by Roxy Harte
He unties my wrists and ankles then helps me to sit up. I cross my legs, sitting still in the center of the table. I rub my wrists, not because the ropes were tied too tight but because of the phantom rope making me feel still tied. Touching my skin helps me realize I am free. He is as nude as I. He runs his hand over my shoulder, asking, “What would you like me to do to you?”
My eyebrow arches. I ask, “I’m being given a choice?”
“Oui, of course.”
Oui, of course? Okay, where is the alien mother ship? The Master of old didn’t do things this way. “I like when you bind me. I like it when you hurt me.”
He winks at me, his eyes filling with mischief. “Oui, but tell me how you want me to tie you, tell me how you want me to hurt you.”
My brain trips over itself and then it jumps to the memory always called to my thoughts when I was lying bored under John, waiting for him to come. Sometimes, I even got excited enough to join him with an orgasm of my own. I readjust on the tabletop so I am squatting in front of him. “Do you remember when you used to attach a spreader bar between my ankles and hobble my thighs to my calves?”
He smiles wickedly and rubs his chin. “You always cursed me when I did that to you. Now you tell me you liked it?”
“I hated it.”
He looks at me with new interest. He rubs his hands over my thighs and I tremble beneath his touch. “But first I should tie your hands.”
“Behind my back?”
“I think to your ankles for what I have in mind.”
I swallow hard, my mouth going dry.
“How would I hurt you, Cassiopeia?”
“Maybe you could use your imagination.”
He laughs loudly and I think how rarely it has been that I have ever heard him laugh. Has Pierre-Louis brought about this change in him? “I like to hear you laugh.”
His lips twitch. “I like to hear you scream. Let’s see what we can do about making us both happy, eh?”
A rope I did not realize he was holding whizzes around my ankle. He cinches it tight before wrapping it around my thigh and tightening it in a loop at my ankle. He repeats the action with my other leg. I am already trembling and can’t imagine staying in this squat much longer, but we are just beginning.
“Spreader bar?” he asks.
I nod and he looks around the room, settling on a broom. He shrugs almost apologetically before tying my ankles and wrists to the handle. “Feel steady?”
“Yes, Master.” Surprisingly. It’s been a long time, I’m surprised I’m still limber enough to do this at all. Thank god for yoga DVDs.
“Comfortable?”
“For now.”
He stands looking at me and purses his lips. “You didn’t like the clothespins on your pussy lips, did you?” It must be a rhetorical question because he reaches forward to pinch my exposed labia. “Very tender? A little tender?”
“A little,” I answer softly.
He opens a drawer built into the tabletop and pulls out a ball of twine. He picks up two wooden clothespins and wraps the ends. I think I hear him humming under his breath but all I can think about is my shaking knees and the dread filling the pit of my stomach, knowing he is going to attach the clamps to my labia again. I seriously used to fantasize about this? Really?
He stretches out the skin of my labia, clamping on the first clothespin solidly. I squeal.
He smiles and it is beautiful. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes, goddammit.”
He stretches the twine, stretching out my labia lip, pulling, hurting me. I stare at the clothespin lying on the table, waiting, but he doesn’t make me wait long. He attaches it to the other side. I whine to keep my voice silent, to keep from screaming and cursing. Tears slide over my cheeks and he looks at my face with a surprised expression. He collects one of my tears on his fingertip and traces it to its source. “It hurts this bad?”
I shake my head. I fantasized about this because I needed this.
His forehead furrows as he studies my face.
“I’m okay,” I assure him.
The tears are pure emotion, not from pain. When my grandmother had a stroke a few years ago and I volunteered to take her to physical therapy, the therapist explained that when she cried, claiming she couldn’t do the exercises because it hurt, it was her tears that told him she was in emotional pain. Yes, she was upset because she was disabled and struggling with simple tasks. If it was true pain, the therapist explained, she would be moaning, or screaming. No one understood it, not my mother or my mother’s sisters, they wanted a different therapist, thinking the one she had was a sadist. I believed the therapist because I understood a bit about the workings of pain. I think Master understands as well, because he takes my face between his hands and kisses away the tears, drawing the salty moisture to my lips when he kisses me. He whispers against my mouth, “I have missed you,” and I whisper back, “I missed you.”
My knees are shaking, my ankles screaming, and my toes feel as if they are on fire, but none of that matters while he kisses me. He is the center of my universe and I am the center of his.
“Talk to me, Cassiopeia. Tell me what has happened since last night and today.”
“Twenty years.” My answer is pithy.
He looks disappointed and then he is suddenly releasing me. “I had hoped you were true to your word, that you loved me, that you were returning to me fully, but it seems I am a fool.”
He walks away, keeping his back to me.
I collapse onto the table, my legs refusing to support me another second, or that could be what I wished it was. Truly, I was defeated. I knew I was ruining everything.
Yes, I’m confused how I will ever be a sex slave and a mother.
Yes, I’m confused as to where I fit into Master and Pierre-Louis’s life.
I don’t want to throw it away. Not yet. Not without a fight.
“I’ll arrange for your transportation back to the United States.”
“Please, don’t. It’s hard talking to you.”
He turns around but doesn’t say anything.
“Before, when I was here, I was so much younger. There was little talking. Just orders, obeying, and now everything is different.”
“Would you prefer we never talk? That I allow you to wallow in your thoughts and needs and desires without allowing you to express them? Because that worked so well before.”
I close my eyes and try to harness my thoughts. “I like the way you are now more. I want to be able to talk to you, share my thoughts and feelings and ideas with you.”
Opening my eyes, I meet his gaze and hold out my hand to him. I’m very glad when he steps forward and takes it. “I’m afraid. I don’t know where I fit in. You and Pierre-Louis have such a strong, committed relationship, and we no longer do.”
“It will take time to rebuild what we once had.”
“I know.”
“And the dynamics of a ménage are complicated and complex, but we will work things out.”
“You sound so confident.”
He leans forward and kisses me. His lips linger over mine as he asks, “You love me?”
“Yes, desperately. I can’t imagine going back to my old life.”
“After only a few days, you feel this way?”
I nod my head rapidly.
“That is why I am confident.” His lips brush mine.
“I have so many doubts.”
“Set them free.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Because Pierre-Louis is younger? Is that your doubt? Because John cheated on you and devalued your worth, you feel inferior?”
I swallow hard, not liking the truth so much.
“It will not matter how much I tell you that you are beautiful. It will not matter how much Pierre-Louis tells you that you are beautiful. You have to see it for yourself. You have to find in yourself what we see that transcends physical beauty.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. I press my for
ehead to his.
“What do you want from me, Cassiopeia? What do you need?”
I kiss his cheek. “Make love to me.”
He pushes me down onto the table. “Make love to you. Worship you.”
I don’t understand until he takes my hand and starts kissing the length from fingertips to shoulder. “This arm is the most beautiful arm in the world, and I am a blessed man every time it wraps around me.”
The trail of kisses continues, over my shoulder and up my neck. “The most beautiful shoulder, the most beautiful neck—”
I giggle. “Okay, okay.”
He kisses my eyelids. “The most beautiful eyes because they reflect your pleasure, your pain, your need, your desire. Flames fill your eyes when you look at me and I swear I will be burned alive by your passion. You make me a better man because I don’t ever want to disappoint you. I have to meet your passion and help you take it even higher.”
My pussy grows wet and needy. Enough talking. My hips come off the table, but he presses my pelvis down with his palm. “Not yet. I’m not through worshiping you. I haven’t even gotten so far as your breasts.”
“I could die of old age before you ever get to my clit.”
“You’re such a funny girl,” he says but his mouth closes over mine and I am glad that he’s finally quiet. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this new, improved Master, so in touch with his emotions and feelings that he wants to share them.
His mouth drops to my breast and he takes my nipple into his mouth and suckles. “You have the most beautiful breasts and now these glorious nipples have known the joys of nursing an infant…”
How does he know that? My guess is Paulette.
“My only regret is not sharing bringing a life into the world with you. Watching you nurse our child.”
Oh God. Stop this. Don’t say anything else.
Thankfully his lips drop to my stomach but my gratitude comes too soon. “Watching your stomach expand from afar, knowing another man’s child grew in your womb. It changed me, Cassiopeia, because I knew I’d made a terrible mistake, one I would pay for with a lifetime away from you. I vowed then, if I could ever have another chance, I would give you anything you wanted.”
Tears slide down my face, but I’m not alone. I feel Master’s tears fall on my thighs as he begins his erotic litany about my beautiful legs. My toes. And finally, thankfully, my clit. His tongue is like wet flames and he is an erotic demon.
I’d forgotten how well he did this.
“Holy mother of God.”
“So soon?”
I buck as he flicks and licks.
“Yes!”
A finger slides inside me and then a second. I am shaking and spasming around him. “Master! Master!”
“Oui, Cassiopeia. I am your Master.”
Chapter Eight
And then I sleep alone.
I’m not sure what I expected…the world to revolve around me, maybe.
I have to assume the hours spent in the greenhouse before dinner in a tender embrace, rebuilding some of what we lost, were meant to be a balm to my soul as I lie alone in the dark. I am not the sun, I am merely one of two moons that revolve around Frankie.
It is a warm night and I have the double doors to the balcony open to allow in the breeze and the night sounds—insects, bats, small nocturnal animals. After worrying so much about a bird when I couldn’t see, now I want the distraction from any other noises that might waft through the house. I haven’t heard anything. No conversation, no moans, no whistled strikes or flogged thuds. I’m a pervert. I don’t want to hear it but I am disappointed when I hear nothing.
I could be nosy.
I could amble down the hallway toward the kitchen. I am a bit parched, perhaps to get a glass of water…and perchance to hear. Something.
Do I really, honestly want to hear them making love?
God. I hate this.
Frankie loves Pierre-Louis. Pierre-Louis loves Frankie. Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Their mornings begin with the greeting, their conversations end with the words, and throughout the day, “Je t’aime,” for no reason.
I know, I know. Pierre-Louis could have the same complaint. Why am I jealous of one night? It’s one night. And I’m too sore and too exhausted to be included anyway. Too grumpy as well.
I want to throw something and break it for no good reason and I am not a temper tantrum kind of girl. I never was before.
I fling back the covers and climb out of bed, pacing, wondering what I could throw that would make me feel better but wouldn’t get noticed by the cleaning staff or worse, Frankie.
Nothing.
I got nothing but an angry beast trying to climb out of my body.
I am in the hallway and standing in front of Pierre-Louis’ bedroom door before I even realize I am out of my bed. My chest is heaving with emotion, my breath heavy, and I force myself to calm down. I want to go home. I want my life back. I want simple back.
I raise my fist but don’t pound on the door.
I hear Frankie’s voice. “Do you like that?”
I close my eyes and drop my fist to my side.
“Ahhh-ha-ha, yes-s-s,” he hisses.
“And this?”
He moans, “Oh god, Master, what you do to me.”
I walk backward from the door, colliding softly with the hall wall. My imagination spins wildly out of control as I listen, though I am not sure whether this is helping or hurting my jealous heart. With a shaky breath I go back to my room. I would not deny Pierre-Louis his pleasure just as he did not deny mine earlier today. If nothing else, we can all be civil about this, right?
I don’t want to go home. Not really. What is there besides loneliness? And tonight I am feeling a lot of things, but lonely isn’t one of them.
Morning comes too early since I fell asleep only the hour before dawn, the birds beginning to salute the day with their song. I am startled awake by one of Frankie’s servants. It is rare to see them, and I have never been woken by one of them. She knocks softly before entering. “Madame?”
I sit up in the bed, startled.
“Monsieur requests you join him in the vineyard immediately.”
I frown, nodding I understand the message though I’m confused as to why he didn’t knock on the door himself. I don’t dress, I throw on my long silk robe, yellow printed with a bright floral pattern. I clip my hair up and grab the cup of coffee the maid left on my nightstand for me on the way out the door and swallow half of it before I get down the stairs, the rest before I step out into the bright sun, leaving the empty cup on a low table in the foyer. I regret not putting on shoes as I cross the dew-damp grass, my bare toes cold and covered in grass clippings. It is only when I am within the rows of vines that I remember the robe and that I shouldn’t be wearing it. Twenty years of habit will be hard to break. When I see Frankie and realize he sees me coming, I know it is too late to do anything about it.
He is walking between his grapes and I hurry to join him.
“I saw the dew still clinging to the fruit and wanted you to see,” he tells me, looking at the cluster of grapes he is holding and not me. His tone and mood seem somber. I bite my lip, wondering if my worries were well founded last night. I walk beside him, distressed he will send me away because he loves Pierre-Louis so dearly.
“I used to dream of being here, with you,” I say nervously, reaching out a finger to touch the cluster of small damp grapes. Water droplets drip off with the contact. “I made a dream journal and filled it with pictures of France and vineyards and you.”
“Oui, I know.” He turns his back and walks between the rows, seeming to inspect the vines as he does so.
I quickly follow. “It is different than I thought it would be.”
“Because of Pierre-Louis?”
I shrug.
“You wish for me to send him away?”
“What?” I gasp, wondering if he would, if I asked. “No. I—” I stop walking. “He loves yo
u, you love him.”
He stops walking too and turns to face me, looking at me for the first time since I joined him. He looks as though he hasn’t slept. I wonder if I look as bad. “Has Pierre-Louis asked you to get rid of me?”
He cocks his head sideways and takes a step forward. When he reaches to touch my shoulder, I feel his hand tremble. Oh. This is bad.
“Au contraire.”
Our gazes collide.
“He wants to spend time alone with you, giving the two of you time to get to know one another outside of the dynamic.”
“The dynamic?” I ask.
“Me,” he says, explaining, “He wants to see what will happen when you are both alone and not obeying my whims.”
I shiver, thinking no good will come of this. I laugh, “Of course you said no.”
He holds my chin so that I can’t pull away from his gaze when he asks, “Is that what you wish?”
I force myself to stay very still beneath his hand. I refuse to admit I’ve seen the way Pierre-Louis looks at me with desire. Or that I want to be the one to wipe the arrogant look off his mouth by topping him, by making him beg. There is no good answer to this question because to deny I want the same thing would only plant the seeds of relationship destruction. I am too curious about the man in Frankie’s bed. Too jealous. “I don’t know what to think.”
He takes my hands and leads me through the rows of healthy vines, their leaves green, their branches covered with clusters of still young grapes. “Don’t think, tell me what you want.”
“Are you asking if I want to fuck Pierre-Louis for the mere sake of fucking? The answer is no. In my mind Pierre-Louis is yours, just as I am yours.”
“You think he is beautiful to gaze upon.”
He says it as a statement not a question. Does that mean he’s noticed I like to look at the man? Hell, who wouldn’t? I squeeze his hand but have nothing to say.
“I risk losing the two of you to each other if I do nothing.”
“What?” I gasp. “That’s absurd.”
“Is it? When I see how the two of you look at each other? I wanted to share you—” He leans closer and I think he will kiss me, but he only arches his brow. “I want the three of us to fit well together, but in order for that to work, the two of you must fit well together. Not so well you no longer have room for me though, so I think I need you and him to spend some time together.”
