Soft Limits

by Brianna Hale

  Fuck.

  I should tell her. But at the same time I don’t want her pity and she will pity me if she knows. This blasted disorder will taint our relationship just as it’s infested the rest of my life and ruined my last relationship. She’ll look at me differently, like Marion did, and treat me like damaged goods. Something broken. Half a man.

  It’s my voice and my decision, I think, my jaw set.

  As she nestles close and kisses me in the cab rank I feel myself relent. She should at least find out about the disorder from me, rather than a newspaper or her father. Once we’re over and I have to go back to Paris I’ll tell her, so she won’t have to find out some other way. That’s the best I can do. I just hope it will be enough and she won’t hate me for keeping secrets.

  “Hot shower and pajamas for you, food delivery, couch?” I say, reciting our usual midweek routine, and she smiles up at me. I’ll slip into the shower with her, soaping her body, sliding my fingers over and into her sensitive places and making her come. I won’t feel like I’ve welcomed her back properly until I’ve made her come.

  “Perfect, daddy.”

  Later after we’ve eaten, she sits on the couch, tapping on her laptop and wrapped in a silken robe with her hair knotted on top of her head. I’m beside her memorizing the score for Jane Eyre, singing the notes in my head. After a while I notice Evie smiling at her screen.

  “What’s so amusing, minette?”

  “This chapter. I’m working on your book and I think I’ve got this section just how I want it to be. Would you like to hear?”

  I settle back and listen, watching her mouth as she talks, enjoying the sound of her voice. It’s the Chapter about my time in New York and subsequent return to Paris, when I was riding high on my success in Phantom and behaving quite insufferably to most of my colleagues. She’s told it starkly without trying to wallpaper over my worst moments, but with wry humor as well, and the Chapter ends with something deprecating I said to her in Paris. Not during one of our interviews, I remember, but while in bed with her after she’d emerged from that small, silent space she sinks into after sex. I love that moment, when she blinks those pretty eyes at me, takes her thumb out of her mouth and whispers daddy, letting me know she’s ready to talk again.

  When she finishes reading I just stare at her, grinning.

  “It is all right, isn’t it?” she asks, chewing on her lower lip.

  “It’s perfect. What a wonder you are. I wish—” I wish I could be there to hear your stories, always. Read all the intimate details that sing on the page, but resonate especially with the one who loves you. She puts her head on one side, waiting. I can’t say that. I’ll be overstepping the boundaries we agreed upon. “I wish I could write like you.”

  “Oh, really?” she teases, sitting up and closing her laptop. “You were allotted your own small measure of talent, Monsieur d’Estang, so don’t go getting greedy.”

  She pads to the bedroom and I follow her with my eyes. I am greedy. I want what I can’t have. A minute later she returns with a bundle of silk and when she opens it on her lap I see some small dolls, half finished.

  “You’re sewing again, minette. How wonderful. I meant to ask you why you didn’t bring your sewing to Paris.”

  She lays out two unclothed calico figures on her knees and then small pieces of colored cloth that I think must be pieces for clothing. “Well, I wanted to be very mature and professional, not sit in your living room playing with my little dollies.”

  “And now?”

  She leans over and kisses me. “Now I can just be myself,” she whispers, and my heart turns over, seeing the happy expression on her face. “Can you guess who these two are?”

  I look at the pair, and see the neat hairstyle with the center parting on the female figure, and the bright green eyes of the male figure. He’s scowling and a dark lock of hair falls over his forehead. “Heathcliff and Cathy.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Daddy, you know they’re Jane and Rochester.”

  I slap my forehead in mock surprise. “Of course, how silly of me.” I watch my little girl thread a needle and begin to apply it to a miniature gray dress, and my thoughts turn to the items I purchased the other day and have hidden under the bed. Hearing her call me daddy in that happy, singsong voice makes me think of other ways she says it, with soft desperation, with pleading. Keeping my voice casual, I ask, “Baby, shall we do something special tomorrow night? I feel like getting dressed up and taking you out.”

  She looks up, smiling. “That would be lovely, daddy. Yes, please.”

  “Good, good,” I murmur, watching her, my mind going to a dark, depraved place. Does she suspect what I have in store for her as she sits there sewing and humming softly to herself? My eyes travel over her bare legs, the deep V of the robe that’s fallen open, exposing the cleft of her breasts. Such pretty, unmarked skin. Like a canvas. Her needle dips in and out of the cloth, her face sweet with make-believe and daydreams.

  No, she doesn’t suspect a thing.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Evie

  Frederic hasn’t told me where we’re going, only that I should be ready at six thirty even though our booking isn’t till eight because he wants to do something special first. I’m in the bedroom when he comes in from rehearsals, and he calls through the door. “Evie?”

  I look at the clock by the bed: six fifteen. “Nearly ready! Do you need to change?”

  “No, I’m fine. Take your time.”

  Strange. He went to rehearsals in a striped shirt and jeans, not a suit. Frederic owns more clothes than I do and takes pains over being well dressed. Well, perhaps he’s going to change later, after whatever we’re doing now. I look at my reflection in the mirror and smooth the silk dress over my hips. It’s bias cut, clingy and falls to my knees, modest enough at the front but open to my waist at the back. I bought it with some of my advance, as a treat, and it’s the most expensive, frivolous piece of clothing I’ve ever owned. It’s been hanging in the wardrobe in Frederic’s flat for two weeks waiting for a chance to be worn. I feel very sexy and slinky in it and I can’t wait to see Frederic’s face when I go out into the lounge. And then whisper to him that I’m not wearing any underwear as we head out the door.

  I give my reflection a wicked grin. That should inspire him to be particularly severe with me when we get back from dinner. I’ve been craving his sadistic side all week. I want some marks to take back to Oxford, and I crave the emotional release of tears, his rough, cruel words and the pounding he gives me.

  When I come out into the living room I stop short. The room is dark and the curtains are drawn. The only light is coming behind me from the open bedroom door, and it falls in a long yellow line over the sofa.

  “Frederic?”

  I step forward into the darkness—and someone grabs me from behind. I let out a high, thin shriek, my heart pounding. A gloved hand clamps over my mouth and pulls me against a large male body. I recognize Frederic’s scent, the feel of him, and melt back against him. So this is what he wanted to do before dinner.

  Then he holds something up before my eyes that makes my pulse start to race again. It glints as he twists it in the dim light: a long, silver hunting knife, wickedly pointed at one end and so sharp I can practically hear it singing on the air. The voice that whispers in my ear is low and harsh. “If you scream I will make you bleed.”

  I have no trouble believing that he means every word.

  “I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth, and you’re going to do exactly what I say. Aren’t you?” Arousal is roughening his voice and he’s pressed so close to me that I feel the thickness of him pressing against my behind. I nod my head rapidly. I’ll do anything for Frederic, knife or no, but something about the menacing glint of the blade is making me slick between my legs and very, very pliant.


  He releases me and I stand where I am, shivering slightly, waiting for my next instruction. He turns me, plants a hand in the center of my back, and shoves. “Into the bedroom and get down on the floor on your knees. Do not make a sound.”

  I do as I’m told, the slickness between my legs becoming an ache. He must sheath the knife because a moment later his gloved hands are winding a length of rope around my body, over my dress. He’s changed, I realize, into a black sweater, black jeans and a balaclava that conceals everything but his burning eyes. My breath catches when I see this. He’s the intruder that I confessed to fantasizing about. Are we role-playing, like when he was dressed as the priest, or is this him with a few accessories? When my arms are tied behind my back and a rope harness is crisscrossing my chest he stands back and admires his handiwork. I look up at him, mouth parted, and watch as he unsheathes the knife again.

  “Pretty dress. Shame I have to ruin it.” Crouching down he uses the blade to cut the dress open all the way down my front, and I can’t help a cry of dismay. I really did like that dress. He grabs a fistful of my hair, forcing my head up to look at him. “What did I say?”

  I lick my lips, realizing that I’ve disobeyed one of his instructions. “Not to make a sound.”

  He slaps me across the face, hard enough to make my eyes water. “Then fucking don’t, baby.”

  Baby. So we’re not playing. I look back up at him and lick my lips again, and something about knowing this is him, not an act, ratchets up the sensations. I can feel how much he’s enjoying me being utterly at his mercy. The pain he’s going to inflict on me doesn’t make me afraid of him, it makes me burn for him.

  His rough hands yank the tattered dress open beneath the rope, exposing my breasts, small and pale against the black leather of his gloves. He pinches my nipples, pulling them up, making me breathe hard in response, though I don’t dare whimper. The swollen feeling between my legs is growing as we head into this together, deeper and deeper. The supplication is surely clear on my face. Let me show you how good I can be for you, daddy. I can take anything you want me to.

  He drinks me in, the first glint of satisfaction showing in his eyes. He takes his time now, sauntering over to the bed and pulling a box out from beneath it. From within he takes a riding crop, short and flexible with a leather loop on one end. Coming back, he trails the loop over one of my puckered nipples.

  “Look at me.”

  I do as I’m told, though I can barely see his eyes in the narrow slit of the balaclava. With an expert flick of his wrist he cracks the leather over my nipple. Pain blazes through me and I squeeze my eyes shut, breath hissing in over my teeth. He’s going hard right from the start.

  “No. Look at me.” He waits until I’ve blinked several times and cleared my eyes and I’m looking up at him again. The leather circles my other nipple, for longer this time, making me wait, making me guess. Then he strikes. This time I don’t move, don’t look away from him, but my eyes swim with tears and they trickle down my cheeks. My mascara must be running, too. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat and cracks the crop over the same nipple again. I breathe hard and wiggle a little on my knees, but keep my gaze locked on his.

  “Better. But keep still. I’m going to keep doing this until you do what I say. Look at me. Keep looking at me. Don’t make a sound. Don’t move.”

  Risking his ire, I point out in a small whisper, “But I can’t even see you properly with that mask on.”

  He trails the crop over my jaw, against my lips. “Pretty baby, my instructions aren’t for you, they’re for me. Go ahead and cry if you want, you know how I like it. But you have to keep looking at me.”

  I do cry, silent tears slipping down my cheeks, and though I can’t see his face I can tell he’s smirking. I do know how he likes it.

  His breath hitches. “Aren’t you just a fucking picture. Do you know how perfect you are?” The crop cracks again over my reddened and sore nipple, and though it hurts I keep very still, watching what I can see of his eyes. Two more tears slide down my face.

  His voice becomes a caress. “There, that’s it. Good girl, good baby.” The back of his gloved hand brushes my wet cheek, and I lean into his touch, craving it. How I love crying for him, bit fat tears of pain and need, when I hated myself for crying in front of Adam. Two very different men, two very different reasons for crying. Frederic isn’t afraid of my vulnerability, he craves it.

  He crouches down in front of me, easing my knees open. His gloved fingers find the soft folds of my pussy, stroking over my wetness. “No panties? Slutty little girl.”

  I watch his hard, green eyes as he circles my clit with tender care. One finger pushes deeper and I feel the strange sensation of the leather glove in my tight channel, soft but rough. He adds another finger and starts that come here motion that never fails to have me gasping with rapidly rising sensation, and I arch toward him, needing him deeper, needing more of him. But before I can come he stops and withdraws his fingers. His jewellike eyes are so close to my face.

  “So needy already? I’m not done with you yet.”

  Hauling me over his shoulder he throws me down onto the bed, face-first, my hands still secure behind my back. Face pressed against the duvet, unable to see, I feel him behind me on the bed. He kneels between my thighs, walking them open with his knees. I hear the clink of his belt as he undoes it.

  “I think you need some marks, baby.”

  Yes, yes I do, please. With his free hand he stuffs a pillow beneath my hips, raising my behind into the air. The last tatters of my dress are ripped to one side and his hand caresses my bare flesh lovingly.

  “As a special treat you can even cry out if you like. Do you want to beg for mercy?”

  “Please, daddy, don’t. I haven’t even been bad.” It’s not hard to sound convincing when I know what’s coming. It won’t just be one strike from his belt, but many, and though I crave it, it scares me at the same time.

  “No, you haven’t, mon ange. Isn’t that just so fucking unfair?” He hits me with the loop of leather and pain blazes over my left cheek, and I squeal into the duvet. I can’t help wriggling about and he laughs, a cold laugh, and puts his knees over my thighs, pinning me down. “But you haven’t really been my little angel, have you? You got all dressed up but forgot to put your underwear on. Were you going to tease me at the dinner table?”

  “No, I wasn’t—” But he strikes me again, so hard I’m sure he’s raising welts. They’ll last for a week and darken to deep red smudges that I’ll admire in the mirror at college.

  “Lies as well?” The belt strikes me again. “My sweet little girl is lying to me? Say yes and I’ll go easy on you.” And again.

  I sob into the mattress, the heat and the pain and the sound of his hard voice making me go to pieces. “Yes, yes I was lying.”

  He laughs at the sound of my suffering and his gloved hand squeezes one of the marks he’s made. “I know you were, baby. What’s funny is that you think admitting it will change what I’m going to do to you.”

  “No, daddy, please—”

  But he takes his hand away and the belt cracks again, and then again. I struggle against the ropes but my hands are securely tied behind my back and I’m only making it burn against my ribs and shoulders. Every strike of his belt draws a sharp cry from my throat and fresh tears to my eyes, but I’m anticipating the pain, craving it, the feel of the leather, the sound of his breathing.

  Finally he stops and reaches forward to smooth the tendrils of damp hair from my cheek. “You’re so pretty when you cry, baby.”

  I’m so deeply in his thrall that when I hear the zipper on his fly my back arches in response. Yes. Please, I need you. I feel the press of his cock against my sex and he plants a heavy hand on my lower back. Then he’s surging forward, filling me right to my core with a growl. He’s my vicious intruder, taking
this selfishly, but he’s Frederic as well. I moan into the tear-dampened bedclothes as he rides me higher with rough tenderness.

  He pauses, the thick length of him inside me, and I listen to his hard breathing. I hear the snick of the knife and suddenly the ropes loosen around me. Still buried deep inside me he pulls the twist of rope and the tatters of my dress from my body, and then turns me, slowly and carefully, until I’m lying on my back. With one had he reaches behind his head and yanks the balaclava off his face. I smile, seeing his curls in disarray, and reach up to touch his cheek.

  He freezes, looking down at me, a strange expression in his eyes. It’s not like his other strange looks, that are guarded and unreadable. This one is filled with feeling. Confusion. Vulnerability. He gathers me close in his arms, his face very close to mine.

  “Minette, I—” But he presses his lips together, as if not sure what to say. “Help me get these clothes off. I want to feel you against me.”

  And without disentangling ourselves I help him peel off his gloves, shirt, shoes and trousers until we’re lying together in a nest of blankets, pieces of rope and discarded clothing. He’s hard inside me, his irregular thrusts making me gasp. I clutch at his broad shoulders with my hands. My fingers trail down over his chest.

  Kissing my neck, he murmurs, “I don’t think I deserve you.”

  I smile through the climbing intensity in my core, eyes half closed, throat bare to him. “No, you don’t, daddy. You’re very wicked.”

  His eyes glint with dark promise and one hand clamps around my throat, squeezing hard. “Sweet little baby. Show me how you love it.”

  He picks up the pace of his thrusts and as I come, his hand around my throat makes me feel light-headed, lost in sensation. His fierce pounding driving me higher and higher, the soreness in my nipples and on my behind blazing, though the pain is sweet. I hear him curse roughly in French as he comes. Then he’s releasing me and gathering me to him, and I’m as limp as one of my dolls, exhausted from the tears and pleasure.