by Joey W. Hill
“My apologies.” He straightened, looking genuinely chagrined, such that she felt reassured and guilty, all at the same time. “It was not my intent to distress you.”
“Oh, I’m not distressed. It’s just...” She gave a half laugh. “It’s pretty ironic, that I hate small talk and would prefer to have real conversations like this with strangers, not that shallow façade. Yet now that it’s actually happening, I’m freaked out. But in all fairness, you’re about as intense as a final exam. Okay, I’m shutting up and brushing now. You sit there and just be...calmer.”
The twinge of embarrassment eased as she closed her eyes and heard him chuckle. She adjusted herself in her seat and began to brush. She’d closed her eyes so that she could focus on the movement, instead of his regard, though ignoring that was like ignoring a summer wind caressing her face. Strangely, she didn’t feel he was making a move on her, which added to the easing of her tension. He was like this with most women, she was sure of it. His passion, his...love, was all for that one woman, the woman that had had him pacing restlessly. But he was so confidently male, his way with women was instinctively easy, intimate.
“So, you can’t call her on your cell? It sounds like you’ve been out of touch for awhile.”
A pause, as if he was considering his words carefully. “I’m out of range right now. Once I get on the plane, I will be in range within minutes. It is part of why I’m impatient now. She wasn’t happy when I had to leave her behind for this trip, and I want to be close enough to...make sure she is all right. Not through someone else’s report, but through my own senses.”
“You’re really waltzing around something. But don’t worry, I won’t ask. Why wasn’t she happy?”
“I travel a great deal on business, and it’s not safe for her to come with me. She disagrees.”
“‘Not safe’ as in life-threatening?”
“No, not exactly. She has had experiences that were very...traumatic. Where I travel would exploit those fears. I do not wish her to ever experience such fear again.”
He shifted, she heard him, and the edge in his voice suggested she’d hit a nerve. She’d always been more of a listener than a talker, which was one of the reasons she hated small talk—it was just static. She’d honed her listening skills, such that she often picked up the true story from the nuances beneath the white noise.
“So you’re afraid for her state of mind, not her life. And she disagrees with you, because she’s as crazy about you as you are about her, and she doesn’t want you to go places without her.”
“Yes.”
Helen opened her eyes then, putting down the brush so she could thread both hands beneath the now smooth fall of her hair and let it pour down her back, testing that it was all untangled. “Lovely,” he said again, with a serious smile that made her toes curl into the carpet, for different reasons this time. “Would you like to see the gift I’m bringing her?”
Helen nodded. “Is this an “I’m sorry I totally pissed you off” gift?”
The light in his eyes danced, a laughing tiger now, but he lifted a shoulder. “I suppose it is somewhat, but it’s something I’ve wanted to give her for awhile.”
Opening the briefcase, he withdrew a purple velvet box, the kind that was handed over a counter at Tiffany’s or some other exorbitantly expensive jewelry shop. He lifted the lid and extended the box so she could see the necklace.
The slim choker was a one inch circlet, a melding of different metals into the pattern of a tiger’s skin. Copper, bronze and gray, with threads of white glazing that made it an exceptional piece of metalwork. The closure looked like the talon of a tiger, and an amber pendant dangled below it. The choker could be locked, because she saw the key hole beneath the talon. Looking in the box, she saw a small silver key.
A servant...Which means something very much like wife or girlfriend, in my world. Yep, it had been what she thought. It was a collar, the kind that a Master purchased for a submissive, as binding as a wedding ring for two who shared such a relationship. Helen knew about such things, but to come face-to-face with it here, made her a little speechless. Then she found her voice. “She’ll love it,” she said. “But I think she’ll say it just underscores her point.”
His gaze cooled just a fraction, a hint of temper. “And what point would that be?”
“That she belongs at your side.” Helen sighed, sat back. “Listen, I’m not trying to piss you off. I don’t talk a lot, and I don’t really know how to relate to people except to tell them the way I see things. And what I see is that it’s really hard not to be with the person you love.” She was pretty sure if she was this “habiba,” she’d chain herself to this bloke’s ankle to follow him wherever he went. “Have you explained to her why you can’t take her with you?”
“Yes. But she is brave, to the point of foolishness. Courageous even when she’s afraid, and I will not tolerate her ever being afraid again.”
“And that’s not foolish? I mean,” Helen added hastily, realizing she might not want to piss off a tiger that was close enough to bite off her face, “No one can protect someone from everything, right? The only thing we can do is help them face their fears, get through them, and be all the stronger for them. It’s like a baby. Parents want to protect them, but if you really did protect your child from every ugly, scary thing in the world, they’d never grow up, never get to be and do all the things you really want them to be, right? So in a way, if you protect them too much, you’re only reinforcing the fear, rather than healing it. Even adults get past traumas the same way, if they really want to live life to the fullest.”
“What do you do for a living, Helen?”
“Well, I have a PhD in atmospheric physics.” It was the first time she’d actually said it aloud, and it felt good. Good enough for her to be giddy about it, and a little silly. “I’m brilliant,” she mentioned with a grin, “for all that I’m socially inept and tick people off by saying things I shouldn’t.”
He smiled then, a true smile. For a blink, Helen thought she saw fangs, but certainly that was her imagination getting away from her, right? As devastating as he was without the smile, with it, he was irresistible. No matter how much his overprotective, overbearing arrogance routine infuriated his servant, the woman would forgive him anything. Helen was pretty sure of that.
“Look, you seem like the type of person who’d never let anything bad happen to her, and maybe she wants to show she trusts you to do that. And you just need to believe in that yourself.”
“But as you said yourself, you can’t protect someone from everything, particularly if they are in harm’s way.” The shadows that gathered in his eyes told her he knew that firsthand, and gave her another key.
“Well, we all lose people we love, don’t we? But the only sure thing is that we never get enough time with them. Why would you deprive yourself of a minute of being with her, if you don’t have to do so? If she’s willing to overcome her fear to be with you as much as possible, she’s offering you a gift. With both hands, and heart and everything. She sounds pretty amazing, and I think you should accept the gift. With as much enthusiasm as I’m sure she’ll accept yours.” She nodded to the velvet box.
A moment of silence descended between them, and she could tell he was considering her words, looking inside himself among a dark tangle of things. She kept silent, respecting that, until the concierge broke that pause.
“Lord Mason?” The efficient, trim young woman had left the desk and now stood several steps away. “Your plane is fueled and ready.”
Lord Mason. So he was some kind of aristocracy or royalty, though she couldn’t really place his accent. Maybe a trace of British or Arabic, but it was as elusive as a swirl of desert sand.
“Thank you.” Putting the box back into his briefcase and snapping it closed, he rose, but then took a step closer to Helen. Before she could rise, he squatted on his heels. With his height, he was still fairly close to eye level as he reached out and smoothed a stray lock
of her hair back over her ear. He had a large hand, but it was amazingly gentle, conveying strength and sensuality in the one touch. She wasn’t a touch kind of person—didn’t even particularly care for shaking hands, and this was far more intimate. Still, when he did it, it didn’t feel intrusive in the least. He nodded, holding her gaze.
“You are a remarkable woman, Helen. If you do not yet have a man,” that smile touched his lips, “the one to whom you finally give your heart will be very fortunate. And if you were mine, I’d forbid you to cut that beautiful hair.”
His knuckles brushed her cheek before he straightened, offered another nod, and turned away. Laying a generous tip on the concierge’s desk for her service, he spoke in a quiet tone to her, then gave Helen one more look before he left the room. As the door settled closed behind him on a whoosh of air, Helen leaned over the sofa arm to watch him stride back down the hallway toward the exit door. He looked as good going as he had coming, a sight worth watching in those trim, well-fitted slacks, the shirt creasing over his broad shoulders. She watched until he turned the corner. Glancing left, she caught the concierge craning her neck, doing the same thing. The break in the woman’s professional mien made them grin at each other.
Yep, Helen thought. The icing on the cake.
Part Four
Habiba... You will explain to me what you are doing. Right after you get down from there and put on some clothes. Now.
He’d apparently shot that command out through all three of their minds, because Amara stepped back from her instantly, dropping to a kneeling position. Enrique captured the tails of the flogger in one hand and bowed his head in similar obeisance. They’d known he could react this way, though, so their expressions were quiet, accepting, making her feel guilty for what she had persuaded them to do.
It was my idea. It’s not their fault.
His tone had made her bristle. She wasn’t a child. She didn’t deserve to be treated like a child.
Jessica.
How he could make his voice resonate in her head like approaching thunder, she didn’t know, but her body reacted to it in instinctive self-preservation, despite her willful mind. She slid off the cross. Her knees were somewhat unsteady, her body still vibrating from the combination of Amara and Enrique’s stimulation. Mason’s awareness of it had somehow taken her arousal up a notch. That purring tiger’s voice, with more than a hint of a growl, was capable of stirring her in ways that others might consider foolhardy, given how she was deliberately provoking his temper.
Enrique already had her robe in hand, but the man paused, an expression crossing his face that suggested he’d been given emphatic instruction. He passed the robe to Amara, such that it was her hands that brushed Jessica’s skin as she helped her thread her arms into the robe, freed her hair from the back collar. When Amara kept the hair lifted, expecting Jessica to bring the robe all the way up, Jess gave her a slight head shake. The dancer smiled faintly, and fanned her hair out on her naked pale shoulders as Jess clasped the lapels of the robe barely above the line of her nipples. She looked at Amara and Enrique. “Can you leave me alone here, please?”
Actually, she wasn’t sure if she was ready to be alone in this room, but fortunately, the other two knew her well enough to interpret what she needed. Amara touched her arm. “We’ll be at the top of the stairs, within hearing distance. Call if you need us.”
Enrique followed her, leaving Jess with another encouraging look. She guessed she should be glad Mason hadn’t ordered them to take her out of the room with them, but she knew she was far from winning her point. She could feel his brooding presence in her mind like storm clouds in truth. It made her gather her resolve, steel herself as they disappeared out the door, though she found herself thankful they didn’t close it. As they left, she sank to her knees, putting her buttocks on her heels, knowing exactly what kind of picture she made to her Master. Her hair spread over bare shoulders, the silken robe pooled on either side of her hips but open to expose slim thighs up to the point of her sex, the slope of abdomen and sparkle of her navel piercing. The robe so precariously held, he could see the areola of her nipples. She was looking down at herself, giving him not only her imaginings, but a clear vision of the reality.
You are deliberately testing me.
Yes.
I want you out of that room. I feel your fear of it.
It’s my Master’s job to come remove me from it. Or use what’s here to punish me for my defiance.
There was a quaver in the thought. She couldn’t hide her trepidation from him. But she was determined, and she wouldn’t back down from it. How would you punish me, my lord? I’ll look at each thing here, and see what brings you the most pleasure. Find what is too irresistible for you to conceal your desires from me.
This time the growl was unmistakable, incoherent enough to suggest he might actually be tempted to strangle her, if she’d been close enough. It sent a shiver through her, but he’d given her the confidence to be this reckless. She’d defied Raithe to the point of violence. She didn’t fear that treatment from Mason, so she wouldn’t allow those old memories to interfere with what she was going to prove to him now. She couldn’t.
She made herself look around the room, at the things disguised in sheer cloths, muted by soft fabric and the scent of rose petals. Jessica knew all of those hidden items by shape because of her one brief time here, when terror had burned them into her brain.
You nearly took your own life.
I’ve grown since then. I trust you now. I want to be the kind of servant you crave me to be. Need me to be.
Habiba, you are already that and far more.
If that was true, you’d take me with you to Council meetings.
Stubbornly, before he could argue with her further, she focused on the gauze cloth that she knew concealed a spanking bench, a piece of equipment with padded, blue velvet upholstery. Black cuffs attached to the support structure for arms and legs. Gathering every ounce of bravery she could, she imagined Mason buckling her facedown on it, his strong hands circling each of her fragile wrists, tightening the cuffs so she couldn’t escape, spreading her legs and securing them as well. His palm smoothing over her buttocks, teasing her cunt, already wet, aching for him, even as her body shook and tears came to her eyes, the past and present merging so painfully she needed to feel the burn of the lash to drive it away. Of his lash, no one else’s.
Jessica...for the love of Allah...
She jerked her gaze to the next covered item as she swallowed on a dry throat. The crudely named fucking machine, where the slave was restrained on a table, level with the device. The dildo would be fitted to the pumping shaft and angled to plunge in and out of the appropriate orifice, at whatever rate and penetration a Master deemed fitting. Mason could sit back with his blood-laced drink, watch it fuck her. She’d be writhing and slick with perspiration, her breath coming fast, the climaxes crashing over her again and again as she begged for mercy he wouldn’t give her. Not until she was exhausted and begging instead for him to take its place, to put himself inside of her, stretch her with his thick cock and never leave her, never break that connection.
It was how she would feel if she was at a Council meeting, given to the touch and penetration of other servants. Her mind would be locked with his, so everything to which she submitted would be his will, his desire. Every servant’s touch would just be an extension of his, something she did for his pleasure, knowing that the more they touched her, the more aggressively he would take her later, burning away their claim on her flesh, erasing it so it would be as if it had never happened.
I would kill any other man who touched you. If I had been in the house when I discovered what you were doing, I would have broken Enrique with my rage. You risk much, habiba.
She trembled at that fierce thought. If I went with you to Council, it wouldn’t matter what was done to me. I am always all yours, my lord. It matters not who touches me.
But I feel your terror at the thought. You c
annot abide a touch other than mine. Even with Enrique, you had to use Amara as a buffer.
I was abused by female vampires as well as males. And I no longer fear Amara.
You are a natural submissive toward a Master. Your deepest betrayal was from a male, which is why your greatest fear is of them.
I only need you with me. To know you are there in my mind. Don’t guard me from my fears. Help me overcome them with your love.
A pause, as if she’d touched a nerve. Or made him consider something that perhaps had recently been in his own thoughts. Encouraged, she forged on, considering what else lay before her. A colorful set of sheer sequined scarves was twined around a staff and fanned out around it like strips upon a Maypole. She knew that pole was anchored to the floor. It could be fitted with a phallus upon which the slave would be impaled vertically, the feet locked to the floor in steel boots. The servant had to stand upright, suffering and penetrated, like a mannequin on display as long as the master desired, possibly hours of torment. In the case of this dungeon, pleasurable torment. She made that correction, needing to believe that. Knowing rationally she could believe it, even if her irrational mind couldn’t yet.
She grew bolder, imagining Mason there with other vampire guests, where the servants, including herself, were all arrayed on the various equipment. She was positioned on that pole, a thick dual-headed vibrator deep in her pussy and rectum. Her arms were pulled behind her back so her breasts were thrust forward. Her nipples would be clamped, chains running from them to attach to her navel piercing and an additional clitoral clamp. All of the stimulus would make her nipples hard and peaked and her clit flushed and prominent.
The vampires would speak casually, socializing as they wandered the room like they were visiting an art gallery. She saw a female hand caressing the taut buttock of a male slave strapped over the spanking bench, his ass already red with welts from his Mistress’s earlier caning. Others watched a male slave grunting under the ministrations of the fucking machine. He was on his back, his knees bound and pulled up into a bent position with nylon cord that was tethered around his throat, such that he had to keep his knees up with his own straining muscles or choke himself as the fucking machine worked in and out of his ass. Sticky lines of semen from his previous climaxes dried over his taut abdomen and chest.
