ProdigalSlave

by Roxy Harte

  I remember this from when we were together before. Although the cane was rarely used, there are many ways to punish a person’s body. Some are enjoyable, some are not. It seems like forever since I returned to Master and yet it has been only a week. And in truth, my time alone with Pierre-Louis has taken most of it.

  Master instructs Pierre-Louis to wait upstairs. “I think you have forgotten what it means to belong to me, ma cherie.”

  I swallow hard. Ma cherie. My darling. This is bad. This is very bad. In the past, the only time he used that endearment was when he was going to hurt me very, very bad.

  “You have enjoyed looking at my collection?”

  I lick my lips nervously. “It is very impressive.”

  “Oui,” he agrees. He walks over to the corner and picks up a wooden stock which is obviously not an antique. Bringing it over to me he lowers the top half onto my neck and brings the bottom half up to meet it, locking the two parts together. I slide my hands through the three holes so that I am carrying it on my shoulders like a yoke. I take a deep breath, trying hard to remain silent…because he is.

  He attaches a leather cuff to each wrist, which he then attaches to the stock, making it impossible to slide my hands back out. He attaches a chain to each end of the stock. A pulley rewinds the chain until I am where he wants me to be—on tiptoe.

  “Is that comfortable?” he asks.

  “Not really, Master.”

  “Hmm,” he says. “Do you think I want you to be comfortable?”

  “No, Master.”

  He lowers the chain, feeding out length until I am flat on my feet again, but then he continues to feed chain, saying, “Bend forward.”

  I bend as the chain feeds until I am at an angle with the floor, bent at my thighs, not my waist.

  “Better?” he asks.

  I exhale, relieved. “Yes, Master.”

  “Good. I want you to think a while about what it means to belong to me.”

  I do not expect him to walk away, but that is exactly what he does. I am left hanging in the stocks, thinking how ridiculous. How childish. Wondering how long he intends to leave me to think.

  I stare at the stone floor and it becomes apparent fairly quickly that the wooden contraption around my neck is going to grow very heavy, very fast, and that is a concern. My bigger concern is having nothing to think about. Not that I don’t have plenty to think about, just that I don’t want to think about any of it.

  Damn it to hell.

  I stubbornly, adamantly refuse to think.

  I shuffle around, bent over, stuck in stocks, making a small rotation, trying to find something of interest to look at to keep my mind from thinking about whatever it is he wants me to think about. A few minutes later I reverse my shuffle, focusing on the stone stairwell he just ascended. Better just to watch and wait for his return.

  * * * * *

  I shuffle, forward a few inches, backward a few inches. My back aches, my calves are screaming bloody murder. The wood on my shoulders officially weighs tons and I am getting angry. I don’t deserve to be punished. I didn’t do anything. I stare at the stone steps and wait…

  * * * * *

  Nodding off wakes me up immediately because it causes my throat to push into the wood around my neck, hurting, cutting off my air. I want to scream for Master to come down and release me. I want to talk about this like civilized grown-ups. Yes, I left marks on Pierre-Louis but what is the answer to that? I shouldn’t have? It isn’t as if I meant to. It isn’t as if I purposely marked the man.

  * * * * *

  I’m not sure when I started crying but my face is wet when I hear Master descending the stairs. I do not want him to see my wet face, I do not want him to know I cried, but there is no way to hide the evidence, no way to wipe my face. It seems as though days have passed with me standing here but it has been only hours. I know this because I have stood days before and this doesn’t compare. Uncomfortable but not unbearable, and not yet humiliating.

  He comes up to me and bends to establish eye contact. “Are you comfortable?”

  “Fine, Master.”

  He narrows his eyes at me before wiping his fingers through my tears. “Not in pain?”

  “No, Master,” I answer and a sharp pain stabs through my shoulder to remind me I am lying.

  “Ah, Cassiopeia. You were always so willing to suffer for me a little. I was hoping your stubborn streak would have softened with time.”

  “I am who I am, Master.”

  He laughs. “I suppose you are.”

  We stare at each other until he stands. He asks, “Why did you return to me?”

  I’ve wondered that myself. “Because I missed you.”

  “Missed me? Or missed the play?”

  Play. Interesting that something sometimes painful and humiliating is called play. He has his back to me, having walked over to a workbench. I see that it is also a storage area for very adult toys. “I missed you…being yours…and what we did together.”

  “Can you agree a servant can only serve one Master?”

  I blink, hating where this is going. He turns toward me carrying a riding crop.

  “Pierre-Louis did not top me.” I realize my mistake as soon as I say the words.

  “But you topped him?”

  “Only a little,” I whisper.

  He strikes my hip with the crop and the sting reverberates through my body. He strikes me again. “Did you get to know one another while you were on holiday?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Really? So you can tell me where he was born? Perhaps his brothers’ and sisters’ names?”

  I jerk, anticipating another strike, but the crop only caresses the inside of my thigh. I do not know where he was born or that he even has brothers and sisters. If he asks me his favorite color or favorite food I will not know the answer to that either. I am so screwed.

  “What can you tell me about Pierre-Louis that you did not know before you went away on holiday with him?” He slides the crop up and down my inner thighs.

  “His birthday is February first.”

  “What else?”

  “You were right about him being an amazing fuck.”

  His laughter echoes around the room. “So you would like the privilege of being allowed to fuck him again?”

  Oh God. Is this a trick question? “Yes, Master.”

  “So you would have no use for me then?”

  All of my muscles tense at once. I wish my arms were free to throw around his neck. I wish I knew what he was thinking. Feeling. I know how I felt when I knew John was fucking women half my age and it wasn’t pretty.

  “No one can replace you, Master.” I recall with complete clarity what being owned by François de Hart felt like. I was precious to him. He cherished me. He placed me before all else in his world and I did the same for him. No one has ever made me feel as needed or as protected as Frankie made me feel. It is an addictive thing. The more I pleased him, the more he praised me, the more I needed. I’m not a young girl needing praise and approval anymore, but a small voice in my head demands. “You are my world.”

  “I was not your world when you refused to answer my call last night.”

  He drops the riding crop at my feet and walks away, leaving me stunned. I wish he would just punish me and get it over with but as he climbs the stairs I begin to fear that whatever we shared before is long gone, never to be resurrected again.

  * * * * *

  Everything hurts. My lower back is a hell zone of pins and needles. My legs are on fire, every muscle from the tips of my toes to my thighs. My wrists and neck, immobilized for hours, ache with a dull pain that becomes excruciating when I make the mistake of moving them. My head pounds and I pissed myself. I remember this.

  To say that you belong to a person is mere words. To accept the truth of it when it is proven takes a singular strength. Some people can, some people cannot. Frankie is rubbing my face in the fact I am his if I want to be. The question is, do I
want to be?

  Do I want my every thought and deed orchestrated?

  Do I want to give up control of my life to suit his will?

  As far as my boss in Chicago is concerned, I am on vacation, making the return to my old life fairly simple. Board a plane, go home, forget Frankie and Pierre-Louis and France…

  I want out of these wooden stocks. That is all I care about. If I had to promise to go away and never set foot on French soil again, I would agree to it, though I hope that is not the option I am given.

  Chapter Eleven

  Both men come down the stairs together. I’m not crying, I am stoic. Whatever is…is, whatever comes to be…does. Frankie comes forward but Pierre-Louis waits at the foot of the stairs. Even from a distance I can see fresh marks on his body. His head is bowed and his hands are clasped behind his back. He is a good little slave, waiting to be told what to do next. I’m not a good little slave. I accuse, “You wanted me to go on holiday with Pierre-Louis. You wanted to see how nature would take its course.”

  “Oui.”

  “And now I am punished for allowing whatever was going to happen to happen?”

  A surprised look is my answer. “You think I am punishing you for fucking with Pierre-Louis?”

  “And for leaving him marked. Yes.”

  “Then you have remembered nothing.” He comes closer, moving behind me. I can feel the heat of his body rising off him. His hand runs up my thigh, his fingers smooth over my labia, a single finger penetrates between my folds. “You are very wet, ma cherie.”

  “Yes,” I whimper as raw lust explodes through my core from his slight touch.

  “You are wet for me?”

  “Yes. Yes,” I declare fervently, pushing against his fingers. He rewards me by rubbing through the folds to stroke my clit, making my knees buckle with the pleasure of it.

  “You enjoy being the property of François de Hart.”

  Rhetorical, but I agree anyway. The whimpers forming in my throat that would have embarrassed me a week ago are now accepted as part of who I am…still…not the woman I once was, but the woman I am still.

  “I am not punishing you, mon amour.”

  “No?” I ask, reveling in his soft touch between my legs. His caresses take my mind off the pain everywhere else. My world centers around my pussy and my clit each time he strokes it.

  “I want you to remember what it means to belong to me.”

  “Yesssss,” I sigh, my hips bucking against his hand.

  “I want you to understand I will use you as I desire to. Pleasure, pain. If it is my will to leave you in the stocks day in and day out, I will do so. Do you understand?”

  The memories return in a flood, the hours, days he left me alone, in the dark, sometimes tied, sometimes not, always feeling abandoned and forgotten, and the immeasurable joy each time he returned. This was life with Master. How is it over the years I’ve forgotten the horrors and humiliations and only romanticized the most intimate moments?

  “If I choose to share you, I will share you. And if I choose to deny you ever experiencing another again, that is my right, my decision to make.”

  My eyes jerk up to Pierre-Louis, but his gaze stays stubbornly attached to the stonework beneath his bare toes.

  Master’s fingers penetrate my pussy, not one, fuller than one, two or three, and the fullness makes me moan, not with pleasure. I am reminded that Pierre-Louis and I may have indulged once or twice, or a dozen times too often. I back up to take in more but the pain in my back stops me, making me groan in pain.

  “Too much sex with the one who is not your Master has left you too injured for my attentions?”

  This is dangerous ground I tread.

  “Can you override the discomfort of your body to come for me?”

  “Yes, Master.” I close my eyes. His desire seems an impossible task.

  “If you come for me, I will release you now. If you do not, I will leave you strung up.”

  Oh shit. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach.

  He instructs Pierre-Louis to bring him the Hitachi and he hurries to do as he is bade, handing him the vibrator then returning to his post, keeping watch on the floor. I shouldn’t care what Pierre-Louis is doing. He shouldn’t be even a small part of my focus.

  Frankie moves the Hitachi against my clit and my world focuses on the single pinpoint of bliss. High-pitched barks spill from my throat. Frankie chastises, “I don’t even believe it feels that good yet.”

  My body spirals up into a spinning vortex of pleasure, my body seems to levitate, all pain forgotten. I scream, “Yes. It. Does.”

  “You will tell me before you come.”

  I am already falling into the chasm, bliss speeding through my veins. I manage to scream, “Now. Oh god, now.” He keeps the Hitachi centered on my clit, allowing wave after wave to crash through me. I scream, “Ahhahhhaaaaahhh. Ahhahhhaaaaaahhh. Ahhhahhhhaaaaaahhhh,” but he doesn’t release me from the pleasure or the pain as the Hitachi becomes torment. “Please, please, please,” I beg. “Master, I’m done.”

  He says very clearly, “You are done when I say you are done, Cassiopeia. Come for me until I say stop.”

  The Hitachi feels like knife points on my supersensitive clit. I sob and beg. I feel his fingers push into my pussy. He pushes against my G-spot and I push back, pain raking through my bent spine. It hurts enough to make me forget the Hitachi on my clit. I scream in pain and frustration, but then my brain registers the vibration on my clit as pleasure again, not pain, and I remember the Master from my past could play this game all night. Oh, dear god.

  * * * * *

  Master pulls up a straight back chair and sits down. He motions for Pierre-Louis to kneel beside me. Folding his arms across his middle, he appears to be waiting. For what?

  He commands Pierre-Louis, “You will observe her suffering.”

  Pierre-Louis lifts his chin and meets my gaze. For the first time I see that his eyes are swollen and red. He’s been crying? Oh hell.

  I watch the two men watching me. I wait for the what next but it doesn’t seem forthcoming. Master says nothing. And I have nothing to say.

  He said before I was still stubborn. What did that mean? Although, if I could see my own face, I’m sure my stubbornness would be reflected all over it.

  Goddamn it. I did not return for this. “Peanut butter and jelly.”

  As soon as I say my safe words, I regret them. I don’t know if it is the look of utter sadness and remorse on Master’s face or the astonishment on Pierre-Louis’. Either way I don’t have time to dwell on it. I am immediately released from my bonds and Master exits the room. He is followed closely by Pierre-Louis. What did I expect? Discussion? Debate? I know the house rules. When I feel it is time to safe-word, it is time to go. I made the choice. “Now I live with the consequences.”

  It is with a heavy heart that I climb the stairs from the dungeon. There isn’t a soul in sight, not Master, or Pierre-Louis, or a single servant. I walk slowly through the great room, taking what I know is a final look around. “Goodbye dreams. Goodbye hope. Goodbye last chance at love.”

  I stagger, catching myself against the credenza. I stand sobbing, not able to take another step forward. What have I done? When did I become so weak?

  “God, oh god,” I beseech the ceiling, seeking answers that aren’t there.

  “Why did you return, Charlotte? Nostalgia?”

  “I still love you. Desperately.” Crap. I said that out loud, didn’t I? “What I remembered of us—together—maybe I romanticized the best parts. Maybe I was forgetting the reality. Maybe I’m just not up to the reality of you anymore.”

  “So you forgot the pain?”

  “No. I dreamed of the pain. I longed for it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I needed it.”

  “You could receive pain from anyone. There are a million websites that will direct you to someone more than willing to torture you.”

  “But they wouldn’t ch
erish me as you once did.”

  He steps nearer. “I did cherish you. With my entire being. I never stopped.”

  “I can tell,” I retort irritably.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I never stopped loving you. Even though you forced me away. Even though you refused to meet my needs.”

  “To give you children?”

  “Yes!” I scream, tears sliding down my cheeks and snot spilling my nose. I breathe through my mouth between points. “I wanted a child. Did that make me a demon? You wouldn’t even discuss it with me.”

  He steps closer, so close we are molded together in the front, so close we are breathing the same air. I am the one choking on snot and saliva. I’ve never felt so enraged, but then I realize this anger has always been there. I hated him for not giving me a child.

  “And any man’s child would do?”

  “I wanted yours.”

  “Any man’s child would do,” he repeats.

  “Yes!” I seethe, spit flying out of my mouth.

  His shoulders slump and years of sadness and heartbreak fill his eyes. “I couldn’t give you a child, Charlotte.”

  My mouth drops open.

  “I’m sterile. I have been since a childhood illness.”

  “God. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was stupid. I thought you would leave me for my imperfection and I wanted you to stay because you loved me enough.”

  I left. I didn’t love him enough. I close my eyes, knowing I would never change the decisions I made, even given a chance.

  “It is a secret I’ve regretted not sharing with you in time to prevent you from leaving. I should have told you I was researching our fertility options but instead I left you in the dark…and then I awoke one day to find you’d gone.”

  I open my eyes and meet his gaze. “Why are you telling me this now?”