Soft Limits

by Brianna Hale

  There’s a possessive force behind his morning kiss, the way his arms pull me tight against his chest and his hand sinks between the cleft of my behind. I moan against his mouth, wanting him to stay home with me, just wanting him, but he heads off to the studio with a final lip-searing kiss, leaving me panting in the heavy silence of the living room. It must be soon. Please let it be soon. I stalk through to the bathroom and have a very cold shower, and then head to my laptop.

  He returns in the evening just after six and I’m in the kitchen, peeling and chopping vegetables for a salad. I’m wearing the gingham dress, the one he likes, pretending that I’ve forgotten it makes him think of rope and sex. He kisses the side of my neck as he murmurs his hello, and the hands that grip my waist hold me even tighter than he did that morning. You’re mine, his touch seems to say. Understand?

  Yes, yes I do. I’m yours. Please, you can have me.

  But he releases me and heads off to his room, to shower and change I suppose, and I almost whimper watching his broad back retreating. Thinking desperately of financial news, football fixtures and anything else supremely dull to calm the ache between my legs, I take plates and cutlery and begin to set the table.

  The windows are open and there’s a warm breeze drifting in. I can hear finches twittering in the trees outside. I find myself humming and realize it’s the piano music Frederic’s been working on. I turn to move around the table—and nearly jump out of my skin.

  There’s a figure standing in the darkened doorway to Frederic’s bedroom, cloaked in black. His eyes pin me with sinister lust and there’s a square of white at his throat. I put my hand to my thundering heart as Frederic steps into the room. He’s wearing his priest’s costume from Notre-Dame, black robes that fall to the ground, accentuating the height of him, the breadth of him. The set of his jaw, the narrowed eyes, speak of fire and brimstone and sinning.

  “Hello, my child.” He walks toward me, hands behind his back, watchful. Calculating. My eyes rove over him. There’s something darkly sexy about the black robes and tight collar. “Come sit on my knee and tell me if you’ve been naughty or nice.”

  My tongue unsticks itself from the roof of my mouth. “That’s Santa, not priests.”

  “Oh yes, I always get them mixed up.” He looks down at me for a few moments. “What do you think, is this working for you? Does my petite ange have a priest kink?”

  I make a whimpering sound in the back of my throat and nod. A priest kink and a Frederic kink. He takes a hand from behind his back and holds something up. I have to look at it carefully as I’ve never seen one up close and in person before. It’s a black flogger, the thick handle grasped in his large hand and the two dozen or so long leather strips twisting and unfurling. So he did read my story about Frollo and Esmeralda in the tower and the lavish descriptions of how he whipped her.

  “Good. Because I’m a very kinky priest.”

  My chest feels very tight as I whisper, “Are you going to use that on me?”

  He runs the strips through his fingers, the movements caressing, unhurried. “Why, yes I am. I’m going to stripe your pretty back and behind and legs with it. Do you deserve it?”

  I know I don’t. I know that I’ve only been good for him, reminding myself not to dig my nails into his flesh when he touches me and always addressing him politely and softly, as I’ve noticed he likes. “No, daddy.”

  The sweetly cruel smile is back. He leans down to me and his words are a soft breath against my lips. “Even better.” Motioning with his head, he orders, “Into my room.”

  I obey instantly, putting down the cutlery and moving as if I’m floating. I can feel Frederic following behind me and my skin tingles in response to the instrument that’s in his hands.

  I’ve never been in his room before and it’s very neat and dark. There are candles burning everywhere, long, church-like candles, illuminating a four-poster bed. There’s a length of rough rope hanging from one of the posts.

  Frederic closes the door firmly behind him and tosses the flogger onto the bed. How malevolent he looks in the black robes, and I realize it’s his Frollo expression, the one that so captivated me at thirteen. His eyes rove over my dress and though his expression doesn’t change, I see his eyes sharpen. “Undress.”

  Watching him, I slowly unbutton the sundress and let it fall to the ground. I stand before him in my bra and panties. “All of it,” he commands. So I take those off too, noting the slickness between my legs. I think I started getting wet as soon as I saw him standing in the doorway. I’m naked now, and vulnerable, while he stands there clothed in black menace.

  With gentle but implacable hands he guides me toward the hanging rope and begins to bind my wrists. He murmurs, almost conversationally, “You’ve been so very sinful, my child. The things you have been doing. I will have to beat them out of you.”

  He pulls on the other end of the rope and secures it so my arms are stretched over my head. My eyes wide and innocent, I say, “I haven’t done a thing, Father.”

  “Lies. It is written all over your pretty face. You have been touching yourself in the dark. Cavorting with the devil. Fellating demons.”

  Moistening my lips, I say, “I’ve learned a thing or two from them. Shall I show you?”

  He catches me by the throat and squeezes. “Sinful wretch of a girl,” he hisses, and my eyes widen at the fury in his. He’s very good at this. Fear pulses between my legs along with my arousal, driving it higher.

  Frederic picks up the flogger and stands behind me. He drapes the long strands over my shoulder and slowly pulls them across my flesh, over and over like a slow, leathery caress. “Do you know what we say in the Church?” he murmurs. “Punish the body to save the soul.”

  I look over my shoulder and see him gather all the strands of the flogger into his hand, and then he raises it and strikes. It’s not a fast strike, though, and when the strips land in the center of my back it hurts only a little. But he does it over and over again, the sensations growing and heating before moving on to my shoulders, and then my ribs. My back is hot and sensitive, and I cry and rise up on my toes as his strikes begin to grow in intensity.

  “Keep still and keep quiet,” he growls.

  I look over my shoulder into his furious green eyes and say, “You’d better stop, Father, you’ll only make me wet.”

  I catch just the slightest glimmer of amusement on his lips before it vanishes and he starts to pace in slow half circles around me. In between lashing my behind and thighs with the flogger he intones religious-sounding tracts in Latin. My cheek seems to have given him a reason to increase the speed and intensity of his lashes. I clutch the rope with my hands, as gripping it is the only release I have against the strikes as I’m unable to cry out or move away from him. He must prefer it that way, knowing I have no way to help me ride out the pain. It’s what he wants, so I give into it, breathing through the worst and feeling the heat between my legs grow along with my heated flesh.

  A hand fists in my hair and turns me toward him. Jewel green eyes, dark with desire, burn into mine as he drinks in the hazy supplication on my face. He runs a hand down my body and it dips between the curves of my behind and into my wetness. I arch against his touch, driving his fingers deeper.

  “My child, there isn’t much use in trying to save your immortal soul, is there?” He starts to push his fingers in and out of me and the sensation is as bright as a supernova. I can feel it in every stripe he’s laid across my skin.

  “No, Father,” I pant, arching my back even more and parting my legs for him. His fingers aren’t enough. I need more. I need the thickness of him that I’ve felt and that he hasn’t let me touch. I need to feel him lose himself in this as much as I do so we can come out the other side of this together.

  His other hand cups my face and suddenly he’s Frederic again, smiling gently down at me. �
�Minette, we haven’t made love yet. Would you like to stop this scene and continue just as ourselves, or would you like me to go on?”

  My eyes implore him. I’ve been carting this fantasy around for a decade. I’m not about to let it go now. “Please don’t stop.”

  The smile widens, and he kisses me softly. “Enjoying yourself? Good girl. Say crackers if anything gets too much, d’accord? I’ll stop straight away. Now, close your eyes, count to three, and then open them again.”

  Crackers. I suppose that’s what’s called a safe word, and needing one makes anticipation and fear thrill through me. Just how far is he going to go? I close my eyes, and when I open them he’s the priest again, his eyes burning with gloating and lust. His fingers find my G-spot and grind against it, making me yell.

  He immediately withdraws his fingers and raises the flogger. “I said keep quiet.” When the leather strikes my flesh this time the bite is deep and vicious on my sensitized skin. I suck in a shuddering breath and blink to clear sparks from my vision. When I look over my shoulder and see Frederic’s look of hard fury I realize he means business now. I concentrate hard on not moving and not crying out, but when the flogger strikes me again, this time on my left shoulder, I have to screw my eyes shut and bite down on my whimper. And as much as I want to cry out from the pain, I also want to cry out, Yes. Yes, this, the clean, white pain and Frederic’s laser focus. He’s all that exists and I know that’s how it must be for him: only me, and that flogger in his hand. He’s controlling me, meting out the heat and pain in careful measures, enjoying every flick and bite of the leather.

  He catches me about the throat with a strong hand and growls, “You have no smart words now, do you? Ten more like that, and every noise you make above a whimper, every step you take away from me, will mean another strike. Do I make myself clear?”

  I nod rapidly, not daring to speak.

  He pulls back his arm and I screw my eyes shut. The flogger lashes the back of my legs, every strand leaving white-hot bursts across my flesh. “Count,” he orders.

  And in the barest whisper I manage, “One.” I get to five and my skin is on fire and my breathing is little more than gasps. I haven’t said crackers, and I don’t want to say crackers, I want to show him that I can hold so still for him, be so good.

  He stops and throws the flogger onto the bed, and when he speaks his voice is thick with desire and fury. “Hardened girl. Not one cry. Not one step. You don’t even beg for mercy.” He grasps my hips and pushes an arch into my spine. His feet force mine apart and he fumbles with the fabric of his robes. “Maybe this will make you repentant.” I hear a zipper, and then the heated tip of his cock presses against my sex. My mind clears as I feel him push into me, slowly, just a little, and I start to pant even faster. I don’t want mercy. I want this. He settles his hands in a death grip on my waist and thrusts into me, hard and sure and straight to my core. A cry tears from my throat but I bite down on my lip, and he pulls back and drives into me again. He fucks me hard, brutally. I remember the words he spoke to me while I was touching myself on his sofa, about the intruder’s cock being thick and invasive. It’s how he feels now, filling me, stretching me, making me moan for him. Every thrust makes my insides light up and I press my face to one side, against my raised arm, trying to stifle my cries.

  He groans deep in the back of his throat and pulls out of me. “Yes, better. Let’s see if we can soften you up even more.”

  Soften me up. He wants me to be quiet and still for him but he likes it when I can’t, seeing me tread the fine line between his control and the pain and pleasure I feel. He reaches for the flogger and runs the strands through his fingers. “Now, what were we up to?”

  “Six,” I whisper.

  The leather lashes my ribs. My smarting skin and the rough way he pounded me causes a rush of pleasure through my blood. I stand firm in the flogger’s path even as my eyes well up and I feel tears course down my face.

  Finally, I whisper, “Ten,” and I hear Frederic cursing under his breath, dark, appreciative curses, as he throws the flogger to one side and grasps me about the waist again, guiding me toward his cock. He sheaths himself inside me in one sure movement. “Ma jolie, fuck, you take that so well.” His hands traverse my hot, swollen skin as he thrusts into me, deep and sure. One hand caresses my throat and brushes my cheeks, feeling the tears.

  Voice roughened by sex, he whispers in my ear, “Are you crying for me, petite fille? Even as you’re standing there, so good, so still?”

  “Daddy, please,” I whimper, beyond all words but begging.

  “What’s that? Daddy please? Every time I’ve thought about fucking your sweet little cunt I’ve imagined you saying daddy please, begging for me even as you cry. I love every tear you shed.”

  His voice has always been my undoing and I feel him pushing me higher with every thrust and every whispered word, my core banding around him, squeezing, goading him to fuck me harder, and he does.

  Voice ragged with arousal, he curses again and grates, “Tears on your face and a pussy full of my come. That’s how you’d be all the time if I had my way.”

  His rough words tip me over the edge and his hand around my throat squeezes. Everything rushes upward like overflowing champagne and I’m weightless in his arms, feet feeling like they’re no longer touching the floor as I come. It goes on and on, and I’m past the need to draw breath. I’m in a place of pure sensation, and I feel the slide of his cock and his growl as he comes, thrusting deeper than I thought possible. His hands pull me down and his cock pushes me up, preventing me from flying apart in his arms.

  Finally, he slowly loosens his hold on me and I begin to descend from on high. In the stillness that follows there’s only the sound of our ragged breathing.

  “Bloody hell, as you English would say,” he mutters, withdrawing slowly, his steadying hands on my waist.

  I laugh weakly, my face pressed into my shoulder. The rope is the only thing holding me up. He goes to a chest of draws, pulls out a large knife and cuts me down. He must be expecting my rubbery legs as his other arm catches me tightly against him.

  “Comment va ma brave fille?” he says, smiling down at me as he deposits me onto the bed. My hair is sticking to my sweaty face. “How is my brave girl?”

  Well, how is she? I’ve been burned up from the outside in and the inside out. I’m a phoenix after it dies a fiery death and is reborn, even stronger and more beautiful than before.

  His brave girl. She’s better than she’s ever been.

  Chapter Eleven

  Frederic

  Evie holds up her wrists for me so I can cut through the rope. She doesn’t say anything, but she smiles. It’s a tired smile. A happy smile that speaks hundreds of unspoken words, like piano notes, and I hear every one. I called her a brave girl, and she is. I never meant to push her so far this first time but the way her body responded to my hands and the leather was too lovely, too enticing. I know her better now and she knows herself better, too. She was ready to be pushed a little, and then pushed a little more.

  “Lie down, minette,” I urge her in a whisper, and once I’ve divested myself of the priest’s costume I lie down with her. It doesn’t take much to coax her into my arms and she buries herself against my chest and wriggles as close to me as possible. Conscious of the red marks on her back I stroke her hair and listen to her breathe.

  “Do you feel good?” I ask her, because she’s being so quiet and I can’t see her face, and in answer she nods, the tip of her nose rubbing against my chest. “Don’t feel like talking?” And she shakes her head. “That’s all right, minette. You don’t need to talk.”

  I love these moments after a really good, intense bout of sex, just lying together, sometimes talking, sometimes not. I wonder if she’s always quiet like this after, but then I remember she’d be locked in the bathroom sobbing ab
out now if I were her ex. My arms tighten around her protectively. That’s not going to happen with me. She’s clinging to me, and it’s a good sort of clinging. An I need you clinging. A don’t go anywhere clinging.

  I’m not, mon ange. I’m here.

  But I won’t be here for long, will I? Neither of us will be. Evie was right yesterday when she said we didn’t have much time together. Our five months will go quickly, especially once the summer is over. Evie has told me she will have to be in Oxford for a few days every week to study and run tutorials, and I’ll have rehearsals most days and, after that, performances most nights. And then—

  But I don’t want to think beyond January. I try to imagine what would have happened between us if I didn’t have this death sentence hanging over my career but everything else was the same: that she fell in the road and looked up at me, shocked and flustered; that she turned so beautifully pink when she realized her sister had sent me her smutty stories; that she glared at me, teased me, cried her hurt out in my arms. I know what I’m like, and what I like. We’d likely have wound up exactly where we are now, and we’d still only have until the end of January, because our lives are in very different places.

  But there are little things that puzzle me, that I find I can’t explain away so easily. The way my heart expands each time she settles herself so sweetly into my lap. The way I want to hold her hand, not because it’s cute or to stop her walking into traffic, but because it’s grounding. The quiet togetherness when she’s working on her laptop and I’m at the piano. I find myself thinking about her when I’m at the studio, wondering what she’s doing, wanting to ask her opinion about that song or this arrangement.

  That’s because you’re a bastard, Frederic. Focusing on her is easier than thinking about your fucking voice.

  Is it true? It’s not unheard of, for me to like a woman. Even to love a woman. It fucking wrecked me when Marion and I ended. I loved her so much it was like part of my heart dying when we got the diagnosis from Giselle and I saw the relief in her eyes. Now I’d have to stop singing like Marion had hinted she’d wanted for the last two years of our relationship. My world had just fallen apart and she was glad.