by Cole, Tillie
Chapter Seven
My chest rose and fell in quick succession. The deep scent of mahogany and tobacco swept around me as heavily as the cloak Maître wore. His head cocked to the side as he admired me from top to toe.
Maître got to his feet and moved back to his throne. I couldn’t take my eyes away from him. I had never seen someone so magnetizing in my entire life. His hand rested on his cheek, gently tapping the white porcelain mask. “You were scouted as a siren?”
“Yes, sir,” I said and he stilled.
“I am Maître. You will call me as such. I am no ‘sir’.” He leaned forward. “This is my castle. I am the master, not a subject.”
“Yes, Maître,” I quickly corrected.
I was rewarded with a large smile. “You learn quickly.”
I huffed a laugh. “When I’m not wrecking rooms full of sex swings, I’m generally a smart cookie.”
His head tipped to the side again as he studied me. I couldn’t read his expression due to the mask and the silver contacts, so by the quirk of his lip I didn’t know if I had misspoken or he was impressed.
“You speak without being told to.”
“I know,” I sighed, then tensed. “Are you going to punish me for that now? For what happened downstairs?”
“Do you want to be punished?” The way he said punished, his voice rising at the end of the word, caused a rush of wetness to gather between my legs.
“Do you want to punish me?”
Maître lounged back on his throne as I asked him that question. He lifted his leg and laid it over the winged arm, mirroring the way he had been sitting when I came into the room. The operatic Italian music flowing from the speakers calmed me like a soothing balm. I spoke Italian, of course. It was as much home to me as English. Though I had never been in a home like this—full of crosses, walls of floggers, canes, and whips, what appeared to be stocks, an intricate wooden bench of some kind and, in the corner of the room, what looked like a giant birdcage.
“Do you like the look of the cage, mon petit chaton?”
I blinked. “Little kitten?”
“You are curious like one, non?”
Maître pushed to his feet and walked straight to me. I wanted to peel the mask off and see the man underneath. He had me more than intrigued. Maître’s hand moved to the mass of hair on my head. Deftly, and with a gentleness that made my skin shiver, he began threading the bobby pins from my tresses, dropping them to my feet in a haphazard pile. My hair fell like a heavy curtain to the middle of my back.
“You will never wear your hair up again.” He bent his head down until his cheek was hovering beside mine. “I’ll need something to grab hold of when I fuck you. If you consent to this, of course.”
Every part of my body was taut and turned on, my stuttered breath betraying how impossibly aroused I was right now. I felt like Maître would simply have to stroke his finger on my bare shoulder and I’d splinter apart. Curiously, I felt safer here, alone with Maître in his room, than in the main room with everyone else.
Maître circled where I knelt. He was tall and broad with cut muscles that flexed with every small step. “I haven’t fucked a siren in quite some time. Have never trained someone solely for my liking.” He walked back to his throne, sat down, and stared at me.
“Never?” I whispered. He shook his head silently.
He leaned forward. “Tell me.” I waited for him to continue. “Why did you refuse so many offers in the main room?” He had been watching. “I check the main room throughout the night, ma chérie. I must ensure my members adhere to the rules.” His eyes narrowed. “I saw the new sirens all joined in…except for you.” I closed my eyes, embarrassment taking me over. “You do not want to be here?”
“Yes, Maître,” I said quickly, opening my eyes. “I do. It’s just that room…” I shook my head. “It was. A lot to take in at once. I…” I decided to be honest. “I don’t know what happened. I just got a case of cold feet.”
Maître came forward again. Moving behind me, he placed his mouth at my ear and whispered, “And now? In this room, with me. Do you have the same cold feet?”
An involuntary moan slipped from my mouth as my blood heated to boiling temperatures at his close presence. Maître lifted my hair in one hand, like a rope, and I felt his breath on the back of my neck.
“No, Maître.” My voice was raspy. “No cold feet at all.”
“Do you want to play with me, ma chérie? Do you want to be my siren, my submissive? Do you consent to being mine?”
There was only one answer I could possibly give. “Yes, Maître. I give my consent to being all yours.”
“Bon,” he said and tightened his grip on my hair. Not hard enough to cause pain, but enough to make me still and fall under his command. I froze in shock at how quickly my body had fallen under his direction. He dropped to his knees behind me, and his free hand moved to my panties and slipped underneath the lace. I hitched a breath at his touch, my thighs instinctively sliding apart.
“You’re so wet, mon petit chaton,” he whispered and moved his fingers to my clit. I moaned out loud, my head falling back against his hard chest. “Do you want to come?”
“Yes,” I said, moving my hips to try to get his fingers to move. Maître pulled on my hair and his fingers stilled. “No!” I protested. “Don’t stop. Please!”
“One,” he said, his mouth at my ear. His lips ran up and down the side of my neck, his warm breath causing my skin to bump in its wake. “Do not give me commands. Ever.” The deep timbre of his voice held me captive, the tight fist in my hair keeping me firmly in place against his chest. “I don’t respond to orders.”
He pressed those soft lips of his to my hot skin, dusting whispers of kisses on my neck, the gentleness in stark contrast to the firm grip he commandeered in my hair. My fast breathing was loud enough to be heard over the operatic music playing all around us, the string section soft in melody and sweet in tone.
“And two,” he said, pulling my head so far back the back of my skull rested on his shoulder as his lips kissed my earlobe. “You will address me at all times as Maître. I am your master in this club. I am your sovereign, your leader and king. To not address me as such is disrespectful, and I do not tolerate disrespect in this chambre.”
“Yes, Maître,” I whispered, using all the breath I had left in my lungs. My eyes fluttered closed when his fingers moved from my clit to my entrance.
Maître kissed along my jaw, my legs turning to Jell-O as he pushed a single finger inside me. I cried out, leaning against him to keep from falling. “You smell like strawberries,” he said, pushing his finger in and out of me. “Of lychees and blossoms.” I moaned when he hooked his finger and hit my G-spot.
“Yes,” I whispered, and his finger stopped moving. “Yes, Maître,” I corrected. “It’s my perfume.”
“See?” Maître moved his finger again, adding a second. “For that you shall be rewarded.” I moaned. It felt so good. “I can teach you many things, mon petit chaton. Many things.”
His hand moved from my hair to my bustier. He freed my breasts, one by one, and my bustier fell an inch, to my waist. With one hand, he began circling my clit with his thumb. With his other hand, he rolled my nipple in his fingers. “I will teach you all of the things I like. You will obey me. In return, you will be pleasured like you have never been pleasured before.”
“Yes, Maître,” I said, my stomach tightening as my orgasm began to build. It was a rising wave, ready to crash into me. I needed more. He had just touched me and I needed so much more.
“You will submit to me. You will become mine and, in this chambre, I will own you.”
“Yes, Maître, yes!” I cried and arched my back when the fingers at my clit moved faster and the fingers inside me pushed at my G-spot over and over again. His minty breath ghosted over my face, and his hand palmed my breasts. Maître was everywhere all at once, no part of me unaffected by his presence.
“Come.” One single uttered command fro
m his mouth and I shattered. I orgasmed so strongly it stole my breath and strength and the tiny morsel of inhibition I had left.
His hands didn’t stop, just pushed and pushed and drained me of all the pleasure I could muster. I bit my lip at the too-heady sensation until it became too much and my body jerked, unable to take any more. Maître slowed his fingers inside me, moving his other hand from my breasts to push my hair from my face and neck.
“That is just the beginning. You have no idea what is yet to come. What awaits you in my chambre with me.” I wanted it. Wanted everything he offered. “I will break you, mon petit chaton. I will break you apart and rebuild you until you live and breathe only for my touch. Oui?”
“Yes, Maître.”
“We will have fun, you and I,” Maître said, laying a final kiss on my neck before moving away from me. I placed my palm on the ground just to stop me from falling over.
Once he was towering over me, he ordered, “Kneel.” I knelt on the floor, straightening my back. I was wet and hot and thoroughly sated, and all he had used on me were his fingers, lips, and voice.
Maître moved back to his throne, and I noticed how hard he was. I lost my breath at the sight. As he sat back down, he said, “You will return to me tomorrow night at eight p.m. You will enter this room and kneel while you wait for me.” Maître reached into his silk pants and pulled out his dick for my viewing. My eyes widened as he began stroking it lazily, as if the action were nothing at all. I felt that ache between my legs begin to build again. “And you will bring with you a list of your hard and soft limits.”
“A l-list, Maître?” I stuttered, unable to take my eyes away from his hand. He was huge.
“Hard limits are what you do not want me to do to you. Things too far out of your comfort zone.” Maître’s hips rolled slightly on the throne. I was transfixed at the seductive sight. His jaw clenched and his skin flushed at the pleasure he was bringing to himself. “Soft limits,” he said, his French accent thickening as he fell deeper into his pleasure. “Are things you may like to try on occasion, or if the opportunity is right. Anything not on those two lists is bon.”
Maître hissed and his hand started to work faster. I moved my hand between my legs, too turned on by his touching himself to think of anything but joining him.
“Stop,” Maître ordered. He turned on his throne, and his legs widened so I had a full view of his self-pleasure. My hand froze. “You will not touch yourself for the rest of the night.” Maître stroked his hand faster and faster, licking his lips. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t see his face. I saw the tension building in his bare torso and the defined V that led to his crotch.
“You will kneel on that spot until I tell you to go home.” Every part of his being exuded carnal appetite and sin. “If you do not, then you do not return to me tomorrow night. You never come to NOX ever again. You leave now, and will forever have had only a glimpse of what would have awaited you if only you’d learned to submit and do as you are instructed.”
His silver eyes were locked on me, daring me to defy him. I moved my hand from my crotch. “Clasp them behind your back,” Maître said, nudging his head toward my hands.
One by one, I placed them behind my back, and I entwined my fingers. Maître worked his hand faster and faster over his length, never looking away from me as he brought himself closer to climax.
“You will sit like this for the rest of the night,” he repeated, then stilled, clenching his teeth and grunting as he came, semen landing on his tanned washboard stomach. Slightly breathless, but impossibly composed, he added, “And you will watch me come repeatedly until you are released.” He smirked. “You may think me a sadist.” He stroked himself again. “Maybe I am. That is for you to find out.”
As the night moved on, my legs grew numb and my eyes felt raw from having watched Maître masturbate four more times before me. Each time he had ordered that my hands stay behind my back. I didn’t know how long I could stand sitting like this. I was wet and so flustered I could barely function. Maître hadn’t said one more word to me, just sat on his throne, hard gaze locked on me, daring me to rebel.
Just when I felt I couldn’t take any more, the sound of a gong being hit vibrated through the room, making me jump. Maître had been watching me, cheek resting on his hand, for the past hour. He was testing me. Measuring how much I wanted this. Wanted him. Was willing to be under his control.
In this moment, I didn’t think I’d ever wanted anyone more.
“Rise,” he said when the sound of the gong stopped. I tried to move, but when I did, I found that my legs were completely dead from sitting in one position for too long. Maître came across the room as I attempted to get to my feet. Placing his hands on my arms, he hoisted me up. He was incredibly strong. I grimaced and willed myself not to moan as the blood that had been so harshly denied to my legs rushed into my muscles and veins like a dam breaking and swelling the rivers.
“Tomorrow,” Maître said. Just before he turned away, he said, “Maître Auguste.” He reached out and ran his finger down my cheek, over my mask, and down to my neck. His touch stole my breath. What was it about this man that made my own body betray me? “You will call me Maître Auguste.” The way he said Auguste wrapped around me like a Fall breeze threading through my hair.
He waited, with a steely gaze, for me to answer. “Yes, Maître Auguste.”
“Tomorrow, mon petit chaton. You and I…we shall play.”
Maître Auguste walked past his throne and toward a doorway that took him out of sight. The door behind me opened and Bunny walked in. She stopped dead when she saw me, flushed and exposed.
“This way,” she said. I followed her and tried to wrap my head around what had just happened. It felt like a dream. But when I thought back to his fingers inside me and the scream that had ripped from my throat as I collapsed against him, I recalled every single stroke with perfect clarity.
We entered the elevator, and Bunny pressed the lowest button. We descended, and as the doors opened, we were in a vast white space with antique golden mirrors, showers, and marble walls and floor tiles. It looked like an ornate French spa.
Other women occupied the space, changing from their fetish wear of choice and into “civilian clothes,” as Bunny had called them. Their masks remained in place. I was led past them, and curious stares followed me.
“You caused quite the commotion tonight. First, in the swing room,” Bunny said. I grimaced in embarrassment at that memory. “And now they all want to take a peek at the siren who has lured in Maître.”
Bunny stopped at what appeared to be a private changing room. She handed me a card. “This is a personal carrel just for you.” She pointed to the door. “This changing room belongs to Maître’s submissives. Their exclusive room.” Bunny pointed at the lock. I scanned the card over it, and the door opened. My eyes rounded when I peered inside. It was almost as big as my apartment. It was decorated in all golds and whites, and a bathtub in the center of the room was perched on gilded feet. A huge shower was in the corner, and a toilet was in a closed-off room. Couches, a fridge filled with water. And…
“A closet,” I said and walked to the tall golden doors. I pulled them open to find outfit after outfit hung up on white padded hangers. My eyes widened at the sights. Leather and lace and chains.
“Maître’s specific tastes,” Bunny said and pointed to my current siren attire. “You will no longer need the standard siren uniform. Each night you arrive, an outfit from this closet will be waiting for you.” Bunny led me to white elevator doors at the end of the room. “There are three buttons. The top is for Maître’s chambre. You will go directly there every night after you change. You will only see the members of the club if he brings you down to the main floor.” She pointed to the middle button. “This is for this floor. For you to change at the beginning and end of the night.”
“And the bottom button?”
“Is where a town car will await you. They will pick you up from y
our apartment and return you home.”
“Wow.”
Bunny gave me a smile and brushed past me. “Your clothes for home are hung up in the end closet.”
“How many people have used this room?” I asked.
Bunny turned to me, her purple eyes softening. “None. This is the first time it has been used.” With that, she departed. The door clicked shut, locking everyone else outside.
I scanned the room and, still stunned, made my way to the closet and found the dress and trench coat that I’d arrived in. I dressed and pressed the bottom button of the elevator. As it opened, a large underground parking lot met me. While other people were climbing into parked cars in the lot, mine was waiting for me at the private elevator exit. “Miss,” a driver said, getting out of the car, and he opened the rear door for me. I climbed inside, smiling at him. The windows were tinted so black that no one would see inside. The cars filed out into a tunnel that opened onto a deserted back road.
“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you, Maître Auguste?” I said and sat back on the leather seat, closing my eyes. Maître’s masked face sprang to my mind, along with that arrogant flicker of a smirk he had frequently given me.
I inhaled a deep breath when my pulse started to race. His voice, his accent, his cut and ripped body, which had pinned me to him. And those lips, the lips that delivered such soft kisses, and those hands, which had made me come so hard it was akin to reaching nirvana.
Maître Auguste. I ran his name around my head, looking out the window as we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. My body felt alive just remembering how I’d felt in his presence. And I would be back there tomorrow night to play.
At that thought, I smiled.
Chapter Eight
“Electrostimulation?”
“Hard limit,” I said, as Novah added that to what we’d deemed the “Oh, fuck no!” list. Novah had found a list online of typical BDSM sex practices. The farther we went down the list, the more I realized what deep shit I was in.
