Cantrips: Volume #1: Minor Magics Crafted to Amuse and Entertain
Page 22
As she warred with that decision, his attention shifted to the cross again.
“Amara has done far more time here. I do not know why it’s the female slave who will goad the Master more, be more daring, as if begging to be restrained, whipped or caned, but Enrique never pushes me nearly as much as his wife does.” His gaze returned to Jessica’s face and his brow rose. “You have already eclipsed her.”
Jess set her jaw. “Perhaps because I refuse to be less than the other part of your soul, my lord.”
“And nothing challenges a man as much as the voice of his own soul. That is a blade with two edges, habiba. You are testing my patience. I gave you a command. It is the last time tonight I will repeat myself.”
It was a leap of faith, and he was perhaps the only one in the whole world who understood how far a leap it was for her. Closing her eyes, she made that step. She had to take a breath, lay her palm against the smooth wood to steady herself. But she’d done it. There was less than a hand’s span between her body and the cross.
“Now all the way on.” A touch of gentleness beneath the steel. She put her bare foot on the right side rest and turned to face him. Closing her hands on the portion of the cross near her hips to balance, she positioned the other foot in the correct place. Now her legs were spread apart, past shoulder width. She knew there was an adjustable bolt underneath the small of her back where he could increase that span if he desired.
“Put your wrists in the channels above your head.”
He could have guided them there, but she feared nothing when he touched her, and he knew that. He was making her face her fears. It was a beautifully made cross, with ornate scrollwork carved in the sides. Instead of being flat, the thick crossed pieces had shallow channels so the limbs and body were somewhat cupped inside the restraint system. When she laid her arms in the channels and fitted her wrists into the more narrow section which still had enough room for a man’s wrists as well as a woman’s, she nevertheless felt the threat of further restraint to come.
As she reached up to do his bidding, she was conscious of how he watched the stretch of her upper body, the arch of her ribs, the rise of her breasts as her breathing elevated.
Stepping forward now, he bent and secured the first ankle. Down here, play was with third mark servants, those who had the strength to break thin straps in moments of frenzied abandon, so chain was used. It pressed into her skin, held her fast, and tightened up as he secured it with a twisting latch. One limb only. All the others were free, but she began to tremble again, caught between fears from her past and something else, something responding to the touch of his hands on her ankle as he bound her.
He’d told her where to put her wrists, but he was here, so close. His long copper hair fell over his shoulder and brushed her thigh as he bent. She wanted to reach down, wanted to touch.
Did she twitch, or did he see her intent in her mind? Before her wrist could so much as shift, he was holding it, keeping it pushed in that channel, his body a bulwark against hers as his face bent close.
“You will be still.”
The feel of his clothed body against her, over six feet of solid muscle and a Master’s will, overwhelmed her. He kept her attention as he secured that wrist the same way. Then the other. The apprehension was spinning outward, cutting though her stomach lining, making her fingers curl. She could do this. She could.
Why do you feel you must do it alone, Jessica? He straightened from the other ankle, her limbs now secured at the four points. Speak to me, from your heart. Do not think.
“I need your help. Master.” He was right. She didn’t call him by that title much, except in not-so-subtle challenge, but it was different in this moment, and the flicker of his gaze registered it.
“Yes, you do. That is part of what you need to trust. You are frightened. But no matter how frightened you get, Jessica, I will make you serve my will tonight. Do you understand? You have no choice in this. As your Master, all choices are mine.”
“Y-yes.” She stared at him, reeling at such a stern declaration. No choices. She was his to do with as he would. Just like Raithe. But not. She had no choice but to trust him now.
“Very well.” There were additional restraints on the cross and he employed them, putting straps over her thighs, her waist, above her breasts and then across her forehead, his hands lingering on her hair before he added an additional secure strap to her upper arms and elbows. She was completely immobilized, spread open, and there was no part of her that wasn’t shaking.
He wasn’t done yet. Turning, he moved to the armoire in the corner, one that held all manner of even more terrifying things. He opened two of the smaller drawers, and when he turned he was holding a set of small clips, a glittering silver chain attached to nipple clamps, and a pair of smaller metal pieces she couldn’t readily identify.
Her body jerked in spasmodic reaction, a tiny note of panic caught in her throat. Giving her an even look, he moved to an intercom across the room, as if her trembling and such sounds were of no concern to him. When he pressed the button, Jessica was startled to hear the voice of Hector, the groundskeeper, responding to the call. “Yes, sir?”
“Hector, I need you to pick out two dozen white roses from the garden. Various sizes. I want the blooms half opened, and cut a foot of stem. Make sure they have thorns.”
“Yes, sir. Where do you want them brought?”
She saw Hector every day. Would Mason have him come here, see her like this?
“Give them to Amara. She will bring them to me.”
The flood of relief was something she couldn’t hide, and when his expression settled into those unrelenting lines, she cursed herself. She’d proven once again that she couldn’t—
“I would strongly suggest you not finish that thought. You’re not listening, Jessica. Hector will not bring the roses here, because no man will see you like this. None but me. Not now, not ever.”
He was back in front of her. He’d moved swiftly, in that startling way vampires could, where even a third mark couldn’t follow them. It made her jump, because she was already tense, but then he cupped her breast. His gaze was on it, his thumb passing idly over the nipple. While it immediately drew up into an aroused point under his familiar touch, she knew that wasn’t his intent. His expression, his attitude, said he was touching her breast because he wanted to touch and fondle what was his alone to enjoy. And though she still quaked in the grip of her past fears, something else wound its way through that cold pool, something warm and serpentine, wicked and pleasurable at once.
He still held the nipple clamps. Like everything else Mason used in this room, they were handcrafted, the clamps fashioned as the jaws of two tiny silver tigers with glittering green eyes. They were like the tattoo on her back, the one that had transformed her scars into a declaration of her loyalty and devotion to him, the deepest reassurance possible. His and his alone. He meant that.
“You are learning, habiba.” As his voice dropped to a husky murmur, he took her nipple between forefinger and thumb, squeezing slowly and with greater pressure as he lifted his attention to her face, watching her breath draw in as he increased the vise, restricted the blood flow.
“I haven’t...seen those before.”
“I had them made for you. I didn’t anticipate using them so soon.” When he withdrew his fingers, the sensation shot straight to her pussy, then contracted there, hard, when he replaced his touch with the tiger’s jaws. Her breath sucked in. “Oh...”
“Yes, it hurts. But it is a pain I know you will embrace. More than once, you have climaxed when my fangs pierced that lovely pink circle around your nipple, when I licked your blood from it.”
She couldn’t find words, but cried out when he began that squeezing pressure on the other nipple, giving her the warmth of his fingers for that protracted moment before the second one went on. She writhed the tiny amount allowed against her multiple restraints, her throat arching as she pressed against the forehead strap.
“Yes...”
“You will be waiting a long, long time for that. Your punishment and my pleasure.”
There was a chain connecting the clamps, a y-chain whose silver tail ran down her belly and teased against her clit. Now he used one of those metal pieces he’d brought, attaching it to the end of the chain. The piece looked somewhat like a steel curtain pin. But she quickly understood its use when his fingers pressed down around her clit, pinching it up high so the narrow and long u-shape could slide along the base of that nerve-rich center on either side. When he got the metal piece positioned and then released the sides, it instantly compressed her clit inside its grip. She whimpered at the sensation, but he paid her no attention, because he wasn’t done with this phase of her torment.
She moaned outright as he positioned the second metal piece. It was shaped like two crossed U’s, forming a basket shape about the size of the broad head of a man’s cock. There were four smooth and rounded prongs on the edges. He slid the basket portion inside her pussy, stretching it open, and those prongs, like the clit clamp, pinched down on her labia on the outside to hold it inside of her. With her pussy spread open that way, she felt warm air enter that space, caressing her. Blood was throbbing down there, her arousal heightened by all the restrictions and manipulations, and she knew she was all but panting. Her eyes coursed hungrily over Mason. He was hard and thick against his jeans, but he moved with utter calm and control, as if he had all the time in the world.
He returned to his chair, adjusting it so he could face her, peruse her at his leisure. Even at the sound of footsteps on the winding stairs, he didn’t so much as flicker an eye lash in that direction. She kept staring at him, her body so needy for him that she knew her hips were twitching against their restraints, shamelessly wanting to emulate the rhythm they would experience if he was thrusting into her.
“Lower your eyes, Jessica. You don’t have permission to look at me again until I command it.”
God, the cruelty of it. But it was diabolical as well, because it meant all her focus was now on what was happening in her body, and knowing he was taking his pleasure of viewing her, his property, his slave, as long as he wished. Amara was probably going to bring him the War and Peace she’d thought about earlier, along with those roses.
“My lord.” Amara’s soft voice, and Jessica heard something being placed on the table next to him, the roses in a heavy crystal vase perhaps. A tinier clink followed. “I also brought you a glass of wine, as you requested.”
“Thank you. That will be all.”
Short, dismissive. He hadn’t forgiven yet. Jessica had almost forgotten what events had led to this moment, and truth, she couldn’t really lend any thoughts to it. It was the oddest feeling, those tiger teeth holding her with such incredible discomfort, but discomfort that had her nipples large as cherries, throbbing for the soothing touch of his mouth. Her pussy opened up and clamped down at once, as if she’d been widened for a cock, but since no cock was there, she was dripping her arousal on the floor between her spread feet, a small, viscous pool.
Mason rose. She heard the rustle of his clothes, and knew it was deliberate, since he could move without any noise if he wished. When he stopped before her, she saw he had three white roses in his hands. He took the middle one, a bloom almost as wide as her hand even half-opened, and touched it to that pool, collecting her moisture off the otherwise pristine floor. She wasn’t supposed to lift her eyes, she knew, but she sensed him smelling it, could imagine those handsome nostrils flaring, taking in her scent, even perhaps touching his tongue to collect a drop off the silken petal, as he would if he put his mouth between her legs. A little cry came from her throat, incoherent need.
“Yes, you taste sweet, habiba. You and this rose together...it would win new prizes from an international rose competition. Smell yourself, and know that I find this the most prized of all scents in my garden.”
Putting the bloom to her mouth, he teased with it, and she did smell her scent in the exotic fragrance. She wanted to kiss that taste on his lips. Wanted to put her mouth everywhere. Oh, God, she didn’t know it was possible for pleasure to become agony.
“We are only getting started. You were right, what you thought earlier. Raithe didn’t know that true torture lies in an intricate working of pleasure, denial and pain. But you will know this. You’re already feeling the hint of it, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Master.” There was no challenge or manipulation now. Here in this place, under his command, there was no other acceptable way to address him. She embraced the title, embraced everything about him.
He lowered the rose and slid it between her legs. She cried out harshly, the mere feel of it sliding over her compressed clit, then teasing into that opening between her spread labia, almost unbearably exciting. He pressed the rose partially up into that open channel of her pussy, twirling it idly, so it felt like tiny, silken tongues lapping at those slippery walls. Her body shuddered, convulsed, and she couldn’t keep track of all the noises coming from her throat, a symphony of involuntary responses to his stimulation.
“Lovely. I love to hear you sing.”
When she thought her brain might just shut down from all the sensations he was inflicting upon her, he changed tactics. He drew a tiny knife from the pocket of his jeans, one with a slim, silver blade that flashed out at the touch of his finger, and cut the stem. Setting that on the table, he gathered the rose bloom in his palm, compressed it, and then began to insert it into her stretched pussy. The bud was so large that, once there and released, it spread out as much as the metal frame allowed. Her muscles twitched and contracted where the silken petals touched her inside. One petal, dislodged before he inserted the bud, fell on her foot, a tiny caress.
“That will stay there for now. Having it stroke you in response to your barest movement will make you wetter. You will saturate it and, when you climax upon it, I will take it and have it preserved, glazed and put under glass. It will go in my gallery, where I can gaze upon a very rare species of rose, Jessica’s Pleasure, whenever I wish. But you need pain, too, don’t you, my sweet slave?”
She couldn’t nod with her head held the way it was, but she was all his. Her mind had no sensible thoughts. He wasn’t bringing her toward climax. He was spinning an enchantment to keep her in such an intense state of arousal a climax might be torture when he was done, an overload of pleasure no one could survive.
“Oh, a third mark can, habiba. No worries on that. You are far more resilient than a mere human. But then, you always have been.”
He’d brought the second rose up to her wrist and caressed her pulse around the chain. Then he made her close her fingers around the bloom, holding it as he cut the stem. She watched the silver blade move and imagined him drawing it along her flesh. The thought rippled across her nerves. But she didn’t anticipate what he would do next. He pocketed the blade, and slid the stem beneath her forearm. She gasped when he used a pair of the small clips to turn it into a manacle there, cinching the thick stem tight enough the thorns bit into her flesh. And then he cinched it an extra half inch and she moaned as they pierced flesh, drawing blood. It was a hint of what his fangs felt like, sinking in, and her body responded accordingly, jerking against the pain and aching arousal at once.
Tears were gathering in her eyes. Not tears like Raithe pulled from her. This was destroying her, bit by bit. In some vague, hazy part of her mind, she realized she’d ceased worrying about Raithe from the first moment Mason had put the silver tigers upon her. Everything in her had centered upon him and what he was doing to her. Her Master was breaking her down, cell by cell, because when he was done, she would trust him utterly. Raithe would hold nothing in her mind but her contempt. Not even that. There was no room for that, for anything other than Mason.
“Look at me, Jessica.”<
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When she brought her wild gaze up to him, she met eyes of pure red and gold fire, his mouth tight with male lust and determination that inundated her. A thin trickle of blood was working its way down her arm from where those thorns were biting into her. His gaze went to that tiny flow even as he spoke, his voice a tiger’s growl.
“You thought, when I picked you up, that I was going to take you out of here. And I was.”
She swallowed, tried to form words. “W-why didn’t you?”
“It was your own thoughts, habiba. Your belief that a part of you would forever be Raithe’s slave if you couldn’t get past the fears. I told you at the beginning, I would tolerate no other male’s claim on you. Particularly that male’s. Who, if he’s not rotting in Hell, when I get there, I will find him and drag him to the eternal fires myself.”
She believed it, heard it in the deadly coldness beneath the heat.
“On my way home, you imagined me doing things to you...floggings, brandings. I could never take a whip to your soft flesh, or give you the searing torment of fire. But I can turn your yearning into the deepest suffering imaginable, an ache that goes on and on, binding your soul tighter and tighter, until you are pleading for mercy, yet not really wanting it, all at once.”
The tears rolled down her face, but she didn’t want him to stop. Maybe that was why she was crying. His hands cupped her face, thumbs spreading the moisture of those tears over her dry lips, and brought her eyes back to him again.
“There are twenty-one more roses behind me, habiba. You will feel the prick of all their thorns, the silk of their petals. You will bleed for me, come for me, beg for me. But in the end, I will bring you to utter stillness, because you will simply be mine. I will take your soul, chain it to me, and you will never fear anything again.”
Part Seven
I only fear losing you, my lord.
For wasn’t that truly the fear that crept through her mind, spread out until it seemed the terror of it was coursing through her very blood? The fear that whenever he left this estate, she would never see him again? She’d lost so very much in her life, and he’d given her back passion, happiness, laughter…love. She wouldn’t survive losing that again, and she wondered how he’d borne it for three hundred years, when he lost the first woman who had brought that to him.