Master's Flame (Cirque Masters)

by Joseph, Annabel

  She lost herself in his gaze. She could have cried for the trembling pleasure he brought her, the completion of her fantasies, the fiery response he created every time he stroked her clit. She made noises she couldn’t control, pleading, moaning noises, but to look at him...to reveal herself to him this way was novel and frightening.

  And he knew it. Every time she looked away, he nudged her face back again. He persisted, forcing her compliance until the pure skill of his touches and strokes overcame her fears. She stared at him, wanting to cry, wanting to struggle, wanting to laugh and scream and explode as he braced himself over her, pounding into her. She loved being pinned down and forced to obey. She wanted to attack him as much as she wanted him to subdue her.

  When her orgasm came she did attack him, sinking her nails into the muscles of his arms and shoulders, trying to pull him down. He fought back, pushing her hard into the bed as her walls collapsed around him. He gave a shout that sounded very much like a roar. If her climax was powerful, his must have been doubly so. She could feel his cock pulsing inside her and she clamped down on it, wanting to hold this moment forever. Don’t leave. Never leave me. But he pulled away from her with a grimace of...disgust.

  Valentina didn’t understand. Tears formed in her eyes, weak, silly tears. Slaves didn’t cry, did they? He stood and walked away. Valentina lay where she was, staring at the bars on top of the bed as they went in and out of focus. She stared at them until the tears dissipated and the bars seemed stark and black again. By that time Mr. Lemaitre had come back. He stood over her, the tube of antibiotic cream in his hand.

  “Turn over. Lie face down on the bed.”

  “What did I do, Mr. Lemaitre?”

  “Master,” he corrected her.

  “Master, how did I anger you?”

  “Don’t make me ask you again. Not in my current mood.”

  He glared at her until she rolled onto her stomach. He’d just fucked her, just given her the strongest orgasm of her life, and he wasn’t in a good mood? He checked her cuts again, muttering things in French she didn’t understand. She wished she’d put more effort into languages growing up, but she’d been preoccupied with the only thing she was good at...balancing on top of her father and brothers’ hands and flying through the air.

  “Since you can’t work, we’ll use this time to get you a physical,” he said, drawing her from her thoughts.

  “A physical? When I came to work for the Cirque, they gave me a million physicals. They checked my conditioning, my muscles, my joints—”

  “Not that kind of physical.” He put the cream away and sat on the bed beside her. She turned onto her side and couldn’t help staring at his cock. Even in a flaccid, relaxed state, it was large. His balls hung down, heavy and ponderous. No wonder he communicated so much virility. He was designed like a bull.

  “Valentina, are you listening to me?”

  She flushed, meeting his eyes. “I... Well, I was a little distracted.”

  “I wish I could beat you.”

  She flushed hotter, staring at the floor.

  “Soon,” he said, as if to reassure himself. “I’ll be able to punish you soon for all these lapses of propriety. You desperately need it. For now, as I said earlier, I want you to have a physical and STD tests. I’ll be tested too so we can safely have unprotected sex.”

  “Unprotected sex is never safe,” she pointed out. She’d learned that long ago and she’d always been careful.

  “You’re correct,” he conceded. “A lot of things between us will be...how shall we say? Quasi-safe. You’re on the pill?”

  “The shots,” said Valentina. “Yes, Master.” She swallowed hard. “What do you mean by quasi-safe?”

  He gave her a long look, then a derisive laugh that wasn’t comforting. “Perhaps it’s not too late...” He shook his head. “I suppose it is far too late for both of us.” He leaned over her, staring at her very directly. She couldn’t help shrinking back on the bed. His tousled black hair made a dark halo around his head. “Someday you’ll wish I’d left you alone. Many times in future days, you will wish it.”

  “No. I’ll never wish that.”

  He groaned and leaned his head back. “Don’t be so fucking naive and innocent. I can’t bear it.”

  She felt hurt for a moment, until his hint of a smile reassured her. “I’ve always wanted you, and I will always want you,” she said, believing it.

  He cupped her face, rubbing a thumb over and across her chin. “You must learn that ‘always’ is a word to tempt demons. ‘Never’ is the same.” Again, he gave that sharp, derisive laugh. “But all of this is lost on you. Listen, I have appointments this afternoon, so we’re going to your place this morning.”

  “My...my place?”

  “Yes, your place where you live, to get whatever you’ll need to stay here for the next month.”

  “I can pack my own things,” she said, sitting up in the bed.

  “I’m coming to help you. Or rather, I’m coming to keep you from bringing too much.”

  This was a disaster. One look at her apartment and he’d think she was a lunatic, even more of a lunatic than he already thought, especially considering the stark, uncluttered organization in which he lived. “I—but—but I have nothing to wear. I came here wrapped in a blanket.”

  “No matter. I’ve accumulated a lot of female clothing over the years.” He took her arm and hauled her out of the bed. “We’re sure to find something in your size.”

  Chapter Eight: Very Bad

  Valentina sat beside Mr. Lemaitre in his gleaming, expensive car. She didn’t know much about cars but she supposed his car was expensive by the way it hummed and eased around downtown corners, and by all the lights and buttons on the dash. He was dressed now, a sophisticated, urbane businessman going about his day, fetching his slave’s things from her apartment. She was dressed too, in some other woman’s clothes.

  It upset her a little, that an entire section of his closet overflowed with the abandoned or forgotten clothing of other women he’d enslaved, fucked, or otherwise been involved with. She assumed the garments were clean but she didn’t like wearing the clothes of a woman she was jealous of. Valentina, you idiot. You’re no more to him than any of them were.

  But she wished she was. She wished she could be special to him, not just another slave to train. Oh well. She’d take what she could get. She was young. There would be time for other things later. For now, for these thirty days. Twenty-nine days...

  She stole looks at his hands, at his thighs, too shy to turn and stare at his face the way she wanted to. She wished she could huddle right beside him but he was driving. She would have loved to sink into his arms but no arms were opened to her. He glanced over at her instead, his expression cool, unreadable. “You’re trembling. Are you cold?”

  “Yes. No.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m only...shivery.”

  She didn’t know the right word for how she felt. She was too agitated to think of words in English, or even Italian. She could barely think at all. Winter’s morning light filled the car, striking his knee, her shoe, the herringbone upholstery of the seat. A spot of sun hit something on the floor and it sparkled red. When she leaned to get it, he reached for her as if he thought she was falling.

  “What are you doing?”

  Collecting things. It is something I do. “Nothing,” she said aloud, palming her treasure. When he looked forward again, she glanced down and found she had a piece of speckled cellophane, something like a scrap from a Mylar balloon, or a holiday gift basket. It lifted her spirits—the red color, the sparkle. It was just what she needed. She slipped it into her pocket, watching Mr. Lemaitre’s profile from her peripheral vision to see if he noticed.

  No, not Mr. Lemaitre.

  Master.

  Valentina ached this morning. She ached from being fucked, she ached from spending the night in a cage. Her heart felt weary and excited and confused. She wanted to be Mr. Lemaitre’s slave, wanted to
be one of his best slaves ever, but good intentions didn’t guarantee success. You could intend to conquer the most daring circus stunts in the world, but unless you were physically capable of doing them...

  She shifted on her sore ass and turned to look out the passenger window. He had said he would train her, that she desperately needed it. He had seemed warm at times last night, but then so withdrawn that he frightened her. Some of the things he said...well, she didn’t understand him in the slightest. Being with him was like being in a cage with a wild animal you admired but didn’t really trust.

  Thinking of cages reminded her of his white room and his cage-beds. It was so depraved, so very sexy, the way he took whatever he wanted. So many people hid or denied their desires, but Mr. Lemaitre reveled in them and brought them to real life. She pressed her legs together against the rising heat in her pussy. She wished she could thrust her hand down her borrowed jeans and stroke herself until she came. Better, she wished he would do it, reach over as he drove and force his thick fingers inside her.

  He put a hand on her knee and she jumped, and wondered if he had somehow known the direction of her thoughts. He said nothing, only stroked over her jeans, up and down her thigh.

  As they neared the residences, Mr. Lemaitre withdrew his hand and drove to her building without asking the number. Did he know where everyone lived, or just her? He parked the car and Valentina realized it wasn’t that big of a car, for all its luxury. “Where will we fit everything?” she asked, turning to look at the back seat.

  “As I said, you’re not bringing much. You’ll spend the majority of your time serving me.”

  “Oh. By serving you...you mean...”

  “Giving me pleasure, satisfying my whims. Taking my cock in your holes. A job you were born to do, don’t you think?” He looked at his watch, cool and distant again. She scrambled out of the car and tried to match his long strides as they walked to her door.

  “My place is kind of a mess,” she warned him at the threshold.

  “I expected it to be.”

  She turned the knob. He frowned as she pushed it open.

  “No key? You don’t lock your door, Valentina?”

  “I needed the key for something else. I have nothing valuable to steal, anyway.”

  He made an annoyed sound and insisted on entering ahead of her to check things out. It was a kind, protective thing for him to do, but she never locked her door and thus far, no intruders had ever come in.

  While he prowled her small living room, she turned on the light, embarrassed by the clutter. All her mess was here and there...her clothes and sketches and silly things she put together for fun. She had boxes of scraps and tools on the table, and worst of all, a half-completed likeness of Mr. Lemaitre. She furtively placed the red cellophane into a box with other bits of things.

  “You see,” she said when he turned to her. “Nothing is disturbed. I needed the key for that.”

  She pointed to a collage she was working on, a portrait of Jason Beck constructed of bottlecap eyes for his hardness and brown and gold leaves for his hair. She used papier-mâché to create the form of him, and the key to represent his heart. Mr. Lemaitre stared at it hard.

  “I can get another key,” she said, following his gaze. “Or maybe find another one and take that one off.”

  “What is it?” His voice sounded sharp. “Explain it to me.”

  She walked closer to her work. She’d been putting it together for weeks now. “It’s Jason. You see, the eyes and the hair...”

  His lips twitched. “The hair is a good likeness.”

  “I collected the leaves in the fall.”

  “Naturally.” He reached out as if to touch it, but he didn’t. “This fascinates me. I like it, but at the same time I find it disturbing.” He turned to her with a reproachful glare. “You never told me you were an artist.”

  “Oh, I’m not an artist. I only do this for fun.”

  He backed up and bumped into a bird made of matchbooks. It fluttered over his shoulder until he reached to make the wings still. “How long have you been doing this…for fun?” he asked.

  He tilted his head to read the matchbooks. She’d collected them from all over Italy, traveling with her family’s circus. “I don’t know,” she answered. “I’ve always liked to take things that feel special to me and make them into something new. It’s a way of keeping memories.”

  “But these leaves and paper scraps, my dear, they will not last forever.” He crept around her small apartment, being careful not to jostle her things, even though he was much bigger than she was and she jostled them all the time. He stopped at a sculpture of a woman she’d made of slender branches, a dancer she’d seen at the Cirque. He scrutinized the wood, tracing a finger over the body’s delicate joints. “Why make art this way? These sticks are weak and breakable.”

  “I know,” she said sadly. “It doesn’t stay.”

  “It’s a shame. It’s beautiful work.”

  “Well, beauty doesn’t stay either.”

  He straightened and turned to her, thinking. Considering. She didn’t understand what puzzled him. If anyone should know about the vagaries of art and creativity, it would be him. Like a circus act, the things she made were delicate and ephemeral. Laden with meaning and sometimes difficult to process. She could tell he didn’t know the work on the table was him. It was large and bold, obviously made in his likeness, but so often people didn’t see what they looked like through other people’s eyes.

  Ah, well. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t nearly finished.

  His attention caught on her self-portrait, a canvas in mixed media. Eyes, nose, mouth, strong chin and heart shaped face. Hair of ribbon and paper and candy, because it had been the precise color and shape she needed. Pretty soon the ants would come.

  “That’s you,” he said, gesturing to it. He recognized her when he couldn’t recognize himself. Strange. She nodded, reaching without thought into the box with the paper scraps. She fished out the scrap of red cellophane and held it up to the outline of the hair.

  “This belongs here,” she said. “I will do it later.”

  He moved closer, scrutinizing the mish-mash of discovered materials, then looked over at her with an expression that spoke of resignation. “Alors,” he said. “What a remarkable creature you are.”

  She put the scrap back on the table, watching the sparkles catch the light. “Is that a good or a bad thing, to be a remarkable creature?”

  “It’s very bad for me.”

  She looked up at him, then stepped back from the intensity of his gaze. He caught her with his hand and drew her close again. He felt so solid, so warm and bracing, the scent of his cologne a subtle tease. He stared down at her mouth as she studied his face. How intent he looked, how tragic and stern. She couldn’t tell if he was pleased or angry as he wound his fingers in her hair and pressed his lips to hers.

  His kiss felt like a storm, like something dangerous. He muttered in the middle of it, then took her lips again, holding and twisting her hair hard. His other hand pressed into her back, hurting her, but she didn’t care. She wished this could go on forever, this violent embrace, but then it ended as abruptly as it had begun and he pulled away from her.

  “I have meetings,” he said.

  She gazed at him, limp and out of breath. He turned from her, turned in a full circle, then back again. He took her wrist and shook it. “I have meetings, did you hear me? We’ll have time for this later. Go pack up your things.”

  *** *** ***

  Aside from practical, necessary items—work clothes, toiletries, etcetera—Michel allowed her only one set of drawing pencils and one sketchbook. Thirty days, he told himself. It was only thirty days.

  But long after he left her in the care of his houseboy and returned to work, that single sketchbook stayed on his mind. Before today, he’d had no idea she was an artist. A performance artist, yes. A visual artist, no. He stared into space, second-guessing himself. Would he harm her, ta
king away her freedom to create? Keeping her in a cage for thirty days with only one method to vent her artistic impulses? Was he doing it only to see what happened? Whether she would crack, or break somehow? Was he experimenting with her?

  He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know.

  Twice, he zoned out in the middle of meetings with the artistic heads of Cirque Élémental. Bad behavior, and people noticed, although no one said anything. Jason gave him irritated looks. Michel stared back at the man, imagining a key where his heart was.

  Ah, well. He’d pay better attention once he’d worked through the thoughts in his head. He had things to consider, choices to weigh. He enjoyed mulling over conundrums and puzzles, and things that couldn’t be explained.

  Like her.

  A few hours ago, in her cluttered, messy apartment, he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her in a way he’d never kissed any other slave. He’d breathed her in like a drug, all his senses in overload. He had curled his hands in her hair and pressed her against him and even whispered ma chérie against her cheek. In truth, he’d barely stopped himself from taking her on the floor.

  Not even twenty-four hours in, and he’d already made his second serious mistake. The first mistake had been in the white room, when he’d fallen on her and fucked her without the least bit of control over his impulses. He was disgusted with himself. He’d shaken it off, determined that would be his last weak act as her Master, and then he’d followed it up with the kiss of the ages beside her ridiculous self-portrait.

  Not ridiculous. Fascinating, and half made of candy.

  He might have withstood the temptation if it was only her beauty and her physical talent that attracted him. He knew scores of people who were beautiful and physically talented. He was rich in that currency, perhaps too rich. He might have withstood her sensuality and bubbly personality, her daring. He loved risk-takers, but even that he might have dismissed as a dearth of common sense.