by P. J. Fox
“That fear…it’s not something you can ape. Even the most craven submissives lose it after awhile. They know they’re safe. But that first time….” He trailed off. “You can taste their dread. Their certainty that, however much they’ve convinced themselves they trust their partners, they’ve made a terrible mistake. Trust, you see, is intellectual. It’s nothing in the face of pure animal instinct.”
A chill ran up Belle’s spine.
Ash turned. “There are burlesques and fire performers, too,” he said in a completely different tone. Offhand. As though the previous interchange hadn’t occurred. “It’s not all sex in the back room.”
“And you…paid someone to teach you how to hurt people?” Belle still couldn’t quite credit this.
“Yes. A professional dominatrix. Actually, several of them.”
“And…?”
“And paid submissives. These weren’t the most thrilling experiences, I can assure you. But they were instructional, which was the point. I’d never subject someone I cared about to the kind of gross ineptitude I’ve seen at clubs, and parties. Someone like you.”
“Oh.”
“I want to hurt you, Belle. Not kill you.”
She smiled, in spite of herself.
“Yes, there are safe words—if submissives are willing to use them, which they often aren’t—but by then the damage has been done. Submissives,” he continued, “are often afraid to use their safe word, for fear of upsetting their dominants. Or they don’t realize that they’ve been hurt until it’s too late. Or they’re too hurt, emotionally or physically, to remember the safe word at all. They forget that the act is supposed to be consensual. After which point, of course, it isn’t.”
“So wait—you practiced on dozens of hapless women, so you could hurt me more effectively?”
“Hundreds,” he corrected. “And, to put it inelegantly, yes. I suppose. But I would never want to hurt you.” His eyes searched hers, as black as coals in the gloom. “Not truly. I…need certain things from you. To share certain things with you.”
Belle nodded.
“But I hope to please you as well,” he said, in a quieter tone.
And she knew that he did. He took care of her, after his own fashion. He was a hard man, and a cruel one. There was no denying that bitter truth. He took what he wanted and to hell with the consequences; the same outlook that had made him so phenomenally successful in business was also the one that allowed him to purchase a lover without pricking his conscience. A lover who, more and more, found herself influenced by his expectation that she’d come to love him. That their love was inevitable.
By the sheer force of his will.
She was about to respond, when she realized that they’d arrived.
FIFTY-SIX
As the car turned, its headlights swept the house: an enormous Georgian-style brick edifice. Bow front wings stood out on either side of a central building as imaginatively designed as a tissue box. The whole thing looked, Belle decided, like two toilet paper rolls glued to either side of said tissue box. Except with windows. An impressively columned entryway had been painted a heavy cream that, in the halogens, looked like pale urine. A picture window, the house’s sole other ornament, glared down from above.
Alec pulled to a stop.
“This will be fun,” Ash assured her. “An adventure.”
Alec got out and opened Ash’s door. A minute later Ash opened Belle’s and, with his usual good manners, helped her out. Gravel crunched under her shoes. The rain had stopped, at least temporarily, but the air was chill. She shivered. Apparently a coat wasn’t part of the program. Ash put his arm around her.
The door opened and a man stepped out.
Whatever Belle had expected, he wasn’t it. He made a show of grimacing at the headlights before turning to Ash and greeting him, affectionately if not warmly. He was shorter than Ash by several inches, and his lower half strained at the seams of his black leather pants. He was wearing a shirt, more of a blouse, really, open to the waist. And he had long hair. Longer than Charlotte’s, hair of which any woman would be jealous.
The headlights winked off, leaving them in the ambient gloom of a barely functioning porch light.
He glanced at Belle and then back at Ash and waited, expectantly. So far, her so-called host hadn’t spoken to her and Belle was more than a little put out. And worried. Ash’s assurances aside, she couldn’t help but feel like something was wrong. The fact that this house—and this man—seemed so strange wasn’t helping.
“This is Mistress Belle,” Ash said. “My partner.”
“Oh!” Their host’s demeanor completely changed, becoming far more welcoming as he extended his hand. “Welcome! It’s always thrilling to meet another like-minded individual.” His skin was cool to the touch but dry, like a snake’s. “I’m pleased, too, that Ash has found a companion. A true companion, no?” He—it sounded like a titter, but oddly dry. Like his skin. Like the rustling of leaves. Belle disliked him instantly.
Still, she managed a return smile.
He turned, gesturing toward his door with a flourish. “I am Master John,” he said, “and welcome to the House of Brennus.”
Brennus, Belle knew, was an ancient Celtic word meaning raven. Never had she seen a man who deserved the term less than this so-called Master John. Ash caught her eye, and they exchanged a look. Clearly, he was thinking something similar. So why were they here?
John led them into his house, droning on about protocol and interrupting himself to point out various features of interest. “This house, you know, was a care home when I purchased it. Designed to house thirty-five elderly in thirty-two well-appointed bedrooms. And they are well-appointed…although I’ve appointed them a little differently.” That titter again.
“There are also two sitting rooms, two dining rooms, a formal parlor, and a dedicated smoking room. But my favorite feature—and this is why I bought the house—is the shower room. Which can host a number of people, all at once. The assisted bathrooms are quite a bit of fun, too. As is the commercial kitchen, although of course I never go there. What’s the point of being a master, if one has to cook one’s own food?”
To this, neither Ash nor Belle had a response.
“We have a number of staff, too….”
Belle looked around. The house, for all its grandeur, was oddly sterile. The walls were paneled in an unappetizing oak. There were only a few rugs, all of which appeared to have come from the same store. There were no pictures, although there was a reproduction suit of armor. What furniture there was looked as if it had been cadged from the original residents.
John’s opinions on protocol had now shifted to the myriad ways in which slaves were supposed to present themselves: chin tilted at just the right angle, legs a certain width apart, no slumping, or else there would be punishments.
Belle understood now why Ash had thought a certain dress code necessary. John had, apparently, been waiting for some clarification of who Belle was—of how she fitted into his self-imposed scheme—before greeting her. Had Ash not identified her as an equal, she shuddered to think what might have happened.
Despite describing himself as a master, Belle had yet to see evidence of John’s slaves. And yet a master had slaves, did he not? Belle had to admit, if only to herself, that she was curious. Curious about what these slaves looked like, and how they acted. And about, moreover, what sort of woman would choose to spend her life serving a man like John. Apparently in the company of multiple other women. Or men.
If, indeed, choose she had.
John led them into one of the two sitting rooms. He seemed very proud that there were two sitting rooms. Belle didn’t imagine that the other was any more delightful. This space, which was as cavernous as the rest of the house, had been kitted up in an odd mixture of oak wood and pea green velveteen. Belle felt like she was swimming in a bowl of pea soup. The tufted ottoman must be the cube of ham.
She couldn’t repress a small smile.
/> “What?” Ash asked, leaning in.
“Soup,” she mouthed.
Ash rolled his eyes. “This is new. Before, he—”
“What are you two whispering about?”
Ash straightened. “I was telling Belle that, before purchasing this…masterpiece of architecture, you had a flat in Grosvenor Square.” He cast an eye on the ottoman, which was an unfortunate flesh tone. “And to be honest, I myself am wondering why you moved.”
“Space, my dear boy!” John was now pouring himself a drink at the sideboard, a thimbleful of something evil-looking from a cut crystal decanter. “Space!”
He waved the decanter at Ash, who nodded.
Minutes later, they were all seated with their drinks. The couches, in addition to being hideous, smelled old. Belle had requested water and John had rung for it, but so far no water had appeared. Which was just as well; Belle wasn’t sure she wanted to eat anything here.
Just then, the door opened and a woman appeared.
Belle stared. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The woman—girl—must have been about Belle’s age, but heavy makeup made it hard to tell. She had the kind of plastic-seeming face that appeared so often on reality TV but that Belle, even with Charlotte’s small army of cosmetics, had never been quite able to duplicate. She wore a purple and black under-bust corset, a pair of black panties and…nothing else.
Large, obviously silicone breasts perched proudly above the corset. Nipples as stiff as erasers appeared to stare Belle directly in the eye. She swallowed.
At a gesture from John, she moved toward Belle. She was carrying a small tray, which Belle hadn’t even noticed. Bending over, she presented Belle with the water. Her hair, Belle noticed incongruously, had been dyed a rather astonishing platinum.
“This is Leah,” John said.
Leah said nothing.
“Leah lives here, and serves the household.”
“I see.” Ash’s tone was impossible to read.
“Leah is being trained in protocol.” A slow smile spread across John’s face. “I’m of the opinion that protocol is vital. Just vital. It helps a slave to express her love for her master.”
Ash sipped his drink.
“You should understand. You have slaves.”
Ash glanced over at Leah, who was still standing where she’d been left.
“I have…diversions,” he allowed. “Yes.”
“What level of protocol do you expect at your house?”
“None.” Ash put his glass down on the ottoman. Crossing one leg over the other, he reclined back into the cushions. He draped one arm negligently over the back of the couch. A casual gesture of possession toward Belle, who still didn’t know what to think. This was all simply too much to take in.
“Either they recognize me as master, or they do not.”
John’s smile was slow and somehow unpleasant. “Perhaps after tonight’s, shall we say…demonstrations, you’ll change your mind. There have been a number of changes, since you visited last. I’m certain that you’ll find at least a few of them highly appealing.”
“Perhaps.”
Belle’s heart skipped a beat.
“A slave,” John continued, “should learn to act naturally—to feel naturally, about everything she is doing. Every movement, no matter how minor, should be executed with such determination, such coordination, and such elegance as to be virtually an extension of my own body. To act any other way is disrespectful and disobedient, no?”
Ash shrugged.
“Leah.” John gestured. “Display.”
Leah took a step forward and, kneeling gracefully to place the tray on the floor, raised herself to her full height while pressing her breasts together upward and outward. The gesture was made somehow more obscene by Leah’s serene expression. She waited, her nipples jutting forward, until John nodded. And then she sat down and, easing onto her back, pulled her legs up and apart.
John spoke this time, since she couldn’t see him, a single word. She rolled onto all fours and then, pressing her head to the carpet, spread herself wide to reveal her second passage.
“I find,” John said, “that regular display helps to remind them of their place: that they exist solely for the pleasure of myself and, of course, for my favored guests.”
“It breaks down their resistance to obedience.”
“Precisely.”
With another word from John, Leah got up off the floor. She was then dismissed. Belle felt sick.
FIFTY-SEVEN
John had, he claimed, invited several others to dinner. Others whom, he felt quite certain, Ash would enjoy. One of them was a professor of something or other; another was an architect.
They were served by more of John’s pets. Leah was nowhere to be seen. Even so, all of the women had a certain sameness about them: all had what could charitably be referred to as creative hair and all had enormous breasts. John apparently felt that Aletta Ocean, the porn star, should represent the sum of every woman’s aspirations.
“They’re quite something,” he said, pulling one of the women down into his lap and caressing the side of her breast, “aren’t they?”
Ash sipped his drink. The other guests looked on interestedly. John proceeded to fondle the woman’s breast as he talked, idly pinching her nipple now and then. She stared fixedly forward. On high protocol, none of his slaves were allowed to speak or otherwise react unless he gave them express permission to do so.
“As part of the procedure, I had her nipples injected with silicone so as to be forever hard. Forever…aroused. A pair of beautiful, erect nipples are the ultimate symbol of invitation, no?” He chuckled again. God, Belle hated that sound.
“I find it makes them more sensitive, too. Would you care to sample her?”
Ash shook his head. His expression was, as always, unreadable. “Perhaps later. After dinner.” He signaled for another drink, which was brought to him by a different woman. She, too, was wearing what appeared to be the house uniform: a corset, and precious little else.
“But they are lovely, aren’t they?”
“Indeed.”
John gestured at Belle. “You should consider getting a set for her. She’d be ever so much more fun.”
“I prefer her as she is.” Ash’s tone was languid. Belle was not consulted.
She studied the other guests. The other guests John had mentioned were the two other so-called masters. Evidently their companions hadn’t been worth discussing. And now were beneath notice. Literally. The professor, who’d arrived in a stunning costume of black leather—which seemed de rigueur for this environment—had brought along a woman whom he referenced only as the slut. She sat on the floor at his feet, and did not eat.
The architect had brought along a woman whom he’d referred to, at one point, as his wife. She was wearing a lovely, if revealing gown. She looked entirely normal to Belle until, at one point, she turned her head. Tattooed on the back of her neck was a barcode.
Seeing Belle’s expression, her husband explained that this was the barcode assigned to her by something called The Slave Register. After some consideration, he’d decided that the tattoo would be the perfect means to show her devotion. “I had her registered,” he said, “after I purchased her from her last master.”
He went on to explain that while he allowed her to be discreet, he required that she don some additional symbol of submission before leaving the house. He didn’t offer to explain what that was, although eventually Belle found out. And through no fault of her own.
She had to admit she was curious. But by the time the first course had been served, and cleared, she was more frightened than anything else. More and more, she wanted to know what Ash wanted. Why he’d brought her here. He’d spoken barely at all since their arrival, including to her. Had he taken her here, because this was what he wanted?
What he intended—whether she agreed or no?
He had bought her. Had brought her into his life, and his world, entirely
against her will. That she’d learned to adapt hadn’t made the situation any more consensual. At least at first. She wondered grimly if she’d been fooling herself—no, to what extent she had been fooling herself. All along, she’d done her best to fit whatever this was into the parameters of a normal relationship. Had told herself that there was no such thing as “normal,” that normal was merely a construct. But the fact was, nothing that had happened in her life over the past month and more had any bearing on anything anyone associated with the term relationship. Comparing this to the kind of thing that happened at college was as futile as comparing an apple to a chair.
“The Dassault,” Ash was saying, “uses fifty to sixty percent less fuel than others in its class. Which dramatically reduces its carbon footprint.”
“I didn’t think you cared about such things.”
“I don’t.” Ash put down his fork. “It’s a tax write-off.”
The second course was risotto with scallops. A dish that, under other circumstances, Belle would have quite enjoyed. As it was, even if she were inclined to eat she could barely see her plate. All the lights in the entire house appeared to be powered by exceptionally tired glow worms. The only consolation was that she couldn’t see much of the other guests—or their slaves. In addition to his apparent wife, the architect had brought two others. For later, had been his oblique explanation.
“Well I’m doing some interesting research,” said the professor. Who’d turned out to be a professor of entomology. “It started, you see, while I was gardening. Pruning the rose bushes. A honeybee flew up my shorts and stung me in the testicles.”
Belle choked on her water.
“My field is, of course, the behavior and evolution of honeybees.”
“That’s fascinating,” Belle managed.
“Did it hurt?” John sounded entirely too excited.
“Not as much as I thought it would! Which got me to thinking: where’s the worst place on the body to get stung?”
