The Prince's Slave

by P. J. Fox

  But she wanted to.

  She wanted to learn more about Robin. To lie in bed next to Ash, listening to his stories. To see Professor Graham again. To travel. To go home—yes home—to Luna and Diana and her studio. And her running trails. To finish reading the book she’d started and left behind by accident. To watch him drink coffee and figure out, for once and for all, where he put so much scotch. To talk him out of pickling himself entirely.

  To hear him laugh.

  “Yes,” she said.

  SIXTY-ONE

  She unbuttoned his shirt, her eyes never leaving his. Her fingers did their work slowly, concentrating on each button as though it were the most important task in the world. He, in turn, waited.

  She spread his shirt open, to reveal his chest. Smooth, muscled. Perfect.

  Then, as carefully as she’d done everything else, she took his glass from him and placed it on the floor. She had to bend over, almost across him, and he touched the top of her breast. Just a simple touch, but lingering. She straightened, facing him once more, and he let his hand drop. He was half reclining on the couch, she kneeling.

  Reaching behind herself, she tugged open the laces of her glorified corset. Her eyes were still on his and they bored into her, their gray now the dark and lowering slate of storm clouds. Something flashed deep within, like lightning.

  She eased herself out of the satin, the boning, and then all she had left was her garter belt and stockings. Her panties had been lost earlier, and she hadn’t worn a bra. Hadn’t needed one. She held perfectly still, letting him study her. The dress fell to the floor, forgotten. Crawling forward, choosing each movement as cautiously as a cat, she placed her hands on his shoulders. Reaching up, he trailed a finger down the line of her jaw. But he said nothing. He was enjoying the show.

  “Shall I undress you, master?” Her voice was pitched low, with just the smallest hint of humor.

  He slid his hand down the side of her breast, cupping it, testing its weight. She held her position, barely breathing. He pushed her nipple back and forth with his thumb. She felt the nub of flesh grow hard beneath him. Back and forth, and then in a gentle rolling motion.

  He let his hand fall. “Yes,” he said. “You shall.”

  She slid his shirt down over his shoulders. He didn’t help her, didn’t hinder her. Merely waited. She lifted first one arm and then the other, easing the expensive cotton down and off. All off his shirts had been made for him, and it showed.

  Bending down, she kissed him just above the right nipple. And then just below. She kissed him again on his flat, hard stomach, as her fingers made short work of his belt buckle.

  “I’ll need the belt,” he said.

  Pulling it free from his pants, she laid it over the back of the couch. Expensively tanned leather. Supple.

  She undid the first button.

  “Later, I’ll teach you to do it with your teeth.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. The idea excited her. Part of her wanted to be on her knees before him, helpless. And part of her wanted to bite him. To bite him, and then be bitten. She didn’t know where these ideas had come from, only that they created a new warmth between her thighs. A warmth, and a need that seemed so much deeper than merely the need to climax.

  “Yes what?”

  She looked up, her eyes meeting his. “Yes, master.”

  “Good girl.”

  He stood up and then she was on her knees before him, removing his shoes and then his pants. She should have removed his shoes first. She’d never done this before. There were still so many things she hadn’t done. But he was patient. Nothing like John.

  He raised her to her feet. “Where?” he asked.

  “Wherever you wish. Master.”

  With gentle pressure, he directed her back toward the couch. She took one step, and then another, and then felt the soft velvet of the upholstery against her legs. It wasn’t a large couch, but it was large enough. She sat down reflexively, and he guided her into a lying position. Then he straddled her. She stared up at him, not saying anything.

  He ran his fingertips along the belt. “Anyone thinking about incorporating pain into sex should be warned. This is, for some of us…highly addictive. There are those who’ve found that, over time, they need more and more pain to be satisfied. And those, in turn, who’ve found that sex without pain has become…uninteresting.”

  He smiled slightly. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. She shivered.

  “You did well tonight, serving me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you ready to experience the pleasure of pain for your master?”

  The words were an invitation. “Yes.”

  “Good girl. And this is meant to be pleasure. My goal is for you to come, for me, when I tell you to.”

  She nodded, nervous now. Nervous, and excited.

  He trailed his hand down from chin to waist, pausing there. “For that to happen, you must open yourself to me completely. Trust me. There’s no room for shame, or embarrassment, here. Open yourself to me, give yourself to me. Give me your limits, and your resolve.”

  She thought about the night when—she’d believed—he’d burned her.

  She’d never been so scared, or so humiliated. So conscious of her own vulnerability. Even the night she’d been captured hadn’t been that bad. At least then, shock had been an insulator. But when he’d taken her after the branding, she’d been raw. A thousand nerve endings, screaming out. She’d hidden herself from him before, hidden her fear. Just as she’d hidden it from her initial captors. She’d been an island. Remote, not allowing anyone to pierce that secret and hidden veil. Until Ash had torn it from her, revealing a depth of terror that even she hadn’t known existed.

  She nodded.

  “Touch yourself.”

  “What?”

  “Touch yourself. While I watch. Touch yourself and feel the pleasure.”

  This was the most intimate act. More intimate than someone watching her while she used the toilet. The ultimate invasion of privacy. She hesitated. He waited. He’d made her come before, forced her to feel pleasure that she didn’t want. Why was this so different?

  Cautiously, she moved her hand down between her legs. He didn’t respond, but she thought she saw a flicker of approval in his eyes. She was wet. So wet. She had no idea that she’d been this turned on. Her fingers were slippery as they separated her folds. She shivered.

  “Now,” he said, “use your other hand to caress your nipple.”

  She did as he asked.

  “You have sensitive nipples, which is good. Yes, like that. Just like that. I want it to be nice and stiff for the pain.”

  She shuddered.

  “Start squeezing your nipple. Just enough to feel a slight discomfort.” She felt a tap on her thigh. “But don’t stop touching yourself. Slowly, now; we don’t want you to come before you’re ready.”

  She didn’t think she could come, with him watching her. She felt a curious mixture of heat, alarm, and humiliation. She didn’t want to lose control in front of him, even though she already had. But at the same time, she was finding it harder and harder to think clearly, to care that she was being humiliated. She wasn’t sure that she could stop touching herself.

  He spoke in low, measured tones. “The goal, here, darling, is to balance pain and pleasure.”

  Her eyes fluttered closed, and then opened again.

  “Pinch your nipple. Hard.”

  She did as he asked, and gasped at the shock.

  “Again.”

  She moaned.

  “The pain, now, is a little bit more than the pleasure between your legs.”

  She sighed.

  “Let the pleasure mount again. Feel the ebb and flow of pleasure and pain inside yourself.”

  Every nerve ending tingled, alive. She did feel the ebb and flow, like waves; like she was lost in a sea of sensation, one tiny particle among thousands. Millions. Floating. Insignificant. Alive to her body in a way she’d never bee
n before. Knowing that he was watching her only heightened her awareness. He saw her chest rise and fall, saw the flush of red creeping down her neck. Saw her hands on herself, the involuntary jerk of her hips.

  “This excites you, doesn’t it.” His voice was low. “More than you want it to. Feel how powerless you are, over your reactions.” He paused. “As you become more excited, you’ll find that it takes more pressure on your nipple to cause the same amount of pain.” He paused. “Again.”

  She could barely feel the pressure on her nipple, now.

  She moaned.

  “I haven’t given you permission to come.”

  He caressed her.

  “Before I let you come, darling, I’m going to make you take a great deal of pain. Pain that, even now, you crave.” He paused again, savoring her discomfort. Her need. “Pain is your reward; your release.”

  Her nipples were turgid, stiff, focal points for her unspent desire. She felt like she was going to burst apart from the inside out and all of that feeling was concentrated there. Her skin was on fire.

  There was a crack as the belt connected with her tender flesh. Her eyes flew open as she cried out. Her neglected nipple, rock hard and aching, stung.

  “Don’t stop. I want both hands on your cunt. Spread yourself apart so I can see.”

  She did. She wanted him to see. Even as she wanted to disappear. That hidden, unwanted exhibitionist was back. She slid her fingers up and down over herself, reveling in the sensation.

  The crack came again and she cried out, again. He’d struck her already tender nipple, and hard. Her hand faltered to a stop, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

  The leather licked her again, raising a line of fire. “I didn’t give you permission to stop.”

  Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to continue.

  And the truth was, she wanted to.

  Wanted to, and didn’t.

  She wasn’t even conscious of the pleasure, only of the need to keep going. To find some sort of release from this agony. Whenever she slowed down, the belt came down again. She put all of her effort into finding her release. She was so close, but at the same time an orgasm felt impossible. And then—she felt herself building toward something. Something she couldn’t, didn’t want to stop. Her back arched, her head tilted back. Her mouth opened slightly.

  She felt—but didn’t feel—a final crack as her eyes rolled back in her head. Her hands were forced up and then back and then Ash was on top of her and inside her and she was wrapping all of her limbs around him and biting down hard on his shoulder. She thrust her hips up to meet his.

  That first release hit her like a tidal wave, flooding her as she clung to him.

  Tipping her chin up, he kissed her. Really kissed her. She opened her mouth to his, obedient to the gentle pressure, and welcomed his exploration. His hands were firm, his touch sure, as she sank into his embrace.

  His mouth was still on hers when she came again.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Belle lay next to him, curled up in the crook of his arm. They’d made it to the bedroom, finally, and she was exhausted but not sleepy. He had another drink, water this time, and was sipping on it while thinking about something.

  Outside, the rain had started up again.

  “Tell me something about Scarborough.”

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  “About somewhere in Maine, then.”

  “Fishing is more dangerous than people realize, and everyone’s on drugs. The different fishing seasons, all of them, are extremely short.” She gestured. “You know, different seasons for different fish. But whatever the fish, its just…a stampede when each new season arrives. And the feds are extremely strict; get caught putting just one fish in your net a second or two after the season closes, and they’ll confiscate all your fish and maybe even your boat’s fishing license. Permanently.”

  “Gods.”

  “So of course no one can lose a single second, which means no one can sleep.”

  “At all?”

  “Forty, fifty hours in a row, in all weather. And since the ocean wants to kill you, that’s a problem. Fall asleep on your feet, and you’ll fall overboard. Grab for a net one fraction of a second too early, or too late, and you might lose your arm. So everyone’s got a mother’s little helper of some sort. Meth, crack…Red Bull doesn’t cut the mustard, you know?”

  Ash took another sip of his water. “Indeed.”

  “My father got his first fishing license at some three-sided shack near the border that sold firearms and bait.”

  “When my brother—not Anish but Samarth, the one I loathe a little less—met his wife, he introduced himself as Sam. He didn’t tell her he was a prince until the height of their courtship and when he did, she thought he was joking. Then she walked out on him. Said she wanted nothing to do with a man who had nothing better to do than watch his servants polish forks. Moreover, she had no interest in public life.”

  “Poor Sam.”

  “The good news is that royalty in India doesn’t really do much. Moreover, there are thousands of us. Sam had been working at an investment bank, and I suppose he’d known from the beginning that if she knew the truth she’d run screaming. But then he’d gotten it into his head that he wanted to propose and I suppose, too, that he’d realized she’d have to meet his family at some point.”

  “What had he told her your father was?”

  “A lion tamer.”

  Belle laughed, and then winced. She hadn’t felt it at the time, but she was in pain. She felt like she’d fallen down a flight of stairs and then been stepped on by an elephant. All across her chest, bruises were beginning to purple.

  Ash put his glass down on the bed table, and bent over to examine her. “Are you alright?”

  His tone was solicitous. She nodded. She’d felt a little strange, after, but she’d begun to feel better after he’d given her something to drink and carried her into the bedroom. Where he’d tucked her in like a small child and, instead of reviewing reports or making phone calls, as she’d expected him to do, climbed in beside her and just held her. And talked. Like they were two ordinary people, sharing an ordinary life.

  The pain had come later.

  He rolled her over onto her back and began massaging her.

  She sighed, contented. The slow, steady pressure of his fingers felt wonderful, releasing knots she hadn’t even known she had. She closed her eyes. She sheets smelled good.

  “Is your brother happy?” she asked.

  “Sam? Yes. He and his wife have three children now. Anish isn’t, though. His marriage was arranged—which was what he wanted. Anish cares about things being correct. And while arranged marriage isn’t the juggernaut it once was, it’s still considered far preferable. Especially in more conservative families, like my own.

  “Thousands were spent on casting horoscopes, doing background checks….”

  “Horoscopes?”

  “Compatible horoscopes are important to the traditional Hindu mindset.”

  Belle had never even considered such a thing.

  “All this, for a woman who was perfect on paper. Socially compatible, and more than economically compatible. Her father was a business associate. The theory, you see,” he continued, “is that parental prestige and pride ensure that the couple will treat each other correctly—because to do otherwise would be to bring shame on both their families.

  “And, indeed, place family relations in jeopardy. Which, since so many of these marriages do have a strong economic aspect, would be against both parties’ self-interest.”

  “But what about love?”

  “In any relationship, however the couple meets, love waxes and wanes over time. Mutual trust and commitment is what keeps a couple together, not love—or lust, really—at first sight.”

  “Do your brother and his wife love each other?”

  Ash sat back. “No,” he said.

  Belle rolled over, wrapping herself in the covers. “How come
?”

  “Because Anish prefers men and his wife is a loathsome toad.”

  Belle laughed.

  She thought she understood, too, about arranged marriages. Charlotte would lose her mind at even the suggestion that a woman might value something in a husband other than butterflies. Modern women were supposed to supply the rest—from bankroll to emotional support—themselves. Wanting a man, other than in the bedroom, was regressive.

  But wasn’t it more modern to go after exactly what one wanted?

  To stand firmly by one’s own goals, one’s own needs, regardless of what others deemed politically correct? Belle had seen any number of romances, including Charlotte’s, come to terrible endings. Because the people involved wanted different things. Belle’s parents, Donna and Owen, had been madly in love when they eloped as teenagers. Teenagers who didn’t think about things like educational goals, or economic expectations.

  Belle could have dated any number of men at school, who would have expected her to do any number of things; expected her to conform to their notion of what a woman was supposed to do—and who knew what that was? The most seemingly liberated people often turned out to have the most backward notions.

  How a relationship began wasn’t nearly as important as how it progressed. That it hadn’t begun in love didn’t mean it was, therefore, a calculated compromise. It was, she thought, entirely possible to end up with exactly what one wanted. If one was mature enough to know, for oneself. Ash was right that commitment was crucial.

  And any relationship was a gamble, wasn’t it?

  SIXTY-THREE

  Two weeks later, the snow came.

  Summers in the mountains were generally warm, and fall had been pleasant enough, but fall ended quickly. And winters, according to Luna, were quite cold. For most of the season, the temperature never rose much above five degrees. Fahrenheit. Too cold for snow, much of the time. Too cold for much except staring out her studio window and fantasizing about spring.