The Prince's Slave

by P. J. Fox

  On the bed, just like he’d promised, she found a box. Lifting the lid, she gasped. Inside was a beautiful confection of midnight blue lace: floor length, with a high collar and plunging neckline. Beneath the lace, a strapless slip hid what was important.

  Draping it carefully over the coverlet, she disappeared into the bathroom to fix herself up. Thinking, all the while, that she’d never seen such lovely things, never even known they existed, until she met Ash. He’d shown her so much of the world. So much of himself.

  Wearing a bra with the dress would be impossible, with its sheer back, so instead she selected only a pair of black lace panties. And then, on further consideration, a garter belt. Silk stockings completed the effect, along with a pair of crystal-encrusted slippers. With their low wedge heels, they looked like something Marie Antoinette might have worn.

  She gazed at herself in the mirror. The slight chill made her nipples hard, the skin around them puckered. Her breasts were high and firm, well-shaped if smaller than she’d like sometimes. Right now, though, she looked like a goddess. A return to her regular running schedule meant that her supple curves were all in the right places.

  She wondered how much she’d changed—really. Would Charlotte have recognized her, on the street? Would any of her former classmates? Gone was the frightened, mouse-like creature who dreamed only of being ignored and in her place was a woman who felt completely confident studying herself naked in a mirror. Trailing one hand absently over her breast, as her fingers toyed with her nipple.

  Turning, she retrieved the dress. On, its mermaid style did everything to emphasize her lithe dancer’s form. An embellished belt sat at her waist, a vintage-style Swarovski crystal brooch clipped to more midnight blue satin. Like the slip that felt so soft and smooth against her skin. She smiled slightly.

  He was right to make her change. She felt more confident now. More…herself.

  Turning, she left the room.

  She found him in the dining room, just where he said he’d be. Hearing the sound of her footstep, he turned. His eyes widened fractionally, the only hint to his thoughts. But she was certain that his heart wasn’t the only thing stirring. He liked her elegant; where other men wanted their women in latex, or wandering around their houses nude, Ash dressed Belle up in silks and furs. Laces, velvets, wools…all manner of fine things. He put her on a pedestal. And although he worshipped her in his own fashion, worship her he did.

  “This is lovely,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “You look lovely.” His voice was slightly hoarse.

  “Thank you for reminding me about dinner.” She smiled sweetly. Being polite to him like this always caught him off guard.

  “Shall we?” He led her to the table, pulling her seat out for her. That he chose to wait on her, himself, in a house full of servants, she also found charming. As charming as his confusion at her acquiescing demeanor.

  “You don’t mind, then?”

  “Of course not.” She was careful to keep her posture demure, her eyes ever so slightly downcast. She couldn’t help the smile that flickered back and forth across her lips, though.

  “You minx.” He sounded pleased, though.

  The first course was served: individual mushroom strudels. The confections of porcini mushrooms, shallots, and white wine wrapped in puff pastry were one of Belle’s favorite things. She’d discovered a taste for mushrooms, living here.

  Ash sipped his drink. “You know,” he said, “in the original version of Beauty and the Beast, Belle’s father is a rich merchant who loses his fortune through a series of ill-advised business dealings and sells his daughter to the Beast in turn for repayment of his debts.”

  “Who then forces himself on her, night after night.”

  “Oh, but he asks.” Ash dabbed carefully at his mouth with his napkin. “The story as originally envisioned by Madame Beaumont in 1757 has him asking, night after night, may I sleep with you? Belle, of course, refuses.”

  “Until eventually she’s won over by his wealth and agrees?”

  Ash smiled slightly. “Something like that.”

  “Did you know,” Belle countered, “that in Angela Carter’s The Tiger’s Bride, the heroine ultimately transforms herself into a beast to join her lover? Thus embracing his animal sexuality and, in so doing, her own.”

  “Like Shrek.”

  “Like Shrek!” Belle howled with laughter. “Exactly! Do you know how to ruin a moment.”

  The second course was served: borscht horseradish terrine. Not something that Belle had ever experienced, before coming here—nor borscht of any kind—but something she’d nonetheless grown to like. If not as much as mushrooms. Ash employed a local chef who, while he’d trained in Paris, enjoyed experimenting with local cuisine. Taking traditional recipes and, through trial and error, adding his own touch.

  “The course after this is paprika veal shank served over a roasted Brussels sprouts and caraway seed hash. I believe there are dill dumplings as well. And dessert is an apricot linzertorte.” He signaled for a second drink, a slight raise of the finger that was so unconscious, so natural, that she knew he’d been raised to the practice.

  “So this is health food,” she said.

  “You could stand to gain a little weight.”

  “Then this dress would explode at the seams!”

  “Which would be delightful.”

  She sipped her own drink, ice water. “It must have been hard,” she said, “growing up in a palace.”

  “It was awful.” His tone was frank. “Having a title is awful. You’re a celebrity from the time you’re born. You have no privacy. Everyone, for good or for ill, has some expectation of you. Royal worshippers need to believe you’re better than human and royal haters need to see you fail. So, of course, every little failure—and, truly, no failure is too miniscule—is a scandal.”

  “Which is why you stayed in England.”

  “Yes.” He shook his head slightly, thinking. Or perhaps remembering. “There are hundreds of royal families in India and each of them are, in their own ways and in their own places—celebrities isn’t even the right word. They’re worshipped as gods.

  “Some manage to leave that orbit, forging lives of their own, but others do everything they can to hang on. Flogging the family silver to maintain a lifestyle that belongs firmly in the middle ages. That was inappropriate even then. Even if they do manage to leave for a little while, the going without is too much. Not material things but prestige.

  “They can’t bear the anonymity of riding the tube with everyone else, clutching a briefcase like everyone else. Mortgages and electric bills. They’d rather molder to death in their palaces, dreaming of a world that, for them, never existed. That expired, in truth, before their grandfathers were born.”

  “And you want to be anonymous.”

  “I want to be known for my own accomplishments.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. That she understood.

  The third course arrived.

  “Your father managed to retain his wealth.”

  “Yes. By turning to trade. The rest of his family shuns him.”

  “You don’t like him much.”

  “We’re too much alike.”

  “Then he’s a good man.”

  Ash looked up sharply. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

  Belle frowned, not understanding his reaction. He looked almost—angry. “But I do,” she said.

  He let the subject drop.

  It was some time later before he spoke again. “My cousin refers to him as a peddler of exotica.”

  Which was also an apt description of Ash, if a cruel one.

  “I’d like to meet them.”

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “What do you mean?” He was acting so strange.

  “Belle,” he said, “I want you to think well of me. To at least like me, if that’s the best I can hope for. Meeting my family…would not accomplish that goal.”

  “
Hah! You should meet mine.”

  “I’d like to,” he said seriously.

  She blushed.

  The idea of—meeting families seemed very strange. She’d imagined Ash’s family, of course, but at the same time it seemed impossible that someone like him should have a family. Should suffer from the same mundane problems that she did. But he must have; on a purely intellectual level, she knew that. He hadn’t, like Athena, sprung fully formed from the head of Zeus. He’d been a baby once. He’d potty trained. He’d gone to kindergarten, or whatever the Indian equivalent was. Or maybe he’d had a governess, like something from a Victorian novel. She didn’t know; he didn’t talk about his past, much.

  So much of him was still a mystery.

  “Belle.” He put down his fork. “Are you happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please. Answer me truthfully.”

  “Yes,” she repeated. “I am. I mean, I….”

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I miss home and then, sometimes, I don’t. I wonder what my mother is doing. What my father is doing. Except I know the answer to both of those questions. And I…I don’t want to be that person.” She met his gaze. “You make me feel beautiful.”

  He reached out his hand and, taking hers, pulled her to him. She found herself in his lap, one arm around her while his free hand caressed her cheek. His gaze was dark, as he studied her. “You are beautiful.”

  She smiled slightly.

  “Kiss me.”

  She did. His lips were cool, firm. He parted them only slightly, receiving her kiss more than returning it. Receiving her worship. When she broke the kiss, his gaze had darkened further.

  “The Maharajah of Baroda liked to travel with a retinue of forty servants, all wearing pink turbans, his twenty favorite dancing girls—whichever girls comprised that number at the time—and, most importantly for him, at least, his caskets of jewels. It’s said that he regularly carried at least six, filled with nearly ten thousand diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, rubies and pearls.”

  He let his hand trail over her shoulder, down her arm. “He owned the finest emeralds in the world. But he never had true wealth. If he’d owned something as lovely as you…he would have forgotten all about his emeralds. Beggared himself, just to gaze upon you.”

  She kissed him again.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  “So I’m your possession, then?”

  She was teasing, but she was also serious. They were sitting in the small parlor together, back in front of the fireplace. Belle’s knees were drawn up onto the couch, one leg casually over Ash’s as she leaned against him. She stared into the flames, not really thinking about anything. They’d come in here after dinner, and were simply enjoying each other’s company. Rarely, lately, had they gotten to just sit and talk.

  “Yes. Like my houses and cars and antiques, only I love you more.”

  “That’s something, at least.”

  “Although you require a great deal more care.”

  “Do I?” She turned her face up to his. “What kind of care?”

  “You require quite a bit of pampering and feeding….” He trailed his hand down her thigh. “And, of course, pleasuring. Being such an insatiable little minx.”

  She felt that same pleasure building inside her, a warm glow that began low in her stomach and radiated out to her fingertips. He teased her with slow, exploring kisses, which she returned just as slowly. They luxuriated in this simple contact, in the feel of each other’s skin. In knowing that they had all the time in the world.

  He bit her lower lip slightly, tugging at it with his teeth, as his hand slid down over her shoulder to cup her breast. He toyed with her nipple, gently, through the fabric and she moved involuntarily toward him. Craving his touch, wanting to keep the contact that so electrified her. He smiled at that. She felt, more than saw his expression.

  She opened her mouth up to his, molding herself against him. His other hand slid up over her thigh, her flank, cupping her bottom. He’d bought her the panties she wore, as he’d bought her everything else she owned. They’d been cut from expensive lace, which had been shaped into an ornate scalloped edge at the waist. Two-way zippers with gold chains, placed provocatively under each hip bone, allowed one to unzip and explore. Glamor with an elegant, hard edge. Just like Ash.

  “It would be a shame to ruin these,” he murmured, sliding his hand down inside the lace.

  “What?” She could barely speak; her head was thrown back as he kissed the delicate skin of her neck.

  “They cost almost a thousand dollars.”

  “What?”

  “I like to dress you up in beautiful things.” He slid the lace down over her hips as he pressed her back onto the couch. “They’re not as beautiful as you are.”

  “You can’t—”

  He held a finger to her lips. “I can do whatever I want.”

  And then, in one smooth motion, he ripped her dress open. She gasped. He gazed down at the flush of desire spreading up from between her breasts, his eyes dark.

  He took one nipple in his mouth, toying with it. She moaned. He took the other nipple in his mouth. This time, he bit down. She yelped. But God, she was so turned on. She didn’t think that, had she been asked, she could have spelled her own name. Or even remembered it. Every square inch of her skin was on fire, desperate for contact with him.

  “Wanton little minx.”

  She arched her hips, helpless to stop herself.

  “No,” he said, sitting back. “First there’s something you have to do for me.”

  She stared at him in mute incomprehension.

  “I want to see you on your knees, in front of me. My beauty in rags.”

  He helped her into a sitting position and then waited, sprawled on the couch, a sultan with his harem girl. As gracefully as she could, she knelt down in front of him. Between his legs. With trembling fingers, she undid his belt. He made no move to either help or hinder her. Only waited. Watching. His gaze that same, brooding dark of storm clouds.

  He trailed a finger down her cheek. Her hair was disheveled. Her once-beautiful dress gaped open, exposing her breasts. Her nipples were taut and swollen. She was painfully aware that, positioned like this, she was on display. That he could see right down her stomach to the throbbing, moist heat between her legs.

  She knew what he wanted. Leaning forward, she paused with her lips inches from his cock. Using one hand to steady herself against the couch, she cupped his balls gently, playing with them, before she wrapped her other hand around its base. Then, excruciatingly slowly, she licked him from base to tip before opening her mouth and taking him inside her.

  She moved her tongue from side to side, and in small circles. There was more to pleasing a man than what her high school friends had called the old in and out. And Ash had taught her well. She massaged him with her tongue, twirling and swirling as she moved back and forth. She focused on the head of his cock before moving down the shaft and licking his testicles, taking them into her mouth for a moment until she returned to her ministrations.

  He sighed. He had iron self control but she knew what she did to him.

  And then, without warning, she was on her back and he was on top of her.

  “I’ve trained you well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you….”

  “Thank you, master.”

  “Good girl. Now ask me.”

  She paused, feeling a familiar stab of humiliation.

  He waited.

  “Please,” she breathed. “Make me come.”

  Sliding his hand underneath her bottom, he lifted her up as he drove inside her. She wrapped her legs around him, thrusting her hips upward to meet his onslaught. He was rough; she didn’t care. She wanted, needed him to be rough. Needed to feel him filling her, dominating her.

  “Yes,” he murmured into her ear, “that’s it. Show me how badly you want to come. Show me how powerless you are
, over own desires.”

  She raked her fingernails down his back.

  The door opened. Belle turned, but heard only a retreating footstep. Discomfited, she paused.

  “Why should you be ashamed, if someone is watching? Let them watch.”

  “But I—”

  “Show them what a slut you are.”

  And something in those words awakened her. She didn’t care if the world was watching—or maybe she did. Maybe she wanted the world to watch, to see her lose control of faculties under the touch of his man. Writhing beneath him, she bucked her hips in a furious attempt to take as much of him in as possible. She wasn’t making love to him; she was impaling herself on his cock, again and again, mindlessly using him for her own pleasure.

  She began to tense and tremble.

  “Tell me,” he breathed.

  “I’m coming! God, I’m coming! I’m coming!”

  And then she collapsed beneath him, prone.

  He pulled out of her and, taking her head between his hands, thrust himself inside her and continued his punishing assault. She let him. She felt used. Dirty. Glorious. Like the most sexually magnificent creature on earth. It was only seconds later when she felt him pulse and tasted the musky-sweet tang of him deep within her throat. Reflexively, she swallowed. He held her against him for another minute and then relaxed.

  Stretching, he laid down beside her on the rug.

  The room was empty. Whoever had been in, wasn’t here any longer.

  Belle was relieved.

  Now that her senses were coming back to her, she couldn’t believe what she’d done. As, she’d discovered, was often the case. Certain things that were overpowering aphrodisiacs before…terrified and confused her after. But she couldn’t deny that she was turned on by what he did to her. That, even now, she wanted him to do it again.

  She stared at the ceiling for a long time, just thinking.

  Finally, he spoke. “Belle, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  Something in his tone was—wrong. Too serious. She turned. “What?”

  “You know that I’m…that I prefer women, but that I also like men.”

  “Yes.” She wasn’t sure where this was going.