by Harte, Roxy
“I have to have hope, Master. If I don’t have hope, what else is left?”
“Me. Us.”
“Yes,” I agree, because we are what matters and I can’t bear another fight about this. I wait until he is behind the closed door of the bathroom and I hear the shower running to sigh heavily. The closer I get to my due date, the more I worry—as much about having to have a Cesarean section as about whether or not Thomas will be able to get here in time for the birth.
Opening the drawer in the bedside table, I withdraw the cell phone that is my main connection to Thomas. He hasn’t texted in two days. I text him. Are you there?
Moments later I receive I’m in London.
“London?”
Master comes out of the bathroom, towel in hand, still rubbing his hair, and I try to hide the cell phone in the sheets.
“I know you text Thomas, I know he texts you. What about London?”
“He’s in London.”
“Hmm.”
“That’s it? Hmm?” I’m irritated Master isn’t as upset by this as I am. I want to know he’s in one place, safe, and that no danger is involved. I keep thinking about Nikos lying on our dining room table, riddled with bullets, and Master operating on him. It could have been Thomas. It could have—
“He’s working—for a senator who is running for president—I assumed there would be travel involved.”
As my ire rises my cell vibrates. I look at the screen. “He said, ‘I wish your Master watched television. Tell him to google Charles François Charbonneau.’” I look at Master, shrugging. “Who is Charles François Charbonneau? And what does that have to do with London?”
Master frowns and leaves the room. I follow him to the kitchen, where he left his laptop set up last night. While he powers up I pour him a cup of coffee and salivate.I would really love a cup of coffee.
I turn, hearing the sound of a news reporter, and see Master watching a news feed. I set the coffee on the table, catching a glimpse of what he’s watching. I immediately recognize the woman standing behind a podium as Thomas’ wife.
“That’s Latish— Oh my God!” On the video, a man has been shot and Lattie ducks behind the podium, but only for a second and then she is yelling at the cameras. It seems everything happens so fast. She drops to her knees, crawls to the man who was shot, and is then grabbed and dragged off the stage. The video clip ends. “What just happened?”
Master runs his hand through his hair, looking shocked. “I think that was Lattie being kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped? Oh God.” I sit down hard in the kitchen chair next to Master.
“The man was her father.” Master replays the video. “You said Thomas is in London?”
“That’s what his text said. Why?”
“This video was taped in Sudan.”
What does that mean? Does he think Thomas lied to us? Or will he fly from London to Sudan? I don’t want to know. I really don’t. But I do. If he is flying into danger…
God, protect him.
Master takes my hand and squeezes it. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
I nod, hoping, praying. Please, please let him be fine. Keep him safe. I gesture at the monitor. “I don’t think I want him involved in this.”
Kissing my knuckles, Master pulls me out of my chair and to him. I sit on his lap, hugging him hard. He holds me as tightly as he can, and I realize he’s scared too. I cringe at every thought going through my head, and I imagine his thoughts being just as dark.
I start crying. “Why can’t he just be a normal guy? Why can’t he just be safe with us every day?”
Kissing my temple, he asks, “Would we love him as much without the danger and intrigue?”
“I would. I would!” I cry harder against his shoulder, all of the pain I’ve been holding in leaking out in racking sobs. “I want my Lord Fyre back. I want him back.”
Master stands me up and leads me to the library. I’m still crying but my body responds to the walk down the long hallway, just knowing a scene is coming. Inside the room, Master holds out a box of tissues. “Blow.”
I take a tissue and do as I’m told.
He points to a stool. “Sit.”
I look around the room with interest. This impromptu scene has left no time for an elaborate setup, and Master is all about setting a specific mood. As it is I am sitting on a low, wooden stool in his library.
Cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang. The on-the-hour announcement draws my attention to a new acquisition. A carved bird, which popped through a small door bobs with each “cuckoo”. I used to have a collection of clocks—mantle clocks, pendulum clocks, grandfather clocks, cuckoo clocks—I realize quite suddenly I haven’t missed them. God, the ruckus they used to make. How did I ever sleep? I appreciate the silence when we are here at the penthouse.
By the sixth cuckoo, I’m annoyed by the sound.
“Like it?”
Is this a trick question? We are in the library, after all. It makes me wonder.
“It’s beautifully carved.”
He snickers and I think by my avoidance of the question I probably gave him more information than I intended. I don’t know why I’m worried. It’s only a cuckoo clock.
“Do you think if I bind your wrists lightly that you would be comfortable for a while?”
Bondage? Really? I hold out my arms and bounce with glee. I couldn’t be more excited if I tried.
Smiling, Master comes forward, holding out a wide length of silk. He binds my wrists one to the other, leaving them resting in my lap. He is careful not to tie my wrists so tight that it would slow my circulation. To my collar he attaches a chain that is anchored to the base of the stool. “You can move from the stool to the floor and from the floor to the stool if you get uncomfortable.”
I appreciate his concern about the babies and blood clots, but it only makes me more impatient to give birth. I want to be tied in uncomfortable positions and used roughly, but I’m not complaining. I am bound. For now that is enough.
He leaves me sitting and walks over to his desk.
“I know you love clocks.” He lifts the cuckoo clock, and I look at it with new interest. As he carries it toward me I realize this is no ordinary clock. It folds open like a book and the interior is mostly hollow. “I’m going to box your head inside of the clock. Do you agree to this scene?”
Curious and excited, I nod. I’ve seen slaves being led around Lewd Larry’s with their heads trapped inside wooden boxes and I’ve never figured out the fascination. I’ve heard some skin-tingling stories about insects or small mice being put inside the box to torture the one caged though I’ve never seen it done.
He fits the clock around my head and closes me in. I hear a click as the sides lock together. I am trapped in the dark, although as my eyes adjust some light comes through the opening around my neck. Master doesn’t say anything. I don’t like not seeing him, I don’t like blindfolds, and I’m finding I don’t like being boxed in much better.
My heart starts racing. I don’t like this. I really don’t like this.
I feel his gentle touch on my shoulders. “Relax. I’m right here.”
I try to relax, dropping my chin to seek the light coming through the opening. Feeling my panic rise, I can’t help but think how ridiculous this is. I’ve been bound and caged in dark rooms plenty of times and never panicked. What’s the difference? This box on my shoulders is like a little dark room for my head.
He opens the face of the clock and looks at me. “Do you want me to leave this open?”
Yes, yes, yes. I squeeze my hands into tight fists. I can do this, dammit. “No, I’m fine.”
He closes the face of the clock, pitching me back into darkness. “I will be here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Heart racing, breathing hard, I war with myself in the dark, fighting panic. I don’t know how long I sit there. I almost safe word a dozen times but finally, after what seems like hours, I win. I sig
h with relief, realizing I’m fine. I’m going to stay fine. Master is right here and he won’t let anything happen to me.
Cuckoo-clang.
I jump, almost falling off the stool. Master steadies me with his hand on my elbow and I realize my hands flew up to grab the clock, but bound as I am I only end up hitting the box and jarring my head. Cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang.
“Eight o’clock,” I say, really, really hating cuckoo clocks.
Master opens the face of the clock and holds a bottle of water up to the opening. He helps me to take a drink. “I’m very proud of you, Kitten.”
I know he is. I can hear it in his voice.
With a lot of assistance, he helps me to lie on the floor, adding cushions beneath my knees and lumbar. He attaches a spreader bar between my legs with loose cuffs. I’m curious why now, after so many months of almost no play, he has come up with these ingenious ideas of how we can play. Better late than not at all I suppose.
He props my shoulders up with another cushion, explaining, “I want you to be able to watch.”
It is a strange sensation, watching him from the round hole of my head-clock. Kneeling beside me, he bends forward and licks my clit. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be seeing, because my big belly is in the way, but I like his tongue on my clit so I don’t say anything. My hips start to move with the rhythm of his tongue, but he pulls away.
Going to the other side of the room, he pushes toward us a large, oval antique mirror and angles it so that I can see everything. “Better?”
I nod.
“You should have told me you couldn’t see.”
“Sorry, Master.”
He smiles but walks away. I look at my spread genitalia and the view he would have of my big, swollen belly. Not sexy. Not sexy at all.
It seems like he is forever returning, but that is part of this game, the isolation.
When he does return he bears lube, a small, clear cylinder and a hand vacuum pump. I lick my lips, new anticipation making my need spike. After slathering a thick coat of lube over my clit and labia, he positions the cylinder over my clit. With the valve open, he starts pumping. From past experience, I know this is just the warm-up. It feels like he is sucking my clit with his mouth, but the view in the mirror tells me it is all the manual tool. With his fingertips he teases my labia, then slides a finger inside.
I close my eyes, his touch feels so sweet. My body hums with pleasure. He takes me so close to orgasm, so close…
He stops pumping and closes the valve. The next pump sucks my clit, leaving it clearly distended inside the tube. It stays that way. He pumps again, stretching it more.
“Oh!” My hips jerk, orgasm so close. Please, please, please.
Smiling, Master leans over me and closes the door to the cuckoo clock. “That’s enough for now. Rest awhile, Kitten.”
No, no, no. I want to come.
* * * * *
I’m floating, flying…
Cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang-cuckoo-clang.
I jerk back to the reality of the library at 10:00 p.m. Damn, I despise that clock. Master rubs my shoulders. “Don’t hate the clock. Feeling all right?”
“I was feeling wonderful.”
He chuckles.
“Damn sadist,” I murmur under my breath.
“What was that, sweetheart?”
“Nothing, Master,” I answer, smiling sweetly.
Master removes the box from my head, and I am comforted that he has dimmed the lights and lit candles around the room. The mirror is still in position, giving me a view of my clit sucked inside the cylinder. It looks huge inside the glass tube. Shit. I worry it will be painful when he removes it, like when he removes the nipple clamps, and am surprised when it isn’t. However, when his lips close over the engorged flesh I buck away.
“Oh God!”
“A little sensitive?”
“Yeah.”
He releases my ankles from the spreader bar so that he can position himself between my legs before moving back into position. “I’ll be gentle.”
The new angle is better, and he does lick with a softer stroke. Taking hold of my bound wrists, he pulls my hands down. “Use your fingers to hold yourself open for me.”
I press against my flesh, pulling apart my labia, which makes my clit stick out even more. “God!”
He chuckles against my flesh, and just his breath is sensation enough. He licks my fingers and my labia, lapping my flesh. I like the way his tongue feels when it runs over my fingers and then my labia and back again. He laps closer and closer to my clit, almost touching but not. Oh God. I want my clit in his mouth. I want to be sucked on. As if he’s reading my mind, he gives me what I want, but my clit is so super-sensitive I squeal. He turns his attention back to my fingers and labia.
His tongue glides over the tops of my fingers, slips under them. I imagine him tasting my juices. I can feel my slickness beneath my fingers.
Unexpectedly he reaches into his pants pocket and retrieves his cell phone. “Hello?”
When he switches the cell to speaker, a jolt of adrenaline speeds through my veins knowing it is Lord Fyre.
“I’m leaving in a few minutes.”
Leaving? London? Master’s and my gazes collide. We’re both holding our breath. This seems like so much more than just a simple update phone call. Where are you going? Sudan? Please don’t let it be Sudan.
“I need you to run to the grocery.”
Run to the grocery? Is that code? Do he and Master have code words set up that I don’t know about?
“Sure, no problem.” Master shrugs. Obviously not code.
“Kiddie Kibble, diapers, formula, a few bottles and juice.”
The line goes dead, leaving Master saying, “Hello? Are you there?” until the phone in his hand starts beeping. Looking at me, he says, “Did you understand that?”
I shake my head. “If it’s code, I don’t know it.”
“Then I guess we take him at his word.” Master releases my wrists and helps me up.
“Maybe it’s the store that’s more important than the items,” I suggest. I realize my legs are stiff and bounce a little.
“I shouldn’t have had you on the floor so long.”
“I’m fine. I lie on the cushion on the floor at the club hours longer every evening. Those are pretty specific items. Maybe Thomas is just worried we won’t be prepared for the new babies. He’s so convinced they’re coming early.”
“Kiddie Kibble?” Master asks.
“High-sugar, over-processed cereal. You’ve seen the commercial with the talking elephant, right?” No, because he doesn’t watch television. I shrug. “Can I come with you? I can probably help you find it.”
“That probably isn’t a good idea.”
I give him the look that says You have to be kidding. “Thomas wouldn’t send either of us into danger. It’s a grocery list.”
“You’re right.” He squeezes my arm. “Get dressed.”
An hour later we are standing in a monolithic superstore, the only one in town open twenty-four hours. The store is deserted, not a big surprise since it is so late, but still I expected a few people to be here. When I had a more normal life, it wasn’t odd for me to do my shopping at night. As we push our cart through the aisles, I think we both are expecting someone to jump out and deliver a secret message Thomas couldn’t give us over the phone. By the third aisle we are wired tight and all it takes is an employee pushing a dust mop to make us both jump out of our skins.
“Oh crap!” I start laughing, Master laughs too, and we hug each other tight, half holding each other up, because we’re laughing so hard. The employee doesn’t even pause to look at us. I’m sure it’s just a normal evening for him, and he probably thinks we’re drunk.
“Okay.” Master releases me. “Cereal aisle.”
We stand look
ing at the towering shelves of boxes. There are hundreds of kinds of cereal. Hundreds. It takes a step back and a long scan to find Kiddie Kibble, only to discover there are six different flavors—chocolate, chocolate chip, strawberry-banana, razzle rainbow, peanut butter and the original.
“Which one?”
Master puts one of each flavor in the cart. That’s one of the reasons I love him, he’s very thorough and leaves nothing to chance. I guess that would be two reasons.
We smile at each other, both of us pushing the cart. This is new, a completely different experience for us. Enrique always does the grocery shopping. I wonder if this is what Lord Fyre planned all along, a normal task in our kinky life to ground us and prepare us for the babies. I sigh contentedly.
Then we reach the formula aisle. “Oh crap.”
We stare at the choices. How can anyone just pick one?
“This might take a while.” Master picks up one of the premixed cans and starts reading ingredients. I pick up a different can and start reading.
“What are we looking for?”
“The healthiest choice.”
I nod. Sure. That makes sense. “Would they make unhealthy baby formula?”
We share a look. This is ridiculous. After an hour of reading, we’ve grouped the different brands into nine types—cow’s milk based, soy based, rice based, amino acid based, lactose-free, gentle, elemental and special formulas for premature babies and toddlers. We end up with one of each kind in the cart.
At the diaper aisle, I leave him reading labels while I go to the front of the store for a second cart. With bottles, diapers and juice still on the list, we’re going to need it.
Two hours later we are back at the condo, staring at the vast amount of product we bought piled everywhere. “Now what?”
Master looks at his watch. “It’s after one, we really should be at the club.”
I shake my head, silently begging him not to go.
“We don’t have to go tonight. I can call George and ask him to cover if that would make you happy.”
