by Olivia Myers
Yes, dear. I’m afraid so. Can’t tell you how sorry I am.
And when she asked with whom he’d slept, he’d answered as if he was bored, as if Christine’s rage were completely without reason.
Only a student. She attended one of my lectures, in Vermont I think it was. No, there were no more after her.
There’d been no climactic fight, no thrown dishes. Stephen had quietly removed himself to another apartment, where he continued to stay as far as she knew. Christine had heard nothing from him in all that time. She was still baffled by what had happened, still at a loss for the words she’d use for him once, or if, she saw him again. What was there to say? She loved him dearly—of this she was quite sure. But she knew of no way to express all that had happened between them, about the enormous tear in their relationship that neither had noticed until everything had been all but completely destroyed.
“You’re early.” Quiet as a snake in grass, Alexander’s voice crept up behind her, startling her into the realization that he was there with her.
Christine froze, unable to respond.
“I didn’t want you early.” He locked the door behind him. His eyes, his cruel, his handsome eyes devoured Christine. She felt her skin prickle under that gaze.
“Here I am,” she said. “I’m ready to please you.”
“I don’t want you now. Come back when I want you.” Alexander came up close to her. His grin was mere inches from Christine’s face. He smelled like wet leaves and metal.
“I am here for you now, my darling,” said Christine. The words escaped her before she could withhold them. She couldn’t believe the audacity. It left her breathless. She had never been so informal with Alexander.
“You are not my darling,” said Alexander. His gaze hardened. His mouth curled.
“You are nothing to me. Say you are nothing to me.”
There was a blaze in his eyes that had begun to smolder. Alexander’s hands were clenched at his hips, the knuckles white. His head was cocked to one side, like the head of a bird of prey gazing curiously at the insect it was soon to devour.
Christine could see the man trembling with the effort of self-control. She was paralyzed with fear. What had she done? The man was capable of anything, and she was provoking him. Stop now, an inner voice begged her. So great was Christine’s fear that she would have obeyed it, if Alexander had remained silent. But at that moment, instead of leaving her to stew in her fear, he laughed. A horrible, dry sound. The sound, after the agonizing silence, gave Christine courage.
“I am your darling,” she said. “And you are my love.”
Christine moved from her seat closer to Alexander. He was standing and his face showed no mirth, no curiosity. That’s dismay, thought Christine.
“Get out,” said Alexander. His voice was low and threatening as an earthquake. “I will not punish you today. Get out.”
“Darling.” Christine was standing before him now. She pillowed her head on his chest and bit her lip, and gazed up at his face. She felt his body tremble. It is like my own body, thought Christine. This is mine. I can control it.
Seeing that she had caught him off guard, she determined to make the most of her advantage. She put both her hands on his chest and ran them over the hard muscles, letting them trail around the bottom half of his torso. She lingered there for a moment, moving her light, delicate fingers over his taut skin. Then her hands traveled down, stroking his upper thighs, searching for his erection, massaging the area lightly. Christine breathed in slowly, and moaned as she rubbed.
“My place is right here,” she said.
Alexander said nothing. He was rigid. He was her clay.
Slowly, Christine unzipped his trousers, letting his erection spring through the window she had created. Alexander had told her during their first meeting that any contact outside of the bedroom was absolutely forbidden. She planned to test that rule now.
In the weeks Christine had spent with Alexander, she had never seen his penis. She’d felt its contact over her, its prod and its warmth and the shower he made when he came. Now she marveled at the size that she had always felt but never seen.
She let out a giggle of delight to let him know how at ease she was. She ran her tongue down the shaft, all the way down to his pubic hairs, then back up. Planting it with little kisses, she parted her soft, moist lips and took him in her mouth, as far back as she could. He touched the back of her throat and Christine couldn’t take any more, but still there was more of him. Christine longed to have all of him in her mouth. She longed to devour him, to exert her control over all of him. He was hers. His game had been a ruse. He was in her control and there was no denial.
Alexander didn’t make a sound as Christine sucked. He stood like as though struck dead, watching dumbly as his former slave worked him, worked him until his whole body quivered with the tension before the ejaculation.
But Christine was not going to finish him and have done with it. That was Alexander’s style. Finishing him off, giving him that kind of completion, that would be about pleasure. It would be about tenderness, which was what Adèle had suggested. But tenderness, pleasure, neither of those were Christine's style.
She left him trembling, sealed her lips with a smack, and looked up at his face. It was contorted, somewhere between bewilderment and pain—a face Christine had never imagined the man could wear. It gave her a thrill seeing him so agitated—seeing the discomfort she had inspired.
“Come with me, darling. You’ve had a long day.”
Meekly now, Alexander followed her order. He was tied to her, absolutely within her control. Christine did not question it. She had cast a spell over him while she held him in her position, and now he was cowed. He was the conqueror no longer, at least not now. But Christine intended to make every use of now.
Alexander let himself be stripped and tied to the four posts of his bed. His eyes blazed but with an ineffectual ire—he had no more control over his body. The proximity of their bodies to one another cast a damp thrill over Christine. She was wet and trembling, and oppressively hot in her clothes. She stripped herself naked. Alexander’s eyes went wide at the sight of her forbidden undergarments, before Christine blindfolded him with her bra. She stuffed his mouth with her panties.
She knew where he kept his whips. Often she had seen him store them away, when she wasn’t supposed to be looking. It was a shorter whip she gathered now, and its thongs were stiff leather.
“We don’t have much time,” said Christine. Alexander had regular plans on Friday nights and Christine didn’t want to draw any attention by keeping him longer than she should. “So we’ll keep this short. I want you to tell me who your master is.”
Alexander’s mouth made vague, uncommunicative movements. Lightly but firmly, the thong’s tails came whipping down on Alexander’s sculpted chest. The man groaned and squirmed. He tried to sit up but came pathetically short. Christine was breathless. The light tap of the whip had thrilled her as if she herself had been the one suffering its sting.
“Again.”
Alexander’s mouth worked furiously, trying to expel sound, only to have nothing come out. Christine let the whip lash his chest a second, a third time. His pain was her drought, her sustenance. The more he gave the more she craved and she lashed him again and again, gaining force and confidence with each swing of the whip, letting his muffled screams pierce her like a lover.
Alexander’s chest was raw and he grunted and howled through his gag when Christine mounted him. She felt the slickness on his chest of blood and sweat and she ran her hands over it as he’d always forbidden her to do. Giddy, she felt behind her until she’d found his penis, even more erect with the added thrill of his pain. She inserted it inside her, as far as she could go, until it hurt.
Christine relished the pain. It was her control. Without it, she felt herself languish away and die, as her relationship had died. She had tried to be tender, but the thrill of pain had eclipsed her. It had been too hard t
o resist. She wanted to exert herself entirely, as she was exerting herself now, pumping her own muscles, sinking herself further down onto Alexander, taking control of his power. She felt herself coming. She opened her mouth and made no sound, only the whistle of air and a slight choke as tears leapt from her eyes. Is this all? The tears fell, hot, mixing with Alexander’s sweat and blood. Is this all I’ve become?
***
Place de la Bastille, in front of the opera house, was abuzz with the horns of taxies and the cries of the locals. It was the place where, two hundred years before, the Bastille crumbled beneath the hands of the citizenry, where a people seized power for itself and punished cruelly those who’d so long ruled over them.
Now, there was no sign of the prison to be seen. There was only a fallen wall. The victory existed in the mind of the people and the square itself was crowded with restaurants and cafes. At one of these, Adèle sat, flustering over a call she’d just received from Christine. Her friend had sounded half crazy on the phone, and that was only when Adèle could understand the voice through the shouting and the bawling.
She hadn’t asked what happened. She’d already guessed. She’d long guessed that the day would come when Alexander’s unhealthy obsession would cost Christine a little more than a few stripes across her back, and she was afraid that that day was now here.
Adèle’s first duty was to see that her friend was taken care of. She gave Christine the address of her apartment and told her to meet her there in thirty minutes—there was no sense in trying to talk to Christine in Place de la Bastille. The noise and excitement would frighten her. Christine needed a place where she could calm her nerves, somewhere quiet and friendly where Adèle could gently chip away at the harm Alexander had caused. She hoped that she wasn’t too late.
Flagging a taxi, Adèle sped along dark side streets and dimly lit alleys, along dumpy apartments and sallow, yellow-lit parks, until she was in the northern half of the city, in Rue Sainte-Hermine, where she lived. Christine sat smoking on a park bench across the street.
Adèle climbed out of the cab and looked her friend up and down. Christine matched Adèle’s eyes with her own, eyeliner-stained stare.
“You’re an absolute mess,” Adèle concluded. “We need to clean you up. Although I don’t think my apartment will be quite your style of luxury.”
The apartment was modest, with a kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. It was small but it was orderly. More importantly, Adèle could be alone with Christine, away from the monster that had taken advantage of her—the monster that had almost destroyed her.
Adèle sat Christine down on her bed and produced a box of tissues, which she used to dab away the mess around Christine’s eyes. There was a strange but by no means uncomfortable silence in the room—like the silence that follows a fireworks display, or a disaster.
“Adèle,” said Christine at last.
“Mhmm?”
“You were right,” Christine pronounced the words with difficulty. They were so weighted with passion that Adèle was forced to look into Christine’s eyes. They were threatening tears.
“You were right,” Christine repeated. “It was my own control, my own power. It was never Alexander’s. It was mine. Oh, Adèle!” said Christine, throwing herself into the Adèle’s arms. “I’ve done terrible things! And I don’t even know why!”
“Christine,” Adèle whispered. She rubbed Christine’s back.
“I don’t know if I feel anything anymore! I don’t know if I even can!” Christine sobbed. The sobs shook Adèle, which only caused her to hold tighter.
“Christine, my angel. Look at me.” Adèle gently tilted Christine’s face to her own. Tears stained Christine’s cheeks. Her lips quivered. She looked absolutely broken, and Adèle’s heart swelled with pity.
“Can you feel my hands on you, my angel?” said Adèle softly. “Can you feel the touch of someone who loves you?”
Adèle held Christine closer, tightening her hold. Christine’s body was hot and it burned Adèle, but she wouldn’t have let go for anything.
“Yes, Adèle, yes,” whispered Christine.
“You’ve broken yourself,” Adèle said. “But I will heal you. With these hands.”
She stroked Christine’s hot skin, soothing it. The tears still flowed from Christine’s eyes and Adèle longed to remove them. “And with these lips.”
She leaned in to kiss the tears away, but before she could get any closer Christine’s mouth was on hers. It was a desperate, wild kiss. Adèle felt Christine move her whole body into the kiss, willing Adèle to take possession. Her mouth glued to Christine’s, Adèle gave herself up to the pleasure of their connection, closing her eyes, and opening her mouth for Christine’s tongue.
Adèle gently pushed Christine down so that she straddled her. Christine’s eyes were closed but her hands were already working off Adèle’s top, scratching at Adèle’s clothing with mad energy.
“No, Christine,” Adèle admonished her gently, as she kissed the full, warm, open mouth. “Tenderly, angel. I don’t want your power here.”
At once Christine’s hands ceased their struggle. It was as if Adèle’s words had softened something in Christine. She became gentle at once, a little lamb. Her kisses became open and slow. The tears dried in her eyes. She let Adèle remove her skirt and her top.
“Christine, my angel,” said Adèle, with some alarm. “There’s blood on your beautiful skin. What have you done with yourself?”
“Whatever it was, it is done,” said Christine. Adèle read the worry in Christine’s lips. Did she think Adèle would love her any less for that? Love her any less because she knew of the struggle Christine had had to endure?
“But I regret it already because it’s making you uneasy,” Christine said, her throat full of emotion. “I regret everything I have ever done except for kissing you. I will spend my whole life loving you Adèle, if you can forgive what I have done.”
The words sent a blissful warmth through Adèle’s body. “Do you love me, Christine?” Adèle asked as she kissed the quivering, warm, wet skin above Christine’s vagina. Her tongue longed to taste the sweet folds just below, but she restrained herself. “Is this real?” she said.
“It’s real,” Christine gasped. “It’s absolutely real. Oh God,” cried Christine. “You’re a thousand miles away. I want you closer. Please, Adèle, come closer. Don’t leave me alone.”
Adèle crept closer to Christine. She took the warm folds of her lover in her mouth and gave them the sweetest kiss that she had ever given. A shudder passed through Christine’s body and Adèle felt it too, as if both of them shared the same body, as if both of them were one.
The End
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Olivia Myers is an author of paranormal romance, science fiction romance, and historical romance. Living in San Diego, CA, she loves sitting by the water and writing on her laptop. When not writing, Olivia loves attending local art shows and exploring the California coast one restaurant at a time.
Olivia is always hard at work on her next book.
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Thank You
I hope you have enjoyed this book. As a new author in the big world of publishing, it’s hard to get noticed. I’d love if you would leave me an honest review.
Thank you for downloading my book!
–Olivia Myers
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