He shivered.
“And what are you, Twenty-One?” his voice was a bit breathless, but it didn’t seem to matter. Teasing her thirst had engaged her. She knew the answer, she had figured out the game quickly, but there was caution in her. Oh, yes, she held on so tightly to her hope of escape that she was afraid to even say it.
“I’m a slave.”
The last word was barely a whisper, but he would allow it. She was definitely deep into false compliance, but he had been in the business long enough to understand that false compliance was more sincere than a slave realized.
“What is your purpose?”
A harder question, one he knew she couldn’t deduce. She quivered, her wide eyes pleading. He stared back at her, a steady gaze, assuring her that he would give her no help. He squeezed the flogger until the leather creaked beneath his fingers. The miniscule sound turned her a shade paler. Ah, the old dance, so predictable, yet the sight of Chloe’s fear set him ablaze, and it was all he could do not to drop the game and drag her to the bed that was so close by. Not yet. Not yet.
She had not answered. He was about to turn his wrist for her second punishment when she babbled a panicked reply.
“”You!” her word was more of a plea than a statement. “You are my purpose…Master.”
You are my purpose. Why did that reply echo through his bones? Why did he feel it like a chord struck on his spine?
He had been silent for too long.
“No,” he said. “Close, ma chère, so close. But wrong.”
He struck her right breast with the flogger. She yelped, jerking back, but sealed her lips and stayed in position. Demetrius looked at Chloe’s pink and shuddering form, and something had changed. He could not specify what, but he felt it. He looked at Chloe, who made him behave so irrationally, who made his body come to life as it hadn’t in years, and he knew…she was a piece in a puzzle that he couldn’t see.
The thought brought Demetrius back to himself. He felt the ground beneath him again. A thought like that was Mama Dede’s voice in his head, the voice of religious falsehood and the delusional concept of fate. He watched the welts form on Chloe’s breast. A slave needed training. He could not ruminate on this right now. Perhaps he would later, when his mind was clear, when desire and old superstition weren’t fusing and roiling under his skin.
“Your purpose,” he said to the whimpering girl, “is to please your Master.”
Chloe uttered a sweet little sob, choking on tears, and nodded. Demetrius swept the bowl of water beneath her face.
“What is your purpose, slave?”
Chloe swallowed hard, “To please my Master.”
He allowed her to drink.
Demetrius coaxed her through the rest of the mantra that would become her life’s meaning, the prayer on the lips of every slave to come into his house. Oh, she was a natural. He only had to punish her once more, though she trembled as if he had beaten her mercilessly. Her breasts bore a bouquet of raised red marks. A hint of sweat played on her features, just enough to give her a natural glow that was beyond intoxicating. She didn’t realize how much humiliation became her, or how she would thrive in his care. Perhaps she did feel it, though, how natural it seemed, and that was why he saw such a great struggle in her, the battle between her will and her body. He imagined she had been fighting her own nature all her life, fighting the need to submit, the need to please. A woman willing to relinquish control was not tolerated in today’s society, no, no. Chloe’s nature wasn’t feminist, and she would have learned quickly to bury it beneath an independent exterior. But he would break the shell and watch her bloom in his hands, finally given what she needed to blossom.
The water was gone. He had been far too liberal with it. He still had the advantage of hunger; it was written on her face as he reached for the bowl of grapes. He let her focus on the fruit, allowed her need to grow.
“Twenty-One.”
She met his eyes immediately, focused on him despite her hunger. He took a moment to drink in her gaze, those hazel eyes so wide, so genuine. To see that stare from beneath him, forcing her to keep his gaze as he rode her…
Not yet. Not yet.
“Who are you?”
“I am Twenty-One,” she replied.
“What is your purpose?”
“To please my Master.”
No hesitation, no uncertainty in her voice. Her eyes were trained on the grapes, but he would easily be able to turn her desire to him in a few sessions. Desire was what ultimately drove little Chloe, he could tell already. Oh, she would be perfect. She was perfect.
“Why are you here?” he continued.
Chloe looked down, her lips quivering.
“To become a perfect slave,” she whispered.
Ah, there was a pause there, a glimpse of the defiant flame that he hadn’t yet extinguished.
“Oh, come on,” he teased, grinning. “Answer me like that and I’ll be convinced that you’re faking.”
That got her attention. She looked at him with fresh fear draining the colour from her cheeks. His grin sharpened. He took a few grapes in his hand and knelt eye-to-eye with the nude girl. She fought to keep his gaze, but her face lost that defiant edge, swallowed by fear and need. Demetrius brushed her hair behind her ear. Her skin was so soft, so incredibly soft. The urge to fold her into himself returned, to press as much of that soft, soft skin against his. It was unbearable.
“Ah, but this is real, isn’t it?” he held the fruit just beneath her mouth. “You can play pretend all you want, ma chère, but you can’t fight the hunger.”
Demetrius crushed a grape between his fingers and traced her lips with it, coating her mouth in its juices. She crumbled in front of him. Her eyes closed, her wet lips parted in an ecstasy he had seen when he’d held her against the wall at the Oryx that very first night. Oh, those lips…he remembered the way they tasted, slick with rain.
“Convince me,” he murmured, pulling the grape away. “Why are you here?”
Chloe made a small sound somewhere between a moan and a sob, a desperate sound. Tears corroded her glowing cheeks.
“To become a perfect slave.”
Demetrius opened his palm to her, offering the grapes.
“Good.”
Chloe did not hesitate a moment before taking the fruit from his hand with her mouth, as if she knew she would be punished if she used her fingers, clever one. Her lips and tongue brushed across his palm. He made a sound low in his throat. He couldn’t wait any longer. She had learned her new name, the mantra, and how she was to speak. It was time for exploration, and he could no longer hold himself back from the heat between them. If he didn’t take her now, he didn’t know what he would do.
xxi
Chloe had just swallowed the last of the grapes when Demetrius clamped a hand on the back of her neck and slid two bare fingers into her mouth.
“Suck.”
It happened so fast that Chloe could only react instinctively and close her mouth around them. She sucked, sliding his fingers back and forth between her lips. His skin was cool and had a soft iron taste to them that she hadn’t expected. Demetrius tilted his head back.
“Mmm…” he growled. “Oh, yes.”
The hair on her arms stood at the sound of his voice, the promise it held. She knew what was going to happen, what he was going to do. She should have been terrified. She had been that first night, when she felt him hard and eager against her. But right now, she found herself running her tongue along the underside of his fingers, rougher than the smooth skin on top, tasting him. She dissolved under his touch, dissolved like she had when he had kissed her. Even now she couldn’t think of anything but the heat of his body, so close to her. Again she felt an inexplicable pull toward him, like a magnet, drawing her closer.
Demetrius pulled his fingers out of her mouth. He tilted her chin up toward him, and those grey eyes froze the blood in her veins. They seemed distant, but she wasn’t sure. Were it not for the mask, she mig
ht have been better able to understand his expression. He had seemed so cold and meticulous to her so far today, yet she sensed tension in him, as if he would burst from his skin. His gaze on her made her tremble. She didn’t know what to expect. The fruit and water were gone. Only the two of them remained.
Demetrius slid his fingers down her neck, still wet from her mouth. He drew a hot, wet trail down her collarbone, between her breasts, down the smooth pane of her stomach. Chloe moaned through sealed lips despite herself. He brushed the mound of her sex and the world narrowed to the pinpoint of his long fingers on tender flesh. He paused a moment, lingering just over the edge of her crease before sliding a finger over the folds of her sex. A shockwave rippled through Chloe, a burst of sensation that she didn’t want, didn’t know how to handle. His touch severed the connection of her mind and body. Her legs opened wider as if his finger were a key opening a lock, and he slid up and down her sex.
“Perfect,” he said. “Already so wet.”
Chloe bloomed beneath Demetrius’ expert hand. He seemed to know exactly how to touch her, as if her body were a code easily cracked. Every slow circle around her apex, every pressured stroke buried her fear in primal longing. He pulled away from her sex and she made a small sound in protest before she could stop herself. Demetrius chuckled.
“Selfish, aren’t we?” he said, making her flush in shame. “But eager. Eagerness is very good, ma chère. It is much harder to train a slave to want than to teach them to control their desires.”
Chloe was ashamed of her body, ashamed of her tears. Demetrius had stripped her of every defense, shown her how weak her resolve had been. Food be damned, her “desires” be damned. She was pathetic. Was there no fight left in her? Did a handful of grapes and experienced fingers buy her soul?
Demetrius took her nipples between his fingers and all thought ceased.
“Ah, these are very sensitive, aren’t they, to stop your breath like that?”
“Yes, Master.” The words came like a breath. Oh, she hated herself in that moment, hated the red hot ache that grew as Demetrius worked her nipples, rolling them with his thumbs in agonizing circles. He stroked her breasts in an almost clinical way, gauging the reactions she just couldn’t hide. He slapped her left breast, still raw and throbbing from that nasty rubber tool with which he had punished her. Chloe clenched her jaw to keep from crying out in pain. She felt his gaze on her face, but she wouldn’t meet it.
Demetrius raked his nails hard across the raised welts on her breast. She screamed for him now. She ripped her arms out of position to shield her chest. Demetrius snatched her throat, his grip firm but not squeezing. Chloe froze nonetheless, too stunned to move.
“Look at me.”
The ferocity in his voice made Chloe fear for her life. His eyes were wide, not with the rage she had witnessed during her escape, but something darker, something that frightened her to her core.
“Don’t you hold back,” he snarled. “When I hurt you, slave, I want to hear you scream.”
He had switched moods in an instant. He seemed almost as wild as he had been in the storm. He leaned close to her ear and she flinched, expecting violence.
“And when I allow you to come, I want to hear you scream.”
He took her left nipple between his fingers and leaned in even closer. He smelled like sweat and talcum powder, and a distant odour of sweet smoke lingered in his clothes.
“Now, what do you say?” he demanded.
Chloe opened her mouth to reply, but he pinched her nipple so hard that she could only scream again.
“Yes, Master!” she wailed, writhing from his grip.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he chided, squeezing harder. Chloe cried out again. Her breast was ablaze, as if each nerve ending in her had burst, “Don’t move away. Don’t ever move away.”
He released her nipple, but the hand on her throat was tense, his fingers trembling. Chloe looked at him and found his eyes locked on her aching breast. The sight made her pulse jump. She remembered her mother’s stories about her patients in prison; men for whom pleasure and violence were only a blink away from one another, interconnected in their brains. This thought should have terrified her. However, it gave her a strange rush. She had discovered a weak spot in him. Demetrius had stripped her of every ounce of control, of her fate, her body, her food and water. Everything. This was an opportunity to regain some fraction of control, and though it meant violence for her, maybe even death, Chloe could not stop herself. She had to feel a moment of control.
Demetrius reached for her and she flinched, leaning away from his hands. She wouldn’t try to be brave now. Her fear was her only power.
“No, no, Twenty-One,” Demetrius said, grabbing her wrists. “You were doing so well.”
He forced Chloe’s arms back in position, hands at her neck. Chloe made a small pain sound even though he hadn’t harmed her. Demetrius hesitated, and again Chloe felt tension in his body, saw his wild eyes. Chloe’s breath hitched in her chest, but the power her reactions held over her self-proclaimed “Master” inflamed her. She gave him wide, fearful eyes and he froze, looming over her, his chest nearly bumping into her chin. He gave her wrist a fast squeeze and she cried out, but he had barely put pressure on her. She had expected him to squeeze her hard, and her cry had been too loud, too much. His eyes crinkled at the corners and Chloe’s heart sank.
“Oh, my little thespian,” he sneered. “You’ve just made a big mistake.”
He grabbed the back of her head and wrenched it back so hard that spots flooded Chloe’s vision. She screamed in earnest. His grip was so brutal that she felt as though her neck were bent at an impossible angle. Her throat was stretched taut and she could barely breathe.
Demetrius crushed her against him. His free arm constricted around her waist. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
“Do you think this is a game?” Demetrius shouted into her upturned face, his mask doing nothing to muffle the venom in his voice. “Do you?”
Her head shook with the force of his grip, emphasizing every word.
“No, Master!” she cried.
“Are you in control here?”
“No, Master!”
“Who is in control here?”
Chloe broke down into sobs. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, please, God-”
“I said, who is in control here?” he bellowed over Chloe’s tears. His grip set her scalp in white hot pain.
“You are, Master!” she screamed without dignity. “You are, Demetrius!”
Demetrius stopped, his grip loosening for a moment. In an instant, the rage in his face had softened to something less urgent but no less dangerous. He moaned, a low purr in his throat, and threw his head back. The movement thrust his hips against her, and she felt him hard against her stomach. The sensation cut through Chloe’s terror like a blade. Every inch of him shivered like a piano string about to snap.
“Ohhh...” he purred. “Ohhh, no, no. Don’t you say my name, cherí, no, not you. Oh, mon Dieu.”
Suddenly Chloe was off the floor, her feet barely dragging along the hardwood. She twisted and struggled, but she knew it was no use. Demetrius threw her onto the bed she had never touched and pinned her face-down against the grey bedding with his own weight. He traced a hand down her spine and, to Chloe’s horror, spread her buttocks wide. She felt his fingers creep close to her anus. She clutched the blanket, choking down panic.
“Untouched,” Demetrius’ voice had taken on a cruel edge. “What a treat. I usually save this for later on, but you’ve been very bad, ma chère. I should give you true pain for faking before, shouldn’t I?”
Chloe couldn’t speak. She couldn’t think. Her legs trembled and Demetrius chuckled under his breath.
“Well, you’re not faking now, are you?” he teased.
“No, Master,” she whispered into the sheets.
Demetrius seized her arms with a bruising grip and flipped her onto her back. The sight of him looming over her snapped something in
her mind. With a cry, she sprung up and struck his chin with the heel of her palm, snapping his head back. Demetrius grunted and caught himself on the bed, and Chloe took the chance to slide out from beneath him. She tumbled out of the bed, her limbs weak despite the adrenaline coursing through them.
Laughter cut through the sound of her heart sprinting in her ears. It burst from Demetrius like lightning from the sky, a wild, chaotic laugh such as Chloe had never heard. It wasn’t the low chuckle she had heard from him before. He laughed as if he couldn’t stop, as if his ribcage would crack. Chloe flung herself into motion, but it was too late. Demetrius caught her ankle with the grip of a steel trap and yanked her across the floor as if she weighed nothing. He hauled her onto the bed, pinning her beneath his body, and held her wrists over her head with one hand. Chloe sobbed, and again her mind raced with the same useless thoughts. This can’t be happening. Get away. Run!
“Just when I thought you had no more fight left in you,” he said, the wild laugh still echoing in his voice. “It’s time, ma chère, oh, yes, it’s time.”
He reached down and brushed away the hair that had flung over her eyes. The tender stroke along her face broke a dam in Chloe, and she broke down. Even in this moment, his touch maddened her. She craved it, damn her, but she did.
“Why?” she sobbed, shaking her head.
Demetrius shushed her, stroking her cheek. He brushed her tears away with the pad of his thumb. Oh, she would go mad herself. She was mad already.
“Because you are mine, little one,” he said softly. “You have always been mine.”
Chloe’s chest tightened. She felt a burst of rage, sorrow, and then she felt nothing but his hand on her cheek, his hard body on top of her. He raised himself up and removed his vest. She did not move. She couldn’t move. His words bound her to the bed like ropes.
“Who are you?” asked Demetrius. He was shirtless, pale muscle marred by smooth scars; broad horizontal slashes on his pectorals and down along his abdominals. Chloe stared at the scars in horror and awe. At first she thought someone had attacked him with a very sharp knife, but the scars were straight and symmetrical, horrifying decorations on his arms and torso. They had to have been deliberate. Chloe could not understand. But her mind faded as Demetrius unbuttoned his pants and lingered, waiting. Chloe’s throat went dry. She no longer knew what she felt. She no longer cared.
Twenty-One Page 9
