Tate's Task

by Lilith Darville

  A well-formed elf leads a tall, naked fae with smooth olive skin, pointed ears, and a long tail into the adjoining room and restrains her facing the cross. Edina’s long blond hair is pinned above a lapis-blue blindfold to give full access to her flawless back and buttocks. Faer strides over to the display case and makes his selection.

  “Can they see us?”

  “No, they can’t. We can see and hear them, but they have no idea whether anyone’s watching—but since they’re both exhibitionists, they like to think someone is watching.”

  “Tell me about that.” Tate points to the whip in Faer’s hand.

  “He chose a deerskin flogger as his warm-up tool because it’ll caress her skin and bring her to the pitch of arousal she needs to enjoy the whipping that will follow. That’s exactly what will happen to you on Saturday night.” She shivers as I run my hand over the firm cheek of her ass, but she says nothing.

  I roll my thumb over the fabric covering Tate’s nipple, and it springs to attention. Her eyes remain fixed on the scene in the next room.

  “Hello, Edina,” Faer says.

  He trails the handle of the flogger down the length of her spine and through the crack in her buttocks, paying particular attention to the sensitive tissue at her tailbone. Edina’s tail swishes rapidly, and Theo’s cock twitches to attention inside the silk pajama pants he wears.

  Faer places his mouth next to her ear. “I hear you’re ready for a hard workout today. I hear you need a lesson in control.”

  “Yes, Master,” Edina says. She wriggles her butt in anticipation. “I broke the rules, and I need to be punished.”

  Faer tucks the flogger under his arm and runs his hands up and down her sides, brushing the soft curve of her breasts. Like Tate’s, Edina’s breasts are on the small side, forming a firm mound that fit perfectly in the palms of Faer’s hands. As he hefts their weight, she wiggles her ass against him. When he steps back, his cock is rock hard.

  “That will cost you ten strokes, Edina. Count.”

  Edina moans as Faer expertly lays the lash across the fleshy part of her buttocks. He increases the intensity a notch as he places the next stroke above the first.

  “Count.”

  This time his voice holds a distinct edge of command. Tate sits forward, watching intently.

  “Two,” Edina moans but continues to count the next seven lashes.

  “Nine. Please, Master. Please,” she says, her voice tight and pleading.

  Faer pauses a minute, giving her time to cool down. He flexes his considerable muscles and looks at the dusty pink of Edina’s buttocks. Her tail flicks in pleasure. Without warning, he cracks the flogger, letting some of the tails slide between her ass cheeks.

  “Ten. Oh, thank you, Master, thank you.”

  Faer rubs his hand over the pink strokes on her ass before he unclips the wrist and ankle restraints.

  “We’re not even near ready for you to come yet, Edina. Stop begging, or I’ll gag you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Faer guides Edina to an armchair where he ties her in such a way that her legs are spread wide with her glistening vulva exposed and waiting for his touch. He pulls up a stool before pressing a button that raises the chair to eye level.

  Faer takes a few moments, clearly surveying the splendor that lies before him. The lips of Edina’s vulva, full and plump, spread wide to reveal her clitoris throbbing with longing. Her tail swishes up and starts to rub at her clit. Faer swats it away, then slaps her vulva. She jerks and arches in pleasure. Faer shows her his palm and fingers, shiny with her desire. He slaps her wet lips again, now a gorgeous shade of deep red, and then rubs his hand across her mouth.

  “Taste how delicious you are,” he commands.

  I rub my pants against my throbbing cock while I slip a hand under the waistband of Tate’s pants and play with her ripe clit. Her legs part invitingly, and I almost come undone, loving how uninhibited this woman is becoming during her time in Bardo. I paint her vulva with her juices before brushing the pad of my thumb over the nub that’s engorged and needy.

  I take my time; I’ve always been a lover who takes his time. And why shouldn’t I? Gods know Bob and Francis are getting their fair share of her. Again, the fact that they are convinced she’s our destined mate plants itself in the middle of my thoughts. There are similarities. But this woman is so much more. And I feel as if I could have what, in my earthly life, was not possible with that other woman. But my heart is still stuck to that earthly soul. I need her to choose me. So I can’t believe this woman is one and the same. Can I?

  What about Winsha? Why not choose happiness instead of trying to heal old wounds with someone who almost certainly isn’t the woman who caused them?

  Shit.

  I push those thoughts right out of my head, set Tate on her feet, and slide her pants down. This is work, nothing more. I was about to take Tate to the edge of the cliff only to pull her back when she started to fall because it was part of the plan we’d agreed to after Tate offended Caleb. Her “punishment.” Bob and Francis had been very specific about what I was and was not to do. Well, fuck them. They don’t control me. They shouldn’t be the only ones having fun.

  Tate keeps her eyes on the action in front of us but does nothing to stop me. She writhes and moans as I play between her legs. Flick the clit, now rub the nub. I ache to strip her naked, lay her out, and swipe a long lick through her perfect pussy. That will have to wait. I’m about to take a huge leap above the call of duty.

  I circle the pads of two fingers just inside the lip of her vagina. Then I suck on them loudly enough that Tate can hear me over the noises coming from the next room. Her breath catches, and I know she’s mine. Fuck you, guys. Have I mentioned I hate sharing? I want this woman for myself, I just haven’t figured out a way to make that happen . . . yet.

  I continue playing with her until a fine sheen of sweat covers her lower body. When I’m content with watching her need, I lean over and pinch the hard purple nub of her clit. Tate’s body shakes violently, and she screams as the contractions of her orgasm ripple through her. I sink three fingers deep inside her, enjoying every buck and shiver as wave after wave of pleasure rip through her. The guys will be pissed when they find out. Sorry, not sorry.

  “More, Master, more,” Edina begs, drawing our attention back to the action. Faer withdraws the dildo he’s buried in her and stands up.

  “I warned you, Edina, but I’m going to give you a choice. Gag or silken lash?”

  “Lash,” she pants. “Lash, please, Master.”

  Faer unties the ropes and leads her to the spanking bench. He spreads her over it facedown and adjusts the restraints. Edina wiggles her ass and tail in anticipation.

  “How many strokes, Edina?”

  “Ten more, Master, then fuck me hard and make me come.”

  “Nuh, uh, uh, Edina. No topping from the bottom. Let’s make that fifteen strokes, and I’ll fuck you when and if I’m ready. Now, what’s a safe word if you want me to stop the whipping but continue the session?”

  “Yellow, Master.”

  “And where are we now?”

  “Green, Master.”

  Faer picks up the silken lash and runs his fingers over the braided tail. His muscles work in concert while he methodically and accurately places each stroke where it will give Edina the maximum pleasure without causing her to orgasm. He pauses between each one, giving the sensations time to spread and hum, also giving her a chance to use the safe word if she needs it, but she wiggles her silent appeal for him to continue.

  I whisper in Tate’s ear, “I wasn’t supposed to make you come. Naughty, naughty Tate being so irresistible.”

  Without a word, Tate pulls her lace top and camisole over her head, discards them, assumes all fours on the sofa, and looks over her shoulder. I stare at her round ass, knowing what I’m expected to do next . . . Deliver a spanking. Instead, I slip out of my pants and position myself between her legs. My cock
throbs and threatens to release as I inch my way deep inside her. And groan with the gloriousness of it. It’s as if I’ve come home. As if I’ve found that perfect chord that makes the song complete. She sighs with pleasure and thrusts back to meet me, causing me to grab onto her ass hard and clench my teeth to stop the tightening that begins in my balls.

  “Don’t move,” I hiss. “It’s my turn.” I take a few deep breaths, not daring to look down at her slick, pink opening, and bury my cock deep. When I’ve gained control, I slide my dick out, loving the way her juices glisten on my bulging purple veins. I ease my way back in to the hilt before reversing the stroke once again.

  In and out. In and out. Like a maestro conducting an orchestra, I move my baton to the music of a symphony only Tate and I hear. Tate moans and shakes with her need. Her mounting frenzy is so hot to watch that it takes all my strength to stop. I press her shoulders and face down to adjust the angle, pulling her hips into me. She doesn’t resist, immediately fisting the fabric of the couch and arching her ass up to me. Wasting no time, I slide my hard cock in deeper than I thought possible. She groans, pushes back, so needy, and I slap her right buttock—hard—with the palm of my hand.

  “Don’t move.”

  She goes still, and I have her. With each penetration, I slap the cheeks of her ass just a little bit harder, thankful I had Saturday’s experience . . . I now know Tate’s sweet spot, the spot that will change any pain messages to waves of pleasure with each stroke.

  “More,” she pleads. She moans louder and louder with each stinging slap.

  In and out I slide and slap until my breathing is gasping and ragged. Then, with one loud roar, I plunge inside her and ride her hard. As my orgasm erupts, I’m not sure whether I hear Tate’s screaming or my own. Or both.

  I remain balls deep inside her for several minutes, allowing the aftershocks of our orgasms to subside. I’ll never get enough of this woman. Then I gather her in my arms, caress and soothe her while a line from the song I’m writing about her plays in my head.

  Your love will be my happiness . . . But only if I’m willing to share.

  Wanting her for myself is more than my usual selfish pursuit, and it shakes me. For the first time in so many years, I want a woman, this woman, to want me. Yes, I had my pick of women as a rising musician and frequently indulged in the experience, and that’s exactly what it had been—experiencing the excitement of sex. As appealing as that had been, sex with this Tate is different and reminds me of the woman who threw me over for Bob. Maybe they’re right. Maybe this is the woman whose curse followed me into the afterlife. Whoever she is, she has touched a part of me, something at my core, I thought was dead.

  I might be helping this Tate discover her sexuality, but she’s leading me to a part of myself that I lost for so many years. Intimacy. There’s no other description for this moment with Tate snuggled in my arms. Darkness shadows the viewing room before us; Edina and Faer finished their scene at some point when we were otherwise occupied. I pull an afghan around us, and we sit, curled up, just the two of us . . . and Francis’s insistent and very pissed off voice in my head. Do not let her come. I’ll no doubt pay for this later, but I don’t give one sweet fuck.

  22

  — Tate —

  I’m having a huge déjà vu moment curled up on Nameless’s lap, wrapped in the cocoon he’s made for us, content to listen to the beating of his heart and feel the warmth of his arms wrapped around me. A name feels as if it’s tickling the tip of my tongue. But it stays there, unwilling to reveal itself.

  I start to move, but he pulls me closer, so I settle. And think . . . mostly about my warm ass and very satisfied pinkish parts. But the place where the third bud rests on my wrist hums and throbs with a life of its own.

  “I could love you.” His whisper is so low I’m not sure I heard it. And it’s easier to pretend that I didn’t. Because there’s a tug there in the other direction, making me resist the pull to love him back. I don’t even know him! the logical part of my brain screams, but my gut feels as if I might.

  “Do you know me?” I don’t know how else to ask the hundreds of questions swimming through my head.

  He stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away. “Do you know me?”

  “I feel like I should. But I don’t.” I brush my hands through the curly hair on his chest. So unlike Bob and Francis, both hair minimalists as much by nature as nurture. “Tell me about your life. If it’s something I shouldn’t know, the cloaking spell will block it out. But try. I want to know you.”

  He runs his arms up and down my back. I snuggle in, not wanting this moment to end but growing more and more aware that Francis will only let me block out that demanding voice of his for so long.

  How would they react when they found out what Nameless and I just did? A quiver runs straight through my core—that’s the only word I have to describe the jolt of electricity I get when I think of the guys. When I think of how uninhibited I’ve become and the adventure I’m on, exploring things I thought were taboo.

  Nameless’s deep voice pulls me back. “I had a breakup that wrecked me. I’d been a passable guitar player at the time, but undisciplined. I threw myself into my music. I wanted to become someone . . . to show her.”

  “I’m not surprised. Beyond your amazing music and your mad dance skills, you feel like someone who should be famous.”

  He bites his tongue, then unwraps the blanket, patting his knee. I frown, but he reaches for a jar sitting on the table beside us. “Over my knee, Ren, I need to treat that pert little ass of yours with Arnica so it doesn’t bruise.” I assume the position, and he unscrews the jar and moments later spreads cool, soothing gel over my butt and upper thighs. I sigh happily as he continues.

  “I signed a recording contract within six months of our breakup. Within a year, I was putting the finishing touches on my debut album. Then, I died of an aneurysm in the studio. My album was never released. I never got to show her who I really was. I doubt she knew anything about it.”

  He keeps rubbing my ass, and for a change, I wisely keep my mouth shut, but I stroke his muscular calf with my fingers.

  After a moment, I venture, “If Francis is right, and we are destined mates, we need to find a way to get past whatever’s kept us apart.”

  “Exactly. We need to figure this out because, as hard as this is to admit, I’d rather share you than be without you.”

  There must be something in the celestial waters because that’s exactly what Bob says. But there’s just one teeny-tiny problem. I let my arm hang and surreptitiously take a look at my wrist. Though it’s throbbing, the third bud isn’t pulsing. Not the way it did after Francis and I had sex. His had looked ready to burst. And how do I bring that up without ruining the moment?

  “What about your girlfriend?” I ask. Oh yeah, super tactful. *mental eye roll* I brace to be rolled off his lap. Instead, he chuckles.

  “Her name is Winsha, and you can retract your claws, little Ren. She’s been more company than anything else, and obviously, things just changed. Not sure about your guys, though. Speaking of which, we’d better get dressed. Francis will be on his way here any time now.”

  With that, he does set me on my feet and whips the afghan out of reach before I can snatch it from him. We end up in one of those wrestling, tickling matches that has us tangled up, and, tears streaming down my face, I’m laughing so hard that I don’t notice Francis’s chiseled features staring down at us, a study in intense disapproval.

  “I’ve got this now, Nameless. You can go.” Francis and Nameless do the macho staring match thing while I dress.

  Nameless pulls his sweater over his head, gives me a small smile with a little bow of his head, and leaves without another word. Francis turns and studies me.

  “Having fun, mo chridhe?” Francis’s expression is unreadable but makes me feel instantly defensive.

  “Yes, I am, actually.” Want to make something of it?

  Francis steps up all close and p
ersonal. Oh good, another kiss.

  “Love, if I want to make something of it, you’ll know. Now come along.” Francis’s words throw a blanket of cold water on my burning desire. He turns and walks out of the room, expecting me to follow. With extreme petulance, I follow him until we come to the fork in the halls. He takes the one going toward the staff quarters. I take the one leading toward the academy. “See you later,” I call.

  Instantly, Francis is in front of me, shooting those damned cuffs. “We’re going to the quarters.”

  My hands fly to my hips, and every one of my myriad of swirling emotions channels to anger. “I’m not sure exactly when you decided you’re the boss of me, but you’re not.” And if I could sound more juvenile, I don’t know how. I take a deep breath and reach deep to access my headmistress voice. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got something important I need to do. Right now, that takes precedence over our scene.”

  Francis’s face is unmoved.

  I rub the bridge of my nose. “Look, how about we take a breather? Take me to my office. I’ll do some work, chill out a bit, and then we can meet later.” I shoot him my best persuasive smile, hoping it shows better on the outside than I feel inside. I definitely need some girlfriend time. Those cornflower blue eyes study me intently, but the storm clouds around the edges die down.

  Finally, he steps aside, holds out his arm. “Fine. I’ll take you to your office, and we’ll meet for dinner at seven. Will that suit your needs?”

  “Yes.” I’m not going to thank him. But neither will I be snarky. My warm ass reminds me I might be sending it toward certain destruction.

  As we walk to the office, I try to get a read on Francis’s mood, but where there’s a usual feeling of peeking through drapes until he parts them and lets me in, I run into a brick wall. Oh boy.

  Dorbhe flitters up when we open the office door and flies over. “Is everything okay, Madame Tate? I thought you’d left for the day. Thank goodness I stayed.”