by Roxy Harte
“I love you too, Cassiopeia. Promise you will stay. Promise you will never leave me again.”
His thrusts pushed emotion deeper and deeper into my soul. I cried out his name again. Couldn’t he see he was killing me emotionally?
I couldn’t make that commitment.
I couldn’t…
“Promise me.”
“I promise. I will never leave you again. I love you. I love you.”
And then the other shoe dropped.
We left the dungeon and he gave me the grand tour of the house. It hadn’t changed too much, a new couch in the main parlor, a new rug in the dining room, and a new house slave busy polishing silverware in the kitchen. He was young. No, not coed young. Maybe twenty-five, not-yet-thirty young…but holy mother of god beautiful…and as naked as I.
“Cassiopeia, this is Pierre-Louis Lefèvre.”
He stood and I immediately blushed, humiliated I had looked there, but how could I not look when he looked like that. Damn. Good. I was ashamed, especially after only moments before thinking how well Frankie was wearing his age…how sexy he was despite his graying temples and his extra few pounds. I couldn’t stop looking at Pierre-Louis, and though my brain was screaming at me to look away… God, yes, I kept looking…and the house slave looked back at me without censure. Since when were house slaves allowed to have their eyes anywhere except on the floor?
It seemed to me Pierre-Louis Lefèvre was overly bold, but it was not my place to take action against him, and obviously Master had no intention of correcting his behavior. I wondered what his slave thought seeing me there, obviously the recent recipient of Master’s attention, as evidenced by my many welts and bruises. I had forgotten the pride connected to wearing another’s mark.
Embracing my pride, I’d lifted my chin a notch and locked gazes with the man. A flashback of memory erupted in my brain at the wrong moment for me to remain too arrogant though. I remembered how it felt to be in his place, serving Master and another, wondering what I had done wrong to deserve such treatment as to be replaced and knowing the answer was nothing. Master could keep me, use me, replace me at will. My heart would be breaking in two as I watched Master caress the other…and the other wouldn’t even acknowledge my existence.
I acknowledged him. No, I didn’t stick out my hand to shake along with the introductions, but I did soften my gaze from one of competition and hostility to one of acceptance and equality. I hitched my chin up as I said “Hello,” and smiled, wondering how long Pierre-Louis would be sticking around. If I was lucky, he would finish doing his tasks quickly and be dismissed. It never dawned on me he might actually be staying.
Behind me, Master chuckled. “I’m glad you approve. I would hate to have to ask Pierre-Louis to move out.”
“He lives here?” I croaked.
“Oui,” he says. “He lives here. With me.”
Fortunately we stood near the kitchen table and I sat in the nearest chair to keep from falling. Pierre-Louis is me twenty years ago. Except he won’t leave because his biological clock is ticking.
I looked between the two men, my gaze finally meeting Master’s. Do you love him?
How can I even wonder that? It’s obvious he does.
Make him move out. This wasn’t part of the Cassiopeia Comeback.
I was still looking though, tongue not working, but how could I not look? The two men were opposites. Whereas Frankie was dark, Pierre-Louis was fair, his blond hair cut almost military short, his blue eyes the color of a brilliant winter sky…and he was tall, several inches taller than Frankie…and more muscular than Frankie. The man was a walking wet dream from the top of his tow head to the tips of his perfectly bare toes. As I watched, Pierre-Louis went to the wine closet and retrieved three bottles of French Bordeaux. Without being asked he started uncorking and filling glasses with the deep ruby liquid. I accepted a glass and very unsophisticatedly downed the contents in one long swallow—no sniffing, no swishing, just swallowing before holding the glass back out to him. He kindly poured more without comment. When he handed me the glass our fingertips touched. A zap of electricity wouldn’t have been more powerful. My world shattered in that moment.
I am still Cassiopeia.
Where have I been hiding all of these years? I thought I’d stayed the same person…but clearly I haven’t. I’ve kept myself, my need, tightly reined in. I allowed myself to forget want, need, desire. Lust. It was an odd realization. My sex drive hadn’t died with my marriage.
Maybe it only went dormant for a little while, because being across the room from Frankie and Pierre-Louis, I was filled with a lust greater than any I’d ever known before, and I gave myself permission to feel it. The woman I was yesterday would have shuttered it back behind some false propriety, some suburban morality. Cassiopeia had no such codes.
I wanted to ask Frankie what he was thinking. I knew what I was thinking. Or rather, what I was refusing to admit I was thinking—because what I was thinking was too obscene. I was wondering what it would feel like to wrap my nakedness around the lean, firm body of a young man in his prime. And I didn’t even feel dirty thinking it. Pierre-Louis looked as though he was born to fuck. I was thinking I couldn’t wait for the real games to begin with Master…
Yes, yes, at home in my bedroom I barely allowed myself to remember the pony games, but there were other games, days of game after game when the manse would become orgy central. If I’d have remembered that I wouldn’t have been brave enough to have returned.
Master wouldn’t share me, not for sex, but other men, and women too, could spank me, humiliate me…kiss me.
Looking at Pierre-Louis, well, I could begin to imagine, and I wouldn’t want it to end with kissing.
Frankie sat down at the table, as did Pierre-Louis. Sitting nude at the table, we drank wine and Pierre-Louis was forward enough to start talking, his thick French accent making all of my nerve endings tingle. “I have been so desperate to meet you.”
My eyebrow rose at his admission.
“Master has told me so much about the old days.”
The old days? Obviously, Pierre-Louis talked too much…
* * * * *
I turn my head to face Frankie and find he is awake too.
He reaches out to touch my face. “You’re still here.”
I smile. “I have no idea why. Last night was—”
“Incredible?” Frankie asks.
“I was thinking humiliating.”
“You enjoyed yourself. I’d forgotten what a naughty flirt you could be.”
“Oh god, I had sex with him?”
“No, not yet.”
“Thank god.” I bury my face in my hands, doubly embarrassed I considered it could have happened, and Frankie believes at some point it will happen. For now I am thankful the images filling my brain are just the memory of an erotic dream caused by too much adrenaline, too much Bordeaux and two sexy men. I know I’m projecting my own insecurities on to Frankie when I accuse, “He’s too young for you.”
“No. I am French. Too young for your American mind.”
“Too young for my American body,” I say vehemently, feeling angry and jealous and hungover. What was I thinking last night? Orgy? Really?
Frankie smiles and caresses my breast. “Your body is beautiful and because of how sexy you are, poor Pierre-Louis had an erection all evening.”
I sigh, not wanting to admit I’d noticed and, had I been twenty years younger I would have done more than merely looked. I demand, “What are you thinking? It was going to be hard enough to tell my daughters, ‘Welcome to Mom’s new kinky life.’ How will I ever admit to them, ‘This is my Master, François, and this is his lover, Pierre-Louis. Maybe you know him from school?’”
Frankie laughs loudly and pulls me tightly into his arms. “Your children will know only as much or as little as you want them to know and if it will make you feel any better, Pierre-Louis is twenty-eight.”
“Oh god.”
“What?”
“I’m sixteen years older than he is.”
“So?” he asks. “And it’s seventeen, you had a birthday, remember?”
I shake my head, trying to say the words that this is impossible, but I want it to be possible. I want to be the Cassiopeia I remember being. A tap at the door startles me.
“Oui? Entre.”
The door opens and still-nude Pierre-Louis enters bearing a tray, shiny domes hiding what I assume is breakfast. He sets the tray on a table and throws open the double doors to the balconied terrace before motioning us to join him outside. He carries the tray out and sets the table. I look at Frankie, my vision a little blurred around the edges. Am I dreaming? Will I wake up in my own bed, another day older but otherwise unchanged?
Frankie rises and pulls on a gray silk robe. I sit up and the weight of my collar is heavy around my neck. I watch as Frankie joins Pierre-Louis on the balcony. He kisses his cheek and whispers softly to him in French, “Merci. C’est magnifique.” Their kiss becomes more intimate and I watch, unable to turn away even when Frankie whispers, “Je t’aime,” against Pierre-Louis’ cheek.
My ringing cell phone draws my attention to my purse. I don’t think not to answer, my children are in a foreign country, and today I don’t even know which one. In the back of my mind the thought is there that the Cassiopeia of old would have asked permission to make or answer a call. Oh hell. The Cassiopeia of old did not have a job…or children. “Hello?”
“Mommeee.”
“Bree.” I smile saying her name.
“Did we wake you? I know it’s Saturday morning and you like to sleep in, but we’re boarding a ship in two days and I want you to know the plan because the itinerary is a little complicated.”
A plan? My parents have a plan, including a boat and an itinerary?
Concern knots my middle and I sit on the edge of the bed, bracing myself, trying to sound calm as I ask, “Where are you today?”
“Rome,” she answers excitedly, gushing, “It’s amazing here. I may never want to come home.”
My stomach flip-flops.
“J.K.,” she says, laughing. My mommy brain translates, just kidding. I manage to say, “Ha ha.”
Bree admits, “I miss you terribly. Are you horribly lonely without us?”
I look at the two men on the balcony before turning my back to them, hoping to stop the flood of desire for the sexual odyssey I have only to accept to embark on. I tell my daughter, “I miss you terribly.”
“Good. I’d hate to think you were out painting the town red like Daddy is. Have you talked to him? Wow. How do you spell mid-life crisis? Freshman. Hello? But you did not hear that from me.”
I titter nervously, eyeing Pierre-Louis. “Really? I suppose she’s a redhead.”
“Ick.” I feel her disgust then, without changing tone she says, “Anyway, your other child is demanding I share the phone.”
Uh-oh. The girls are fighting. Marvelous.
“Hi, Mom.” Ellie is tightly restrained.
“Hi yourself, kiddo. What’s going on?”
“I hate men. All men. I don’t know how you ever put up with one long enough to conceive us.” I peek over my shoulder at Master and Pierre-Louis.
“Not all men are horrible.” I watch as Pierre-Louis lifts the shiny domes from the plates. He looks up and beckons me out. I shake my head and lift a finger signaling I need a moment.
“Bree mentioned a travel plan?”
“Yes,” she says, her misery evident in just one word. “A plan.”
I decide she sounds a bit like Eeyore from the Winnie the Pooh movie we watched to death when she was young. “God, Ellie, you sound miserable. Do you want to fly home? Because you can come home.” My heart is true as I make the promise, but an evil part of me hopes she really doesn’t want to come home because I’d really like to make some plans of my own and all of them are too X-rated to let my teen daughter know about.
“No. I’m fine.”
I sigh, relieved. Her imminent return delayed at least a little while. “If I’m going to be miserable I might as well be miserable in the most exotic locations on the planet.”
Definitely Eeyore. “Oh, baby,” I say, pouting. “I wish there was something I could do. Maybe you could do something for me?”
“Okay?” She answers suspiciously and I think for a moment she is concerned I am going to ask if it is okay for me to join them. I rub my face. I am more dreaded than the misery of lost love. When did my children start seeing me as a killjoy?
“Can you start a blog about your adventures? Then I won’t have to wait until you get home to see the places you are seeing.”
“Oh. Excellent.” Her voice brightens considerably. “Why didn’t we think of this before we left? I have so much to do just to get a page caught up from when we started to now. I’ve lost an entire week. Oh, Mom. Thank you. I’ll send you a link. Here’s Grandpa. I love you.”
I hear the phone clatter. “Bree? Dad? Ellie?”
My dad’s voice comes over the receiver. “I’m here. I’m here. I don’t know what you said to her, but she’s smiling for the first time since leaving Amsterdam. Thank you.”
“You should have had her call sooner.”
He laughs and it is good to hear my dad do so. “Trust me, next time I will. I think I’m getting too old to deal with teen girl hormones.”
Now I laugh. “Welcome to my world.” I turn completely around to see what the men on the balcony are up to. Biting my lip, I gather courage to berate my dad about the girls’ trip to the discothèque and subsequent alcohol usage. And the brownies…
My head tilts as I watch Pierre-Louis pour mimosa into Frankie’s glass. Muscles flex in his arm and chest I didn’t even know men had. He smiles at Frankie, Frankie smiles back and I shake my head, remembering I am here to enjoy Frankie. Pierre-Louis is just eye candy, that’s all.
My dad volunteers, “The brownies didn’t have any marijuana in them. I wanted you to know that. I made certain. You have enough to worry about with your girls out of the country and without being stressed about that too.”
“Wow,” I say, slightly stunned. “I appreciate your honesty…but there was some alcohol involved later that evening, I believe…and so I was still worried.”
He sighs. I know he wants this fight even less than I do. I can see him nodding his head in my mind, his face twisted trying to figure out what he can say that won’t piss me off. I talk when he doesn’t say anything, “Look, just keep them safe. Whether they are at a frat house next fall or in Europe with you, I know teenagers, and given an inch…”
He laughs. “They’ll take a mile. I’ll keep them safe, Charley. Don’t worry.”
“Great,” I say, feeling a little better but not completely relieved of worry. I ask, “Itinerary?”
“It’s a bit complicated.”
“Maybe you should email it to me.”
“We already did. Haven’t you checked your email?”
Guiltily, I look at the two distractions currently watching me from the balcony. “My server was down yesterday. I can open it today…” I catch the kiss Frankie blows to me and smile at him. “Hopefully.”
“Good, good. Look, here’s the quick rundown. We’re doing a bit of a Mediterranean cruise. All the big cities and some small ones. They’re all on the list.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing, nothing. I want the girls to see every place I possibly can show them. Just the normal places, Dubrovnik, Bari, Piraeus, Kirkira Corfu, Istanbul, Katakolon. And maybe a side venture or two.”
My kids-in-danger Mommy-radar flashes on high alert. “Dad? Where else?”
“We might arrange a private tour from Marrakech to Casablanca, pass through Tinghir, Fez.”
My mouth drops. “Isn’t Marrakech dangerous? This doesn’t sound like any cruise I’ve heard of.”
“Completely safe. I’ve rented a vessel and the political climate is fairly calm right now. I wouldn’t take
the girls if I couldn’t guarantee their safety. And when have I ever taken a typical route anywhere?”
True. “You are not a typical guy, Dad.” My unease spikes. “You rented a vessel? Who’s piloting the vessel?”
“Not me.” He laughs. “We have a crew and twenty-three ports of call.”
“Sounds ambitious.” I frown, thinking I’m glad it’s him and not me. As lovely as a trip cruising around the sunny, exotic Mediterranean sounds, I’ve lived long enough to know the high seas and I don’t fare well together. I would be the one with my head hanging over a toilet the entire trip. “It sounds like a great time, Dad. I’m glad you could do this for Ells and Bree.”
“Love you, girl. We’ll call again soon.”
Click.
“Dad?” I say his name even though I am fairly sure he hung up. I shake my head and, keeping my cell in my hand just in case one of the girls calls back, I join the men on the balcony. My distress must be evident on my face because both Frankie and Pierre-Louis look at me sympathetically. Frankie asks, “All fine on the home front?”
“Time will tell,” I answer.
I am naked except for the collar, and strangely unself-conscious. It is an odd moment though, when Frankie pulls out a chair for me. Both the table and chairs are ornate wrought iron but the chairs are fitted with thick, soft cushions. My reaction must be readable upon my face because Frankie explains, “We’re not as young as we used to be, and I don’t expect you to kneel at my feet.” I nod and take a seat, although I am not sure whether I am relieved or disappointed. Obviously, regardless of age and virility, Pierre-Louis has been sitting on a seat and eating beside him. Much has changed since I was here.
Standing, Pierre-Louis grabs my plate. “I’ll reheat everything and make you fresh eggs. These are cold.”
I touch his wrist and our gazes meet. I jerk my eyes from his, not liking feeling what looking into his eyes makes me feel. “They’re fine. I’ve eaten a lot of cold eggs in my lifetime.”