “Hands behind your back,” he ordered. “I’m going to fuck your face. Make sure you swallow every drop.”
She dropped her hands and Ellis took hold of either side of her head as he began to move, thrusting roughly in and out of her open mouth, the alcohol fueling both his lust and his rage. He came quickly, and then pushed her away. Staggering toward the bed, Ellis sat heavily upon it. He looked down at M, who was cowering on the floor, her eyes flooded with tears, her body trembling.
Shit.
What he’d just done was stupid. For all he knew, that fucking prince had his rooms monitored. He realized he was drunk, but that was no excuse. Bringing M along for this trip had been a mistake. As obedient and docile as she was at home, too many unknowns had been added into the mix by bringing her here. Until he had M safely home, the bitch still might turn on him. All his months of 2
4/7 slave training might go up in smoke, now that she’d been contaminated by those harem whores.
Time to do a little damage control.
Ellis reached down and gathered the trembling girl into her arms, lifting her onto the bed beside him. He kissed her wet cheek. “Shh, don’t cry, M. You have pleased me.” He lay down, pulling her into his arms and gently pressing her head so it rested on his chest. Tenderly he stroked her narrow back until her trembling subsided.
He held her close, speaking in a soothing tone. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out here,” he said softly. “But maybe it’s for the best. We have each other. It’s all we need. You were born for me. And I—” He stumbled a little over the words, but got them out for good measure, in case anyone was listening. “I love you.”
M stiffened at this pronouncement, emitting a small gasp. “Yes,” Ellis repeated, pulling her closer, and realizing with a small shock that he meant it. He had never said those words before to M. Or to anyone. But yes, he did love M. At least, he loved the fact of her, the fact of owning another person, truly owning them, having their very life in his hands. He loved that he had become M’s world. She lived for nothing but to please him. He loved that he had been able to mold her into his perfect possession. She was his, in every sense of the word. Wasn’t that, in itself, a kind of love?
“Tell me,” he said, as he’d said a thousand times before. “Tell me the words you keep in your heart.”
She didn’t speak right away, so Ellis placed his hand on the back of her neck, squeezing gently but firmly. “Tell me.”
“I belong to you, Sir,” she began haltingly but then her voice strengthened, filling with resolve. “You are the Master of my body and soul. You allow me to serve you. I live for you, Sir. Without you, I would die.”
~*~
Sir had his arm around M’s shoulders as they walked out of the lovely cool of the marbled palace into the bright and already hot morning sun. M was again dressed in her travel dress and matching turban, and the shoes she was wearing pinched her feet. She almost wished she could just run back into the palace and head straight for the harem. She would hide there among the plump cushions until Sir left without her. As if privy to these mutinous thoughts, Sir’s arm tightened around her shoulders.
Dark Obsessions - Volume I: Four Intense Capture Fantasies in One Sizzling Collection Page 49
