The Prince's Slave

by P. J. Fox

  The truth was, Belle hadn’t considered the effect of her disappearance—on anyone. Although she hadn’t admitted as much to herself, not consciously, she’d assumed that no one would care. Or maybe even notice at all.

  Or maybe part of her had been afraid—not that her mother would convince her to come home, or any other external source, but that she herself would come to her senses.

  Ash grabbed her chin and turned her head sharply. “Look at me,” he said.

  She stared up at him.

  “Don’t make me punish you.”

  “You want to punish me.” She sounded petulant, even to herself. Like a child.

  Twisting his fingers in her hair, he jerked her upright. The pain was excruciating. She gasped. “You haven’t experienced true punishment. What I’ve done so far…has been for pleasure. Mine, and yours.”

  He jerked her head back, pressing his other hand between her shoulder blades to hold her upright. Tears sprung to her eyes. His eyes, on hers, were dark.

  “Perhaps it’s time I teach you.”

  She gasped.

  “Teach you that you’re mine, and no one else’s.”

  “Please….”

  “I will not be ignored.” His voice was steel. “Your focus should be my pleasure, and mine alone. Protest me. Scream if you must. But do not lie back and think of the empire.”

  “I didn’t mean….” Her words were barely a whisper.

  “Charlotte will not steal you from me. No one will.”

  He pulled her forward and across his lap, stripping the last of her clothing from her in one fluid motion. Yoga pants, panties, down around her ankles and then, as she kicked helplessly, onto the floor. She’d taken off her shoes and socks earlier; now she was bare. Vulnerable. Helpless before him.

  The rain beat down.

  She cried out as the flat of his hand connected with her bottom, more in surprise than anything else. He’d given her no warning. She squirmed. She didn’t like being spanked, much, although she liked how much it excited Ash. This was different, though.

  There was no teasing, here.

  His hand connected again.

  And again.

  Every new contact raised another bloom of fire. Her skin stung. He was neither fast nor slow but measured, giving her time to anticipate—and dread—each new blow.

  She realized now that before, when he’d spanked her, he hadn’t been serious. His blows had stung, but not caused any real pain. There had been pleasure there, as well; of knowing she was pleasing him, of feeling her loins warm. But now—she cried out again, this time in pain. The crack of flesh against flesh was like gunshots in the near-silence.

  One after another.

  She began to sob in earnest. Nothing like the frustrated, panicky tears of earlier but a release. She didn’t care how she looked. She wasn’t anxious. She wasn’t thinking about anything at all. The tears flowed as the snot built up in her nose. She couldn’t run; she couldn’t hide. He was forcing her to feel everything she couldn’t bear to feel, everything she’d tried desperately to avoid feeling by checking out.

  Under his onslaught her shell had cracked.

  She felt a warm trickle down the inside of her thigh.

  Blood.

  He stopped.

  She kept sobbing and he let her, one hand resting on her back as the other stroked her hair.

  His presence was calm. Comforting. She didn’t want to be alone after all. Not really. She was just so terrified that she was alone. That everything she’d come to accept as part of her life was an illusion. That she’d wake up back in that cold, antiseptic back room.

  That Charlotte was right—not about Ash being a criminal but about Belle being disposable.

  Finally the tears stopped.

  She sat up, her legs tucked under her. She was painfully aware of being naked. He handed her a handkerchief. He was so oddly old fashioned. Such a gentleman, in so many respects.

  “Are you alright?”

  She blew her nose. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  “It’s better to not know, than to lie to yourself.”

  She nodded. She thought she understood. Maybe.

  “You’re safe with me.”

  He kissed her.

  This time, she kissed him back.

  He placed her hand on his shirt and she undid his buttons, her mouth still seeking his. She raised herself up to her knees as he pulled her to him, crushing her against his bare chest. She pushed his shirt off over his shoulders, glorying in the feel of his hard flesh.

  The tears were still threatening and she swallowed. She didn’t know what she was feeling. She might have been too overwhelmed to feel anything at all. But she knew that she wanted him. Needed the release he brought her, first through pain and then through pleasure. Feeling him inside of her, giving herself up to him was like stepping outside herself. She hadn’t been able to access that place before because she’d closed herself off, but now….

  He pulled her down onto the floor. He was gentle, but she was shivering. Not with cold but with emotion. Although the air was chill.

  The carpet cushioned her somewhat from the hardwood, but not enough. She was sore all over and the wool against her backside was like fire. She whimpered, but didn’t protest. And then his arms were around her and he was kissing her again.

  He’d lost the rest of his clothes. She didn’t know how; she felt like she was barely conscious. His lips were a lifeline. Sliding his hand along the underside of her thigh, he lifted her leg to his waist. She gasped as he pushed himself inside her, tilting her head back. She was ready for him, hot and moist with a desire she hadn’t felt until that moment.

  He moved slowly, holding her as carefully as if she were one of her own porcelain vases. Still, it hurt. Without the cushion of a bed beneath her, or the couch, she felt like he was pushing through her to the other side. Fresh tears sprung to the corners of her eyes but she felt herself rising to meet him nonetheless. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Her mouth tasted of him and salt.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you,” she gasped.

  “Tell me again.”

  “I love you.”

  “Again.”

  I love you. This time she mouthed the words. She trembled as she felt herself build toward the climax he was pulling from her, almost against her will. Every nerve sang. I love you. There were more tears. She was in so much pain. I love you.

  He moved in her, on her, owning her with his body. She’d never been so aware of him: his smell, his taste. The feel of him encased inside her. The pain-pleasure of how he was almost too big. Especially now. His pace picked up, becoming punishing. Half lovemaking, half vengeance, he was hurting her and he knew it.

  Hurting her, and loving her at the same time.

  She arched her back, moaning, as for a few precious seconds the world was swept away.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  She sat in the tub, feeling both miserable and oddly light. Like a great weight had been released, one she hadn’t even realized she was carrying. The hot water was soothing on her skin, pulling the pain out like drawing venom from a wound.

  Ash bent down, holding out a glass. “Drink this.”

  She looked up.

  “It’s just juice.”

  A few minutes later, he joined her in the tub. Which, she still maintained, was really more of a swimming pool. Certainly her family’s, what had been described in the brochures as a luxury double wide hadn’t had any such thing.

  The thought brought a small smile to her face. She had to imagine, too, what her mother would say about this bathroom. Nothing positive, that was for sure. It wasn’t very New England.

  She miserable, but not with Ash. She should have been, she supposed, but instead she felt closer to him. She was confused. Had they just made love for the first time? She didn’t know. It had all felt like love to her, even that first night together. Even though she’d hated him, then. Or thought
she had. But something about this was different.

  And—how did he feel about her? Was making love even an appropriate term to use, when thinking about what happened between them? She thought she knew the answer to that question but sometimes, like now, she doubted her own judgment. She thought—she wanted to believe—that his needing her, needing her to tell him that she loved him, meant something.

  She let Ash pull her toward him in the water, and begin to massage her. Which felt wonderful. But, even so, her muscles remained tense beneath his fingers.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Is she going to come back?”

  He knew what Belle meant. “I don’t know. She might. But next time we’ll all be ready for her, so it won’t be quite as horrible. As to the other….” He was silent for a long moment, thinking. “I remember, years ago, when I was first starting out, expressing outrage at someone who’d completely ignored the terms of our contract. But you’re wrong! I told him. And you know you’re wrong!” He chuckled ruefully. “I was very young, then. Yes, the man replied. That’s your opinion. But as to fact, that rests on the judge’s opinion.

  “In other words, he knew that it would cost me more money—and time, which also meant money—to pursue him than to simply take my lumps. It was a shakedown, pure and simple.”

  “So you think that—that Charlotte was trying to manipulate me?”

  “Yes. If there’d been merit to her claims, we’d have seen someone other than an intern. I think her intentions were good, for what that’s worth; some part of her genuinely believed that she was rescuing you. That you needed rescuing. And if rescuing you meant lying to you—well, cult deprogrammers do that all the time.”

  “Oh.” But, strangely enough, Belle did feel better. “I’m scared,” she admitted.

  “Of?”

  “Of being rescued.”

  “Belle, you’re a grown woman. No one can force you to leave here—or, indeed, to go anywhere else—if you don’t want to.”

  She leaned back against him.

  She was still sore, but she already felt a thousand times better than she had. Both inside and out. She and Ash didn’t have a safeword, but so far she’d never needed one. He pushed her limits, but he’d never broken them. Or her. He knew her well enough to read her like a book.

  And really, what was the point of a safeword if it was constantly used?

  That meant either that the submissive didn’t trust the dominant, or that the dominant was inept. No amount of safewords could ever substitute for knowing the submissive. For paying attention to her responses and, moreover, caring what those responses were.

  “You have to learn your place,” he said. “Your place, and mine.”

  She waited. Floating. His arms around her, both protecting her and trapping her. Dominance and submission was about a power exchange between two consenting adults, but it was also about so much more. She wasn’t a doormat, and she wasn’t weak. Although Charlotte had made her feel so, dredging up memories of what her life had been like before. No…the life that she and Ash had created together fulfilled her as nothing else did.

  As nothing else ever had.

  With Ash, submitting to him, making the choice to submit to him, to give him this control over her, she’d grown. Become more independent. More confident, both in herself and in her own decisions. A determinedly modern woman like Charlotte wouldn’t—and clearly didn’t—understand. But Belle understood now that, even that first night together, she’d made a choice.

  Ash didn’t have to blow his own trumpet, like Master John. He just was. And she felt safe with him in a way that, she realized now, she never had with anyone else. Her mother had never protected her; her father certainly never had. Both had been too caught up in their own troubles. In meeting Ash, Belle had, for the first time, met someone who put her needs first. Which, she’d also come to realize, was part of what true dominant did.

  A dominant was, simply, dominant. Not domineering.

  To John, everything was about being in charge. He was overbearing, boorish and tyrannical. His so-called dominance was merely control, and oppressive control at that. With no purpose, that Belle had been able to see, other than to reassure himself of his own importance.

  He was both unjust and severe in his treatment of others, seeing his women as interchangeable objects rather than individuals. Whereas Ash also exercised dominion over his domain, he did so much more subtly. People wanted to serve Ash. They loved him. Diana, Alec, even Luna—they all loved him.

  Belle had come to see things from Ash’s point of view, not because she’d been brainwashed but because Ash just had that effect on people. He influenced their thoughts by being intuitive. And decent. He hadn’t just used her, like Charlotte claimed. Charlotte who, unlike Ash, had never asked her a single question about what she’d wanted. He’d taken responsibility for her: for her health, both physical and mental, and simply for her wellbeing.

  “To that end,” he continued, his tone thoughtful, “we should work on your training.”

  “Oh.”

  “Proper training can cement the bond between master and submissive. Help them to know each other better…to communicate more deeply, and more broadly.” He paused again. “I want to learn more about you.

  “When you’re upset, I don’t want you to turn from me. I want you to turn to me. To trust me to solve the problem.”

  “I do,” she said.

  “Not enough.”

  He wasn’t being cruel, but the words stung. She felt inadequate. This whole day had been one long exercise in punishment, of one form or another. Couldn’t she do anything right?

  She turned around, facing him, as she sank deeper into the water. She needed its protection. As little as it offered.

  “That’s one of your problems,” he said. “You’re so modest. Even around me, who’s explored every inch of you. Inside and out.”

  She blushed.

  “We need to break down these barriers between us. Moreover,” he added, “doing so will help you to work through situations like the one with Charlotte. With me, and with my help. Not against me, and alone.”

  But what did that have to do with sex?

  As if reading her thoughts, “you must learn to be obedient. In all areas. Learning to trust me in one, to open up to me, will help you to trust me in others. To open up to me in others…totally and completely.”

  Which sounded ominous. His eyes on hers were dark. She shivered.

  “There’s no need to be frightened. You’re a submissive; not a slave. I don’t wish to break your will. Only to help you grow. To deepen the bond between us until turning from me no longer occurs to you. Which…requires trust. And obedience is how to build up trust.”

  He helped her from the bath and, wrapping a towel around her, held her against him. Exhausted, she let him. Although she was so confused. More confused than she’d been in months. She’d thought herself so liberated but then, to see the expression on her friend’s face when she’d seen her…what was Charlotte seeing, that Belle wasn’t?

  SEVENTY-SIX

  Belle shivered. She was naked and the room was cold. She was fixed in, if not an uncomfortable position, then at least an exposed one. Not very uncomfortable, at any rate.

  Sunlight spilled across the floor, giving the illusion of warmth: bright golden checks on the hardwood and the expensive oriental carpets. A calm room, and a peaceful one. But for Belle suspended in the middle of the room, it might have been a bedroom belonging to Queen Victoria. Belle, who’d been tied up and then left to ponder her fate.

  She’d fallen into an exhausted sleep the previous night, and been tormented by dreams of that long-ago club and worse. Even the safe haven of Ash’s arms hadn’t protected her from them, and she’d woken up more exhausted than when she’d fallen asleep. Bleary-eyed, she’d studied Ash across the table as he drank his morning coffee. Her own cup, untouched, cooled before her.

  Eventually, she’d suggested going to work in her
studio. They’d barely spoken. But Ash, without raising his eyes from the newspaper, had suggested instead that she might like to spend the morning with him. Beginning the training regimen that they’d discussed—or, rather, that he’d discussed—the night before.

  He’d left the decision up to her.

  She’d agreed.

  Why, she wasn’t entirely certain. If nothing else, she supposed, it would take her mind off Charlotte. And she had to admit that she was…curious.

  So far, nothing had happened. After breakfast, Ash had taken her back upstairs where, polite as ever, he’d asked her to strip. Which she had, feeling awkward. Then he’d guided her back toward the bed and, raising her arms over her head, affixed one to each post.

  The ropes weren’t pulled taught enough to hurt, just to keep her in position. Next, he’d spread her ankles apart and done the same thing. And then he’d left her there.

  She didn’t know how long he’d been gone or when he was coming back, only that she’d had entirely too much time to think. About everything. Far from distracting her, her morning so far was only forcing her to focus on her problems. There was simply nothing else to do. Nothing to look at, no one to talk to. She wasn’t in pain. She was just bored.

  The door opened.

  Belle glanced up, her heart in her throat, afraid that it would be Luna. Or, worse, Diana. But it was Ash. His expression, as usual, was bland.

  “Are we ready?”

  She’d been ready an hour ago. “Yes,” she said.

  He walked over to her but, if she was expecting him to touch her, she was disappointed. Instead he busied himself with the ropes. The pressure on her arms increased, forcing her to rise up onto the balls of her feet. And there he fixed them, so that her heels were just off the ground. The position wasn’t terrible, especially for a dancer; but she knew that, over time, it would wear her down.

  “Normally I abjure safewords,” he said. “As you know. But I want to be considerate of your ankle.” He remembered her injury, then. Of course he did. “So please tell me if the position becomes unpleasant.”