Echo of Redemption

by Roxy Harte

  Her lips part in a soft gasp and the sound is like lightning speeding through my veins. God, what she does to me. She had to expect this, had to know this command was coming. She doesn’t argue, she starts unbuttoning her shirt and I notice her fingers are trembling. I wonder if she trembles for Thomas. It is an odd thought, one I wouldn’t normally have, but as I watch her slow moving fingers it is my only thought. He would cherish each prolonged motion, soaking in her nervousness and fear, reveling in it. I am a more anxious taskmaster and impatiently cross the small space to push her hands out of the way. Grabbing both sides of the shirt, I rip them apart, sending small white buttons flying. I jerk the shirt off and throw it onto the floor.

  Made even more nervous, she covers her breasts with her arms and stands shaking.

  “Take off your skirt.”

  She fumbles with her zipper but manages to get the skirt off, leaving her standing completely naked in front of me. I smile. I was a very negligent Master, not realizing she was both braless and panty-less on the drive home. I must endeavor to be more observant.

  “Lie down.”

  She looks at the concrete floor with obvious revolt, but kneels, picking her spot carefully. It won’t matter. She finally stretches out on the cleanest section of floor available to her.

  “Roll.”

  I honestly don’t think she expected the command and it confounds me why she wouldn’t. Despite her doubts, she obeys, rolling onto her back.

  “More. I want you to roll from one side of this pit to the other without stopping.” I step back to make room, trampling her white shirt as I do so. It is immediately and irreparably soiled.

  She rolls, filth clinging to her with every movement. Her skin goes from pale white to grease and grime coated. When she reaches the far side, she looks at me.

  “Stand up.”

  Once I would have felt bad for leaving her so grime covered. Not other men or women, but her, for some reason putting her on a pedestal which didn’t allow for dirt in our relationship, but then I discovered her covered in mud from playing with Lord Fyre. We weren’t a ménage then. She’d gone behind my back and sought him out. The evidence was all over her body, inside her body. So much mud. A little grease seems minute in comparison.

  I walk over to her and swipe my hand across her shoulder. My palm comes away soiled. “Dirty.” I draw a finger down her arm, leaving a white streak through the grime. “Girl.”

  I step back and look at her, surveying the damage.

  I leave her standing, shivering, though at this point I don’t think it is fear or anxiety, I think she is quite literally cold. I dip my fingers into a large barrel half-filled with reclaimed oil and they come out dripping black. I gesture her toward me. She hurries forward and it is evident in her eyes she knows what is going to happen, or at least what she thinks is going to happen. I stripe her face with the oil. “Not dirty enough.”

  I pick her up, making her gasp with surprise, and lower her feet first into the barrel.

  “Oh!”

  I back away, leaving her standing in the glop. The sludge hits her in the middle of her thighs.

  “How does that feel?”

  “Disgusting. Master.”

  “Do you feel dirty yet?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “You aren’t nearly dirty enough. Scoop handfuls of oil over yourself. I want you to take a bath in that black sludge.”

  She looks disturbed by the thought and makes a disgusted face as she dips her hands into the liquid, but she manages to cup enough grimy oil to splash onto herself.

  My dick has been aching since we entered the pit. I regret taking off the schoolgirl uniform quite so early in the game, but I promised Freddie an hour. Watching her cover herself in black oil may be my undoing. She splashes the liquid onto her shoulder, then slides her hand down her arm, leaving black tracks. She covers her breasts, letting the oil roll down her flesh.

  Her fingers linger over her stomach, and I think she is beginning to enjoy herself. She makes swirling patterns before cupping her breasts and squeezing them. She pushes the two orbs together and there are white lines between the black from where her fingers were a moment earlier.

  “Your face.”

  She dips her hands and manages to cover most of her face with a quick swipe from hairline to chin.

  “Turn around.”

  She shuffles in a tight circle, turning her back to me. I dip my own hand into the cool oil and splash up, covering her back and buttocks.

  “Turn.”

  She does a little baby-step shuffle to face me again.

  “Do you think you are dirty enough now?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  I grab her hair and pull her face toward mine, kissing her, making her mouth open under the force of my kiss, making her take my tongue into her mouth. I taste oil as I kiss her, the smell of it fills my nostrils. I kiss her savagely, the need I am feeling makes it seem like I am fucking her mouth with my tongue. The metallic bite of blood mixes with the motor oil. I whisper into her mouth. “Dirty. Girl. Is this what you wanted?”

  “Yes-s.”

  I pull her hair, lifting her on tiptoe, pulling harder so that she has no choice but to leave the oil and come into my arms. My shirt soaks through as her breasts collide with my chest and her leg catches high on my hip. She uses my body as a ladder, leaving a cascade of oil running down my pants leg. I pull her into me so that she is out of the vat and back in the center of the pit. I pull on an engine hoist chain, looping it around her wrist and hooking it in place. She still has a hand free, but my purpose wasn’t necessarily to restrain her but to hold her in place.

  I step back and look at her, adrenaline pouring through me. If she is in sub-space, I am as surely in a place of my own. Other Dominants know this state of mind where everything stops. Time stands still. The world becomes silent. It is as if I am wrapped with her in a bubble of our own creation with an electric storm swirling around us.

  I reach out and pinch her cheeks together, my fingers sliding through the grease. “Enough dirt to satisfy you?”

  She nods, tears sliding over her cheeks. I somehow don’t think she’s sad but rather believe the emotion is one of joy.

  I release her cheeks to slap her, the sting running up my wrist. I slap her again on the other cheek. “Not yet. You aren’t dirty enough yet.” I rub my hand between her legs, finding her wet and ready. “Unzip me.”

  Her free hand fumbles between us and she undoes my fly with a quick pull. She pulls my underwear down in the front, enough for my erection to pop free and just the sudden freedom from the clothing’s tight restraint is bliss. Grasping her hips, I lift her and impale her. Her legs wrap tightly around mine as I thrust. She moans deep in her throat and it is almost my undoing. Not wanting to gain my own satisfaction too swiftly, I drop her as quickly as I scooped her up. I pinch her face cruelly and whisper close to her face. “You are my dirty girl. You probably want me to hurt you now?”

  She nods and I pinch harder, making her squeal.

  “A naughty, dirty girl deserves to be punished.”

  “Please, Master.”

  I kiss her, less viciously than before, but still forcefully. “I’d like nothing more than to do just that.”

  I release her, not saying that any pain play will have to wait until after the baby is born. Turning my back to her, I take enough time to adjust my clothes, zipping and buttoning. My oil soaked pants, a sorry state of affairs.

  Turning around, I drop to my knees and wrap my hands around the backs of her thighs to pull her forward. My hands slide as my face dips to catch her clit in my mouth. The oil makes an adventure out of merely going down on her. I like it that the grip on her shifts as my hands lose traction and I have to start again, pulling her close, only to have her slip away. She moans with frustration, adding to my enjoyment. I wipe my hands clean on my shirt sleeves before sliding my finger inside her to anchor her. It is enough stability for her to ride my face, my teeth and
lips and tongue teasing her to an overdue orgasm. I pump her with my fingers, eliciting course growls from her throat.

  “You like that, dirty girl?” I pump her hander. Standing, I push my cum coated finger into her mouth. “I don’t like being dirty. Lick me clean.”

  She sucks my fingers and licks them. I push them deeper, making her gag because I find the sound arousing. When I pull my fingers out of her mouth, she smiles. Our gazes lock and I realize then she’s stayed because she’s been waiting. She had faith all along that Ice would show up sooner or later.

  I smile and kiss her gently. “We’re not quite finished yet.”

  I leave her for a moment to rummage through Freddie’s cabinets and come away with an acrylic rod. I have absolutely no idea what he might use it for but for my purposes, it’s perfect. I bend over and pick up her ruined white blouse. “Is this any way to take care of your clothing?”

  Her eyes widen, but because role-playing comes so easily for her she responds easily. “No, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir. I promise I’ll take better care of my things in the future.”

  “Shut up. We both know you won’t. You’re a dirty, lazy girl. You could have folded this blouse and put it away neatly. It only takes a moment.”

  She fidgets. “I’m sor—”

  I cover her mouth with my hand. “I said, shut up. No excuses. I’m going to punish you now.”

  I slice the acrylic rod through the air, appreciating the whistle produced. Conscious of her pregnancy, I avoid her stomach, back, or buttocks. The tops and backs of her thighs however are fair game. This is the part I enjoy most, feeling my own lift of endorphins as I allow the swing of my improvised cane to overtake me. I beat her soundly, stopping only when she is sobbing.

  I stop, seeing her. God, she is beautiful. Spent and panting, she sags against me as I release the chain. I steady her, not expecting her to cup my face in her hands. “Thank you, Lord Ice.”

  “Let’s get you home.”

  Less than twenty minutes later, we are hurrying through the parking garage. We are a sight, barely dressed, covered in filth. Running ahead, she is giggling, and I realize my soul feels lighter than it has in years. Catching her hand, I pull her close as we enter the elevator. “I love you.”

  She looks up at me from beneath lowered lashes. “I love you.”

  Covered in grime and wearing my mark, she is more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her. I want her. Again. Now. I press the emergency stop. No alarm sounds but the lights power down to a minimal glow. I push her against the back wall, sliding my hands over her face and down her neck. I pin her against the wall with my hand wrapped around her narrow throat. “Have I ever told you that school uniforms make me crazy?”

  Eyes wide, she shakes her head.

  “Yeah. Must be the parochial school thing. All I can think about is pushing up your skirt.” As I tighten the hold I have on her throat, I slide my hand up her thigh and under her skirt. Her hip is covered with oil and sandy grit. “Dirty, dirty girl, I want to fuck you, right here, right now. Is that okay with you?”

  She nods, but I don’t release her throat. If anything, I tighten the pressure, effectively cutting off her air while she fumbles with my pants. They fall to my ankles and she has to work at the elastic waistband of my jockeys. I smile at her, my wicked intentions speeding need up and down my spine.

  I release her neck and with a quick under arm lift, pin her against the wall with my body. Her legs wrap around my waist but that isn’t what I want. Grabbing her calves, I lift her legs higher, forcing her ankles onto my shoulders. She is bent and trapped between me and the elevator wall. Neither of us giving an inch. I spit on my fingers, natural lube to spread over her asshole. She tenses. “Relax.”

  I push into her, making her squeal and squirm, but she is wedged so tightly all she can do is open for me. She moans as I force myself deep inside her. Muscles contract against my cock, trying to stop the invasion. I smack her ass and push deeper, making her cry out in pain and need. The sound is raw and guttural.

  “Yes. That’s right, open for me. Take all of me, dirty girl.”

  She gasps, opening and I fill her to the hilt.

  Thrusting, I grab her wrists and pull them high over her head. She is trapped, she is mine. “I hope you aren’t tired little girl ’cause I’m worked up enough to go all night.”

  She laughs and the sound is nice after so many weeks of not hearing it.

  I look at her, really look at her, seeing a change I hadn’t expected. Beneath the dirty streaks, she is glowing, and I don’t believe for a minute it is because of the pregnancy. She looks like I feel…lighter and happier than I’ve been in a long time. I almost feel like Lord Ice is ready to come back.

  “Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends can only read the title.”

  Virginia Woolf

  Chapter 11

  Thomas

  I’ve completely taken over George’s dungeon, rearranging to make room for a computer station complete with six monitors and a server. For almost two weeks, I’ve done nothing but wait and watch. Overnight there was confirmation through the WODC’s site that international business tycoon Daniel Parker was confirmed dead. My lips twitch wondering how Henri pulled off that feat without a body. The easy answer was that it served his purpose to put a quick end to the investigation. Regardless of his reasons, I can breathe much easier knowing that no one will be looking for Nikos now. My brother has a clean slate.

  Assured of his safety, I seek out a real bed in George’s guest room, instead of napping in the chair in front of the computer, and sleep well for the first time in ages. Since before I went to Paris.

  When I awake there is no heavy weight of panic in my chest, no quick reach for my Glock. I linger, listening, hearing absolutely nothing beyond the walls of the bedroom. As I shift in the crisp sheets, the sound of fabric against skin sounds loud as it hits silence. I’m not so certain all of George’s high-tech sound-proofing is comforting. World War III could be going on beyond the bedroom door and I would not know it. I close my eyes, forcing myself to relax. Nothing is wrong. Just to be certain I climb from the bed and crack open the door. No screams, no gunfire. Somewhere deep in the house I hear the sound of a knife clicking against a chopping block, deducing George is in the kitchen.

  After a long, hot shower I almost feel human again.

  Walking through George’s house, I am surprised to find the sun shining through the upper half of his windows. The lower half covered in a sheer accordion blind which allows for both natural light to filter through and complete privacy. I hadn’t noticed them before. The clink of dishware draws me into the kitchen where I find George making omelets. He is humming and seeing me, he smiles. I think it is the first time he’s smiled since he showed up at Garrett’s to rescue my brother.

  “You’re in a good mood.”

  “Your brother is much improved.”

  I’d thought so myself, but I’d been afraid to ask. Relieved, I sit at a bar stool in front of the center island workstation.

  He looks at me over his shoulder. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  I hadn’t considered it before he mentioned it, but my stomach rumbles with definite interest. I know I’ve eaten the past few days but I don’t remember doing so. Food suddenly sounds good. My head is nodding before I answer, “Definitely.”

  Our gazes meet and I am suddenly faced with the huge debt I owe him. “Thank you.”

  He barely nods in acknowledgement before turning back to his stovetop. It occurs to me that George Kirkpatrick is an odd man. I don’t know nearly enough about him. I know he rules The Attic with an iron fist and he is completely loyal to Garrett. Other than that? We’ve almost always butted heads, our personalities a major clash, making me surprised that he’s been so willing to help me or my brother.

  He sits a plate in front of me, a mushroom, spinach and cheese omelet from the looks of it, served with fresh fruit and a toasted bagel. My
stomach grumbles impatiently. “This looks fabulous.”

  “Eat. I don’t need praise.”

  I shake my head, happily shoveling several forkfuls into my mouth. He’s definitely odd.

  Across from me, he eats as well, but I get the feeling he wants to talk. I watch him take a swig of orange juice and am surprised to find myself lingering over the bob of his Adam’s apple. Disturbed to find the vision erotically charged. Hell no, not George. I look away, embarrassed.

  “We need to discuss the next stage in your brother’s recovery.”

  “Okay.” I keep eating.

  “Aside from the obvious injuries that brought him here, your brother is an addict.”

  “He’s clean now, right? Completely detoxed.”

  “Detoxed but not rehabilitated.”

  He’s stopped eating. Regretfully, I lay down my fork to give him my undivided attention. The tension in the room thickens, making me realize how silent the house is, no ticking clock, no air exchange through ducts, not a single sound from outside. There should be sound. In the window behind him I can see the movement of trees. Wind maybe, and if not wind, the chirp of birds. I hear a trickle of water and remember seeing an elaborate fountain in his foyer. My mind concludes that his entire house is soundproof.

  “There are many treatment facilities—”

  I interrupt him. “No.”

  George lets out a heavy sigh. “I was afraid you were going to say that. The only other answer is for me to treat him here. He’s going to need counseling and support for at least four weeks, maybe six, and even at that, unless he changes his lifestyle once he leaves here, avoiding narcotics is going to be a tough feat for him.”

  “Whatever it takes. I’ll make sure you’re compensated for your time.”

  “I’m not worried about the money. My concern is what life your brother is going to return to after he’s fixed.”

  “Not the same one he left, I assure you.” I push my plate away, no intention of finishing my meal. “Is he up to a visitor this morning?”

  “Go see him.”