ProdigalSlave

by Roxy Harte

  He takes my plate away anyway, saying, “It’ll just take a moment.”

  I look at Frankie and he looks like a cat that just ate the cream. “What?”

  “Just enjoying watching you squirm.”

  I lift my chin, denying his assessment. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Sure you do. When’s the last time you felt lust like that?”

  “Last night. With. You,” I answer, making him roar with laughter.

  “Lust for me?” he says coyly, “Oui. And I for you, including every day we have been apart. I want you. I need you. I adore you. But. Him? The lust you felt for him was an entirely different animal, and I will not be hurt if you admit the truth. So, I ask again, when was the last time you felt lust as you felt for Pierre-Louis last night?”

  I square my jaw and grind my teeth before admitting, “Maybe never. No offense, because you are beautiful, and you’ve always been beautiful…”

  “But I couldn’t have competed with him even when I was twenty-eight,” he admits with a chuckle.

  I can’t believe this is the same Frankie. I cannot believe I have been away so long. It seems as if I haven’t been away…or that it was just yesterday. I cannot take my eyes off him, he is so beautiful to me and it amazes me I was ever strong enough to walk away from him.

  He volunteers, “Pierre-Louis is a fuck machine. I want you to know the pleasure he can give you. I want you to know the mind-blowing joy we can give you.”

  “We?” I demand. “As in the both of you…with me…together? At the same time?” I sound shrill and offended even to my own ears, but the evil seed has been planted and the vision of what could be explodes through my mind. “Why are you doing this to me? Wasn’t it enough of a mind-fuck for you to summon me after almost two decades?”

  “This isn’t a mental game, Cassiopeia. This is my life now. Pierre-Louis is part of my life and I want you to be part of my life. The only way I see of making this work is for us to form a ménage.”

  “No.”

  “You want him.”

  I laugh at the cruelty of the situation, and my laugh comes out cold and bitter. “I’m old, François. That young man isn’t going to want me.”

  “You never did realize how sensual you were.”

  “Key word. Were. Was. Not anymore.”

  “Still. More so now than ever before. You have finally grown into your body.”

  I sputter, wondering what in the hell that means. He spears a link of sausage and deftly changes the subject. “How are your daughters today?”

  “Oh shit,” I say, coming to my senses, remembering my conversation with my father. “Do you know anything about the political climate of Marrakech? Or Algiers? It seems there’s been a change of plans. Europe is over and done and the Mediterranean is on.”

  Frankie pats my hand. “I’m sure they will be fine, but I’ll make some calls after breakfast.” His gaze doesn’t leave mine as he adds, “We could always join them if it would make you feel better.”

  “Join them? I have work on Monday. I—” Why am I blaming work, when it isn’t work at all? Because if it was only work, I would have already been on the plane. The objection is the we and not even the we as in me and Frankie. I might actually be able to face my girls if it was just him. But when Frankie said we, I knew he meant all of us…and that I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for. I sigh, facing the truth. “As wonderful as it has been, seeing you again, I still don’t know how this,” I gesture at my nudity and collar, “will ever coexist with my real life.”

  “This is your real life now.” Frankie shakes his head, his lips twitching. “I will assist you in any way I can to maintain a charade of propriety while in the company of your children, but my slaves don’t work…at least not outside the home. You will quit.”

  Pierre-Louis returns with fresh eggs and sits. I stand, shaking, sputtering. “I’m—I—What do you think—? Who do you think you are? I do work. I have a career. I cannot just give up everything on a moment’s notice.”

  Too late I see the flash of hurt in his eyes, the discomfort in Pierre-Louis’ eyes. Of course he probably knows the story. I left. Without any warning. I just left. He does not have to say “Once you did” for me to feel the sting. Silence would have been enough. What am I doing? What?

  I sit back down and stare at my eggs. They are perfectly prepared, over easy but flipped, an almost impossible task. And Pierre-Louis accomplished it not once this morning but twice. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Thank you for the eggs, they’re perfect.”

  I manage to make eye contact with Frankie. I don’t know how, but I do. “I’ve never apologized.”

  “An apology is unnecessary unless you are leaving me again.”

  I shake my head, a tear sliding down my cheek, my heart lodged in my throat. I cannot imagine walking away from this man a second time. “Help me make this work.”

  “Oui,” he says. “I will help you. You must do your part.”

  “How? By giving up my job? What next? My home? My car? My bank accounts?” I start to panic and the terror is evident in my voice.

  “We begin with breakfast. Eat.”

  “Eat? When I have no idea how to do what you are asking me to do?”

  “I am only asking for your unconditional surrender. After that, everything is simple.”

  I start to laugh hysterically. “Simple. Sure.” I take a bite of eggs and am surprised at how wonderful they are, how hungry I am, and can’t quite believe I am able to eat at all under the circumstances. “I realize how easy that is for you to say.”

  “Au contraire,” he says. “Asking you to return to me is the hardest thing I have ever done.”

  The emotion I hear in his voice makes me look up at him. “Frankie.”

  “I died a little when you left me. You and I are bound, Cassiopeia.”

  Yes, I feel that.

  “I do not want your house or car or bank accounts. I do not want to interfere with your relationship with your children.”

  The offense I hear in his voice rips through my chest.

  “I want you in my life—every second of every minute of every hour. I will not compete with a nine-to-five job when you have already stolen years from me.” His gaze burns through me, making me shake, not with fear but with need. Anger makes him growl “years” as his fist hits the table, shaking the china and silverware. I jerk in my seat, wishing I could take back the pain I caused him but unable to wish away the time I spent without him. I understand. I wish I didn’t but I do. I wish I could come back to reason but I don’t believe I am insane. I realize without a doubt I want this too.

  “Is two weeks’ notice acceptable?” I ask.

  “If you use your two weeks in vacation time, oui.”

  I nod, knowing that won’t be a problem. It also isn’t much of a risk because my employer loves me and would take me back in a single heartbeat if everything fell apart. I don’t tell him any of that. I just sit, nodding, accepting, letting it soak in that I am willing to do this. Unconditional surrender. I didn’t realize it was a war. I wave my white flag, saying, “As you wish, Master.” It sounds so corny in my head, and I wonder if it ever really sounded normal when I said it before. I hope it starts to feel normal soon so I won’t be tempted to giggle, because there isn’t anything funny about what is transpiring between us.

  This is not a game. This is his life. And now, again, my life too.

  He nods, returning his attention to the fresh fruit on his plate.

  “I will need you to gather some things from your house. Your passport and other important documents.”

  I sit in stunned silence, my mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. He spears a bite-sized piece of melon on his fork. “You do wish to at least be in the same time zone as your children, oui? That will give you some peace of mind?”

  I nod.

  “Good, because I do not want to see worry etched across your face every minute of e
very day we are together. Pain? Oui. Orgasmic pleasure? Most certainly. But worry is not acceptable, and we have much to do if we are going to create a bond between the three of us.”

  He speaks as if we are sitting in a boardroom discussing deadlines and quotas, not relationships that involve people and emotions. I look at Pierre-Louis, but his gaze too is on Frankie. There is no panic or worry in his gaze, there is just absolute trust. I take a deep breath, remembering when I used to gaze upon Frankie with such reverence. I’m not sure I can ever place him…any man…back on such a high pedestal ever again.

  I hate that I’ve lost my trust, become so jaded…trust and surrender were once so much easier than anything I have ever done since.

  “You want all of us to go to France?”

  “Oui,” he answers, lifting his cup of coffee to his lips.

  “To Saint-Émilion?”

  “Of course.”

  Yes, of course. I suppose if you are the owner of a château in the Burgundy wine country, it would only make sense to stay there when in the country. I bite down on my lip, making certain a single sound doesn’t come out of my mouth because I cannot trust what the sound would be. Frustration? Elation? Exasperation?

  He is taking over my life where we left off. Quit your job. Pfft. Seriously? We are going to France. Where we once planned to grow old together. My heart still aches over that lost dream.

  How in the hell do we do this? How do I do this?

  Chapter Five

  Passports in order all around definitely make leaving the country at a moment’s notice easier, as far as logistics go, anyway. However, a piece of myself is still back at my house in Glenview. Frankie drove me there to pack. Unreal isn’t the right word, neither is surreal, although both words could be used to explain what it felt like to have Frankie in my house. In. My. House.

  I wore a trench coat and four-inch heels home, not so exceptional given it was raining cats and dogs. What was bizarre was the fact I was completely naked beneath the long coat except for my leather collar, and as soon as we crossed the threshold Frankie helped me out of the coat, leaving me standing in my foyer naked. My heart was racing so fast I thought I might stroke out, which left me shattered, shaking. I thought, if this is a dream, I need to wake up now. Now.

  I didn’t wake up.

  He said, “Thirty minutes, Cassiopeia. Pack everything you need for an extended stay in France.”

  “Extended?” I asked, panicked.

  “You did say the girls are staying away the entire summer, yes?”

  I nodded, still dazed, having no idea what to pack.

  He seemed to understand my conundrum because he suggested, “Several dresses, some slacks and blouses. Any toiletries beyond a few days’ time can be purchased there. Do you have a favorite photograph of the girls, perhaps? Hair dryer? Curling iron? Hair straightener? Makeup?”

  I awakened inside the insanity of the moment. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

  Walking through my house wearing only my stilettos and collar, I felt like a complete stranger. The house seemed all wrong, even though I remembered the best and worst moments each room had to offer, the ghosts of happiness and sadness, dreams both accomplished and forgotten. I reached the bedroom once shared by John and me, wishing I had known more joy in the room and less desolation. I caught my reflection in the long dressing mirror and turned to look at the bruises striping my ass and thighs from the caning. It seemed strange to see bruises on my ass in that mirror.

  Was the caning only last night? Really?

  It felt as if I’d been away from home for weeks, maybe months, my disorientation was so complete.

  I closed my eyes, remembering how many nights I’d wished I could admit to John my needs that he wasn’t able to meet. It wasn’t that he was a horrible fuck, I just needed more than the casual, emotionless sex he was able to provide. It wasn’t hard to start packing after seeing my past through Cassiopeia’s eyes.

  Am I mentally ill because I am dissociating? I shouldn’t feel as if I am two distinct people…two distinct lives…and I wonder again how my two selves, my two lives, will ever merge.

  And now I sit between two men, twenty thousand feet above the ground.

  One I fucked last night.

  One I will fuck tonight.

  Of that I have no doubt as I begin this new journey, this new era of my life. I think Frankie is a genius. I could never have started a relationship with Pierre-Louis at the manor where I originally fell in love with Master. I could never have recreated with Frankie what we once shared if I was coming and going between the home I raised my children in, the manor and my job. In France we have the chance of doing both, and I am left feeling optimistic.

  We are flying in Frankie’s private jet. I’d forgotten the perks of being with him—no commercial flights, meaning no crying children, no prying eyes. We can do as we wish…

  I chance a shy look at Pierre-Louis and he catches me looking. He smiles and winks, making me blush, and beside me Frankie chuckles. My mind fills with thoughts and images better saved for when we are on the ground, but honestly I want to know how it will feel to have both men touching me at the same time and I don’t know if I can wait until the plane touches down to find out.

  I cast my eyes down to my lap. Safe territory. Relatively safe at least. Not looking at either man. Interestingly, I am wearing dark indigo jeans with rhinestone details I fell in love with at the department store but never had an occasion to wear. A last-minute flight to France seemed a good enough excuse. Likewise, the black sleeveless shell is a clearance find by Eileen Fisher and even at its discounted price seemed too extravagant for a mere workday, but paired with five-inch-heeled, black leather, lace-front slingbacks imported from Italy—another clearance find—also never worn, is perfect for this trip. Besides, the leather collar almost looks like a fashion accessory. Almost.

  Even though I am clothed, making it a safer trip through airport security, I feel naughty, giddily so.

  I could feel heads turning as I walked through the terminal, eyes looking, both men and women. I didn’t feel any condemnation, no pointing and laughing, just appreciation for a beautiful woman. Damn. I’d forgotten how that felt. To remember I was once beautiful and to feel beautiful again.

  There is no way to describe the feeling other than gratitude. I am so glad for this moment in time, so thankful.

  Frankie reaches over, expecting me to take hold of his hand. I do, glad when I feel him squeeze my fingers. I look up at him and smile, wondering if he can guess my thoughts. He leans over and whispers, “Poor Pierre-Louis is drooling over you. Kiss him.”

  My lips part to refuse, but then I remember the rule, one doesn’t refuse anything Master asks. I lift my eyebrows, hoping I heard him correctly, worried I didn’t, but then he encourages, “Go ahead, do it now.”

  I feel my eyes go wide. I have no idea what I’m doing as I turn to face Pierre-Louis. He looks at me expectantly, making me wonder if he overheard. He lifts his eyebrow questioningly, making me think he didn’t overhear. Frankie releases his hold on my hand and I giggle self-consciously. I fidget in my seat so I am facing more toward Pierre-Louis, with my back slightly toward Frankie. I think I should tell him what I plan. I have been commanded to kiss him. But then his light-blue eyes brighten and as my mouth moves, trying to say something but not succeeding, he tilts his head and I know if I only lean in our lips will collide. Then surely one or both of us will figure it out from there, right?

  I lean in and, with a nudge in the center of my back from Frankie, our lips do touch, but it isn’t exactly a kiss. He is looking at me, I am looking at him, our gazes catching, his breath warm and sweet on my face, and I realize I have to do this. I reach my hand up to stroke his cheek, the same hand that just moments ago was holding Frankie’s, but I try not to think about it.

  It’s impossible not to think about.

  I stroke Pierre-Louis’ cheek, pressing my lips closer until they are flat against his and I am feeling aw
kward. Oh hell. His lips move beneath mine and mine move with his until we are really kissing and the uneasiness vanishes within the workings of his expertise.

  His tongue slides along my bottom lip, begging access to my mouth, and I grant him entrance, allowing our tongues to play. The entire time my brain is on overload. I’m still thinking.

  Thinking too much.

  Worrying. About everything.

  Frankie wants a ménage, but Pierre-Louis is so young, or maybe I am just too old, and what would happen if my daughters discovered our secret, and holy fuck, I’ve already decided to have sex with him, because if he grinds as well as he kisses… Holy. Mother. Of. God.

  “Yes,” he answers.

  “Yes?” I ask into his mouth, confused.

  “You wanted to know if I fuck as well as I kiss,” he says, his French accent as much a turn-on as the rest of him, just as Frankie’s brogue ever did it for me. Dear god, how will I ever stand two French men whispering sweet nothings into my ear in their pleasantly exotic voices?

  “I did?” I ask, mesmerized by his gaze. I wonder if he shouts in French when he orgasms.

  He chuckles. “You just asked me.”

  I sit back, horrified. “I didn’t.”

  He winks, laughing. “You didn’t but you did wonder, oui?”

  I cover my mouth with my hand, hiding my own laughter. Embarrassed. He doesn’t need to know the answer to that.

  The pilot announces, “We have just left US airspace.”

  God, this is going to be a long flight.

  He holds out his hand to me. “Come here?”

  “Here?” I ask, suddenly panicked.

  He pats his knee. “Oui, here.”

  My heart flutters wildly in my chest. I have no idea what is expected or by whom. Frankie tops me, no one else ever has, and Pierre-Louis bottoms to Frankie, but will he be allowed to top me? Master’s lack of interference in the situation seems to denote yes, he might actually allow Pierre-Louis to top me. God, how do I feel about that?

  Do I actually see myself topping him? Well, maybe. It might be fun. God, oh god. I don’t know what to do. He sits, waiting patiently, watching me.