ProdigalSlave

by Roxy Harte

  I am yours, Master, I am yours.

  “On your knees, Cassiopeia, hands in front, forehead down.”

  Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. God, this is going to hurt.

  “Lift your ass, bitch. It hasn’t been that long. Do I have to re-teach you everything?”

  The first strike draws a wide welt, just as I knew it would. I can’t see it but pain shoots through my flesh, nerve endings screaming from tit to clit and I know it will leave a mark. My knees shake.

  “Have you missed me, Cassiopeia?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  I want him inside, reclaiming all of me, but it will take nineteen more strikes, one for each year I’ve been away before he stops. He runs his finger along the welt he made. “This is going to leave a beautiful mark, Cassiopeia.”

  “Yes-s,” I hiss.

  “You used to like it very much when I marked you,” he comments.

  “Yes-s.” The anticipation of the next strike is killing me. I feel myself growing wet with need and he is toying with that need.

  He taps my ass and thighs lightly with the cane. None were as devastating as the first. These are shadowy taps meant to keep me on edge, waiting for the next hard one. “Oh god,” I moan. “I can’t take this.”

  “But you will take this and more for me, won’t you, Cassiopeia?”

  I wiggle my ass, wanting the punishment to be completed. Nineteen welts for me to count, nineteen more welts that will turn to dark purple bruises. And over the next week, every time I sit, it will be with some discomfort…discomfort that will remind me I am his.

  I imagine myself going to work on Monday, pulling my pantyhose over these marks, hiding them beneath a knee-length skirt and sitting behind my desk. No one else will know, but as I cross and uncross my legs, as I fidget in my seat, trying to get comfortable, I will be thinking of Master and grow wetter and wetter with need.

  The cane swats against my thigh, making me jump and squeak with both surprise and pain. He admonishes me, “Pay attention, Cassiopeia. This is punishment for leaving, oui?”

  “Yes-s.”

  “Yet you are enjoying it too much, I think.”

  “No,” I lie.

  Another swat falls and another. A third in rapid succession, making me gasp. “The truth now?”

  “Yes, Master, I am enjoying it too much.”

  Four more lightning-quick swats make me jerk, my ass cheeks clenching tight. I swear, “Fuck,” making him laugh. He asks, “Now it is starting to feel like punishment?” The cane falls four more times before I can answer. He asks, “How many has that been, Cassiopeia?”

  “Thirteen,” I say through gritted teeth.

  He rubs his hand over my ass and thighs. “This is so very nice. Do you feel the welts when I rub my hand over them?”

  “Yes-s.”

  “Beautiful marks,” he sighs. “You always marked so wonderfully. Shades of blue are already peeking through the pink.”

  I wish I could see them.

  “Do you remember how you used to stand in front of the mirror for hours, looking at the marks I’d leave on you?”

  “I enjoyed having your mark on my body.”

  “Oui.” He taps the cane gently against the welts, making my legs quiver. He strikes, making me gasp and jerk. He says, “That one was hard.” He strikes again. Again. Again. Again. Again. That felt like the punishment he intended. He kneels beside me, turning my face to look into his. “You will not leave me again.”

  I am panting…pain, need, desire, doubt…all of it mixed up and rolled into one nameless emotion. My ass and thighs are on fire as his hands smooth over them. I want to promise him I will stay, that I will not leave, but I have others to think about. This isn’t just about me. I can’t allow myself to be the selfish hedonist I was before.

  “How can we ever make this work?” I beg, wanting him to make me believe we can. “I’m a paralegal. I’m a mother.”

  “Do you want to make this work?”

  I nod, closing my eyes because I want it so badly my raw need brings the sob from my chest the caning did not. His lips close over mine, promising me without words.

  He stands, leaving me kneeling on my hands and knees. I watch him undress. He is older, we both are, and his age is reflected in a softening in his limbs, the black hair covering his chest is now peppered with gray, a slight paunch to his middle… But to my eyes, he is even more handsome, more sexy than he ever was in his prime. I watch him open a condom foil, then unroll the protection over his length. He is secure in his body, standing before me strong and sure of his sexuality. My lips curve into a soft smile, realizing time has changed so little.

  When he moves behind me, I arch my back, pushing my hips toward him, begging with primal body language. I need you.

  Feeling his strong erection as a caress against my welted thigh, I wiggle my hips. Take me. Now. Please.

  He leans over me, kissing me gently over the back of my neck and shoulders. His gentleness makes me cry because I have tried so hard over the years not to miss him, not to reminisce about what I shared with him.

  I refuse even to consider the consequences of this night or even consider I might still love this man.

  “Please, Frankie,” I beg, pushing my hips back.

  “Please, Frankie?” he asks.

  “Please, Master.”

  He rewards me with a thrust. I gasp. Remembering. John was not well-endowed, and in my naiveté I once thought Frankie was average. Frankie is anything but…

  His thrusts are forceful, rough, savage. Pressed against the concrete floor, my flaming, welt-covered ass cheeks welcome the brute honesty of his need. His hand wraps around my middle and his fingers find my clit easily. He remembers my body so well…and I’ve forgotten so much. I used to come this way for him…I always came for him. I don’t climax as he holds me tight and I know he is holding back his own release, waiting for me. I sob, “Please come inside me. Please.”

  “Not yet,” he says.

  I scream with frustration, my body responding to the pleasure but refusing to climax. He continues to thrust into me, whispering into my ear in French. I only understand half of what he says, but it is not the words that matter. His voice teases through me, stroking to life all of the forgotten memories I had locked away. He makes me cry. So much time has been lost, time I dare not regret but instead mourn. “Welcome home, Cassiopeia, maison bienvenue,” he says just before he explodes inside me.

  I love the sound Master makes when he comes—half growl, half surprise. When he collapses over me, he is still holding me tightly against him. We fit so well together and I am disappointed I didn’t peak. I thought with everything feeling so right I would have…I didn’t, I feel robbed. I am disappointed and force my face under control so that how great my disappointment is, is not evident.

  “You did not orgasm for me, Cassiopeia.”

  “No,” I whisper.

  “When was the last time you had an orgasm?”

  “The night you sent me the gift,” I answer softly, admitting the truth that I masturbated while wearing the bustier even though such an admission in the past would have brought me intense punishment. I am surprised when he chuckles, rolling me beneath him so I am on my back facing him. “I’m glad you did.” He wipes a tear from my cheek and says, “But tonight, you did not surrender yourself to me, and I want to know why.”

  “I—mm.” I close my eyes, there is no hiding the truth, no excuse, so what can I say? I say nothing.

  “Open your eyes.”

  I do as I am told and he gazes long and deep into them, until long after it has become uncomfortable for me to have him keep doing so and I look away.

  “It has been a long time since you have allowed yourself to be pleasured by a man?”

  I remain silent, not looking him in the face, no excuse sounding appropriate. It isn’t that I haven’t wondered myself. With John, I stopped having orgasms after I learned he was having affairs, and he stopped having sex with me on
ce he realized I wasn’t enjoying him. After the divorce, the two men I dated to whom I was actually attracted enough even to consider getting naked with turned out to be huge disappointments. But Frankie…

  Master is not a disappointment.

  A sob catches in my throat, making it seem impossible to breathe. I think he feels my desperation because he pulls me up, helping me sit, telling me to “relax” and “just breathe for a moment” as he kneels beside me. Holding me, he strokes me. “What has happened to you over the years?”

  “Nothing. Happened,” I tell him. I do not know if that is a truth or a lie.

  Standing, he pulls me up with him and leads me to a textured wall. Into the wall, eyebolts are attached in an eight-foot diameter. I know without counting there are twelve anchors. Hanging at ten o’clock and two o’clock are iron restraints. “Remember this wall?”

  “Yes, Master.” I hated this wall, but I don’t reveal my feelings to him. I would bet he remembers I did. He jiggles the leather restraint hanging at twelve o’clock, his eyes challenging me, left eyebrow arched with wicked intent. I swallow, mouth dry, armpits suddenly wet. I. Do. Not. Want. To. Be. Restrained. He encourages me. “Come, come.”

  “It’s late,” I say.

  He chuckles. “You have someplace else to go?”

  “No,” I squeak.

  He does a Vanna White, motioning at the bondage wall with both hands, requesting, “Please?”

  I can only stand stunned because he actually used the word please. Oh hell. I step up onto the small platform, not believing I am. I lift my right arm over my head to be cuffed at twelve.

  Frankie caresses my wrist and palm before buckling the cuff down tightly, his touch sending need racing through my veins. I’d forgotten this feeling—anxiety, curiosity, impatience. He moves over to the cuff hanging at two o’clock and I lift my left hand. His touch devastates me, leaving me tingling from mere fingertip-strokes over my wrist. Caught, I tug both wrists, knowing I’m not going anywhere.

  I am insane…

  Two decades could have turned this man into a murderer, I could be in absolute peril at this very moment, but two decades haven’t been long enough for me to let go of my complete and absolute trust in this man, so I will soon see how big a mistake I have made.

  I watch him as he moves around the room, collecting paraphernalia. Some I recognize, some I don’t. He comes toward me, carrying a length of rope, some tubing and a power screwdriver. I fidget, reminding myself I trust him. Telling myself he isn’t going to hurt me…or at least won’t hurt me so much I can’t enjoy the rest. Above all else, Frankie is a sensualist. He wants me to enjoy what he is doing to me.

  When he attaches my collar to the board so I lose all neck movement, I start to rethink all of my former reasoning.

  The spreader bar he puts between my ankles is an old friend…I just hope he realizes my body probably doesn’t bend at the same angles it once did. With the tubing, he makes a sling to help support my hips and thighs, a suspended seat of sorts, then uses the rope to start lifting my legs off the ground. I tell myself I trust him for about the hundredth time as I realize my weight is being supported by tubing and rope. I have already wrapped my hands around the chains, holding the wrist restraints to keep my weight from damaging my joints. I know how this works, he knows what he’s doing…

  I trust him…

  “Relax,” he commands.

  I laugh because it seems utterly ridiculous I am so tense. I used to love this. Loved this.

  Yes, yes, I hated the bondage wall…because it was so damn physically taxing, because the process was so damn emotionally taxing, sometimes humiliating, But in the end, when it was all said and done…after I was basking in the post-orgasmic bliss, I admitted to how much I loved it. Hence the impatience for it to be finished.

  “You are so beautiful,” he tells me and I don’t question his view of me. Bound, stretched, uncomfortable…I don’t need his words. The look in his eyes tells me how beautiful I am to him. His gaze tells me how much he cherishes me and I can’t help but start to cry because John was never able to look at me like that.

  I’ve missed being gazed upon with so much love and need evident.

  I belong to Master François Rene de Hart. I always have. I always will.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks me.

  “Some bonds are eternal.”

  “Like the one between you and me?” he asks. “Oui?”

  “Yes,” I agree.

  He steps beside me, so close his chest pushes into me. He pinches my cheeks between his fingers. “Are you ready to say it yet?”

  “Oh god, Frankie,” I gasp, self-correcting, “Master. I need time, I need to think…”

  I hear the sound of the vibrator, never see it, but know that soon it will be touching me.

  “Will you at least come for me, Cassiopeia?” he asks. “Will you trust me to surrender at least that much for me?”

  “I’ll try.”

  I feel the vibrator roll along the insides of my thighs. It teases so close to my labia, but does not touch even them.

  “Tell me you will surrender to me, Cassiopeia.”

  I want him to touch me, I need him to touch me, but I don’t say what I need to say to guarantee either. I am too honest when I admit, “I don’t know if I can.”

  He surprises me by touching the vibrator to my clit for just a few moments—long enough for heaven to rise up around me—not long enough to peak. He pulls the vibrator away, making me beg, making me gasp.

  “Will you surrender to me, Cassiopeia? No more games?”

  Why am I being so stubborn? One climax does not mean I am promising to stay forever…

  Chapter Four

  I awake in his bed, not remembering how I got there, but slowly it all floods back. My screams of pleasure, my screams of pain…but mostly screams making promises by the light of day I’m not so certain I can keep.

  * * * * *

  “Prostrate yourself to me,” Master commanded, releasing my bonds.

  I started to rise off the narrow wood table, but he pressed his hand into the middle of my chest, holding me still. “Without sitting up.”

  I’ll fall, my mind screamed. Granted it wasn’t far to the tile floor below, but still. I was no longer a spring chicken. I carefully rolled in a tight balancing act, supported at times by only sheer stubbornness and will. I managed to pull back into a fold, precariously balanced on both knees, and push my hands forward until I was in a position of servitude and submission.

  “Are you ready to submit to me fully, Charlotte?”

  I cringed at the name, longing to hear him call me Cassiopeia. Unable to speak, I nodded.

  “Say it.” he barked.

  “I submit, Master, in all things, in all ways.”

  Of course we had sex, but then lying on the floor, post-coitus, Master spooned around my backside, me not believing I was there…

  I kept waiting to wake up from the dream. This kind of thing just didn’t happen to me—not anymore. Once maybe…a long time ago…but even that seemed a fantasy, not memory.

  “I am glad you returned, Cassiopeia.”

  He hugged me slightly and I thought he would release me, the hug no more than an announcement to stand or roll over, but it soon became evident he had no intention of either. I was confused, because Master was never a snuggler, but then his erection pressed into my hip and the message became more clear. Really? Again? I was exhausted. He had to be as well. But how could I even imagine wanting to sleep when I was there in his arms?

  No, I knew there would be no sleeping until I was home in my own bed…

  Only then would I have time to process all of this. But even then, I knew I wouldn’t sleep.

  I thought about my daughters. God, this is not soccer mom behavior.

  “Your thoughts are troubled,” he says.

  “I can’t believe I’m here.”

  “But here you are and that makes me very glad. Are you too glad? Or
is it regret that troubles you?”

  I rolled onto my back and looked into his face. Master. I stroked his jaw, so glad my hands were free and I could finally touch him. “Not regret. Disbelief, maybe, that I returned so easily…dropped to my knees at the train station…fell in almost where we left off. It all seems so impossibly easy to be Cassiopeia again. I guess I’m waiting to wake up.”

  “You are quite awake.”

  “Or waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

  He smirked. “I have never understood that phrase.”

  “It can’t be this perfect. Something will happen to mess this up.”

  “Have you always been such a pessimist?”

  I sighed, sounding more frustrated and unhappy than I intended. I was happy. Deliriously so.

  I knew he was going to kiss me even before his head dropped to do so. The tenderness of his lips after such intense passion only moments ago brought tears to my eyes and it suddenly seemed I couldn’t breathe, my chest was so congested with emotion.

  He pulled away, meeting my gaze.

  “I can’t be sorry I left. My girls—”

  He pressed his finger to my lips. “I don’t want you to be sorry.”

  New emotion flooded through my veins and I lay caught between hyperventilating and crying. My heart thudded in my chest, threatening to break free as I admitted, “I never stopped loving you. Not for a single moment.”

  When his mouth claimed mine again, there was no tenderness, just raw passion. His body covered mine and my legs wrapped around his hips.

  We were meant for this, he and I.

  There was no awkwardness as our bodies joined, no fumbling to make his parts meld with mine. John. I pushed the unwanted thought of my ex away. There was no rental space left in my brain for him now. My heart and mind had room for only one. Master.

  Our rhythm was perfect and my body responded, embarrassingly fast.

  “Ahhh!”

  “Oui. Give me your pleasure. I want to feel the flood of you covering me.” He kissed my eyelids, my nose, my brow. His thrusts became more sure, more determined. He pounded my orgasm out of me and I was left screaming his name, and obscenities, and I love you.