ProdigalSlave

by Roxy Harte

  I interrupt them all, “I’m visiting friends and I have no intention of spying on you. Or interrupting your trip. I just wanted you to know I’m not in the States.”

  “You have friends in France?” Ells asks, sounding suspicious, and I decide she sounds exactly like her father.

  “I do and it seemed like perfect timing to visit them.”

  “Let me have the phone,” I hear my mother demand in the background.

  “Charlotte?” Mother sounds concerned. “You’re in France?”

  “Yes.” I laugh, trying to sound nonchalant. “I needed to get away and a friend invited me to France.”

  “The friend wouldn’t be anyone I know? Would it?”

  I’ve never been a very good liar, so I don’t even try. “It’s Frankie, Mom. I’m certain you’ll remember.”

  “How could I forget the Frenchman?” she asks, making “the Frenchman” sound like “that asshole” without ever saying the word. I know that she thinks that he stole my heart and then broke it into a million pieces. I never corrected that assumption. Number one, I never wanted to talk about him again, never wanted to hear his name again, because I knew I would have lost my resolve and gone back to him. And number two, she never really liked him or approved of him too much. I think she thought he was too mysterious, but it was only that we kept most of our relationship a dark secret. I couldn’t actually share that I was his sex slave, could I? She also thought he was too beautiful…for me.

  “So, how is François?”

  I sigh. This was not the conversation I’d intended on having. I lift my face into the baking sun, wishing I could just hang up and go find my Frenchman. I answer, “He’s good. It was nice to hear from him again.”

  “He called you?”

  “Yes. But does it matter? Who called whom?”

  “It might,” she answers furtively. “It just might.”

  I hear Frankie calling my name from outside and rush out to the balcony to look over the railing for him. He is standing on the far side of the yard between the pool and the greenhouse. He tilts his head, a questioning look on his face and I know it is because he just left me nude and now I am dressed again. He points to me and then toward the greenhouse. I smile, signaling I need a moment before pointing at the phone. He doesn’t look impressed as he turns and walks toward the shining glass structure. I tell my mom, “I need to go. But call again soon, okay?”

  Chapter Seven

  I hurry to the greenhouse, still wearing my shorts and shirt. I’m nervous because, technically, I was told to stay nude. Those are the house rules. Problem is, I don’t know if I can abide by this rule and I don’t know if it is negotiable, but I’m about to find out.

  The smell of warm, damp earth and moss is my greeting. The greenhouse is hot and humid, the glass forming the walls drips with moisture. The heat seems a visible mist in the air. From behind me, Pierre-Louis sweeps me off my feet to hold me in his arms. I am surprised he is still wearing clothing. Obviously he was not yet instructed to disrobe. He carries me to the center of the room. Frankie is a step ahead, sweeping aside crockery and potting tools from the top of a wooden table. The surface is not clean, not by a long shot, but Pierre-Louis lays me down on top of the table.

  My heart skips a beat when Frankie tosses a length of rope to Pierre-Louis and the man grabs my wrist to tie to the corner of the table, attaching the rope first to my wrist and then to the leg. While Pierre-Louis is tying my wrists, Frankie spreads my legs and starts tying my ankles. He asks, “How attached are you to the clothing you are wearing?”

  It takes a second for the full weight of the question to become active thought. Obviously my outfit is at risk. I tell him, “Replaceable,” even though I really adore the shorts.

  “Bon,” he says. “Did I not say you and Pierre-Louis are to be nude at all times?”

  I figure the question is rhetorical and so I don’t answer. A second later, Pierre-Louis is blindfolding me, a moment more and there is a snip, snip sound near my ear, larger and heavier than scissors by the sound, possibly some type of pruning shears. I shiver, nervous, excited, strangely not scared being tied spread-eagle though I suppose if I dwelled too much I could make myself terrified.

  Cool metal is rubbed against my cheek.

  “Kiss it,” Frankie commands, and in my head he feels very much like Master. Except for the first night when he caned me, I haven’t really felt his dominance so much. The heavy metal presses down on my lips and I kiss it.

  I decide grass clippers even though I can’t see them, because the metal seemed flat against my mouth and if they were pruning shears they would feel curved. As they are drawn over my cheek, I can feel the solid edge and the sensation makes me shiver.

  “Cut holes,” Master instructs. “I want to see her breasts.”

  I feel a tug on my shirt, my nipple caught with fabric, making my heart jump into my throat before Pierre-Louis corrects and holds only fabric. I am relieved when I hear snip, snip but am not left in agonizing pain. When he releases the cloth I can feel my left nipple is sticking through the hole in my shirt and bra. He grabs the shirt over my right breast, tugging, not catching nipple. Snip, snip.

  It feels odd having my nipples exposed. Frankie leans forward and takes my nipple into his mouth, though I am not one hundred percent certain it is Frankie and not Pierre-Louis until he makes a content sound in his throat. He sucks and bites, bringing my nipple to a tight, aroused point. He repeats on the other side. When he pulls his lips away I am left with a flash of pain in my right nipple and then immediately my left. I whimper from the pain. Nipple clamps. He tugs both and I realize the clamps are attached to a chain, which is confirmed when he puts the chain between my teeth with the command, “Bite.”

  I bite down, holding the chain.

  Frankie says, “Exposer sa chatte.”

  My brain translates effortlessly though it has been years and so I am not startled when I hear the snipping sound before I feel the metal hovering over my pussy. Pierre-Louis takes his time cutting a hole in my shorts, effectively making both the shorts and panties beneath crotchless, and I am glad he took his time.

  The room is silent and still. I could almost believe the men disappeared into thin air for the quietness. There is a rustle above me and I hear a chirp. A bird is either in the greenhouse with us or landed on the roof. Chir-wee, chir-wee. I shiver, hoping the bird isn’t in the building. It is silly perhaps in light of my being tied, my clothing cut, but the thought of a bird landing anywhere near me, worse, on me, creeps me out.

  Chir-wee, chir-wee.

  “Pull the chain, Cassiopeia.”

  I tug the chain caught between my teeth, stretching out my nipples, sending fresh waves of pain through them after having forgotten the clamps were even attached.

  “Jerk the clamps off.”

  Me? Oh shit.

  I pull but it is not nearly hard enough. It hurts. I pull harder and the clamp on my left breast pops off, my back arching as the pain shoots from tit to spine. “Goddamn.” I cry out, wishing I wasn’t tied so I could fold into myself, fold into the pain. The chain drops from my mouth.

  Master says, “Tsk, tsk. Now how will you get the other clamp off?”

  I shrug, tossing my head.

  “You may ask my assistant.”

  I ask softly, “Pierre-Louis, will you take the nipple clamp off?”

  He asks Master, “Sir, may I remove the clamp for Cassiopeia?”

  “No,” he answers tersely. “She must do it herself.”

  I am glad I have the blindfold over my eyes so that he doesn’t see me roll my eyes. “Pierre-Louis, will you put the chain back in my mouth?”

  He asks, “Sir, may I help Cassiopeia by putting the chain back into her mouth?”

  “Oui.”

  I hear a rustle in the foliage between me and the windows. I tense, guessing the bird is in the room even before I hear the chirp. Chir-wee, chir-wee. I shiver. Pierre-Louis puts the cool metal chain back in my mouth
and I pull as hard as I can, popping the clamp off and screaming when it seems to hurt twice as much as the first did. I feel a warm, wet mouth closing over the screaming flesh and I am not sure whose mouth it is. It feels so good after the pain, my body throbs with the pleasure of the soft suckle. My hips move on the tabletop, my pussy clenching, wanting attention. I can feel myself growing wetter by the second, the cool drip of my fluid sliding between my ass cheeks.

  There is a sound next to me on the table, a rustling I imagine is the bird. I listen more closely, tensing, relaxing after heart-pounding minutes, probable only seconds, realizing it is not the bird, it is either Master or Pierre-Louis doing something, perhaps laying out floggers or other sundry items. I understand the sound very quickly as having been the soft rattle of wooden clothing pins when Master tells Pierre-Louis, “The sensitive skin inside her upper arms, the inside of her thighs,” and Pierre-Louis very quickly and efficiently starts attaching the pinch-type wooden pins. My pussy clenches with each attachment, pinch, pinch, pinch, just under my right armpit where the skin is supersensitive on both arms, then again under my left arm. Pinch. Pinch. Pinch. I feel his warm hands between my thighs, pushing up the legs of my shorts to get them where he wants them. Pinch, pinch, pinch. He moves left to right. Pinch, pinch, pinch.

  When he finishes the room is silent again. They are waiting, watching. Then suddenly, I feel warm fingers smooth over my labia. Master says softly, “I think two more.”

  I know he is attaching the last two, pulling my labia lips apart to attach one left, one right. It hurts. I bounce my knees a little but I don’t cry out. He says, “Good girl,” and it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. How I went two decades without such affirmations is beyond me now that I am here with him again.

  “Remove the shirt.”

  The steel of the grass trimmers slides up my side as Pierre-Louis cuts away the remaining fabric. He pulls the shirt away, jerking it from under my back. He knocks off one of the clothes clips and the pain is intense.

  Master says, “Leave it,” and I assume he means to not reattach it. He lifts the blindfold from my eyes and his gaze is questioning but I don’t understand what he is asking. He pulls his gaze from me to look at Pierre-Louis. “I want to watch her suck you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Strip. Now. Straddle her face.”

  No one asks me how I feel about it. I am merely the object to be shared between two men. It is a perverse delight that I am excited by the prospect. I have seen Pierre-Louis completely nude and he is an amazing attribute to the male species. We have kissed and he has touched me intimately, but I have not touched him. I try not to watch as he unbuttons his shirt but flexing, bunched abdominals are hard to look away from. He slides out of his shirt and tosses it aside. He unbuttons the top button of his jeans, unzips, stops to take a wrapped condom out of a front pocket, then strips the rest of the way.

  Unrolling the condom down his length he says lightly, “Strawberry. I hope you like that flavor.”

  I actually detest flavored condoms, but then I hate any condom. I know Frankie know this and yet…

  I can’t debate the reasons as my mind is shocked by the sudden shift of weight. The wooden table groans a little as he climbs on to it and moves into position, one leg warm against my ribs. But he needs to be closer, and when he shoves his knee under my armpit another clip flies free. Oh.

  Master reaches to remove the remaining four pins and my body jerks with the removal of each. Then he steps away, standing where I can’t see him. I wonder what he is thinking, what he was asking me but didn’t say. I don’t have time to dwell on that though because Pierre-Louis swings his leg over my chest and his weight is straddling me, though not his entire weight. Very little of it in fact, merely enough to let me know he is there, in position, knees high under my arms. His erect penis bobs in front of my face. His gaze locks on mine but I don’t change my focus, I look intently at his eyes.

  He strokes my jaw, angles my face and draws his thumb lightly over my bottom lip. He smells earthy and warm, a hint of spicy cologne mingled with the scent of clean man. The tip of his erection closely follows. I open my mouth and he slides in, not deep, just a little. Strawberries and rubber. Lovely. I focus on what I am supposed to be doing and not the horrid taste in my mouth. I stroke circles with my tongue around the glans before latching on for some fast hard sucks. He presses deeper even though I could suck and play with the head of his cock all day. He slides it all the way in so that he bumps the back of my throat, leaving me fighting the gag reflex. He backs it out enough for me to relax and suck but almost immediately pushes back in. “I want you to swallow his dick, Cassiopeia. Show him you know what to do with a man’s cock.” I hear Master whispering close to my face, his breath warm on my cheek. I jerk my head, looking, realizing only then how close he is, how close he has been all this time. He is squatted behind the table, seeing Pierre-Louis from almost the same angle that I see him.

  “Yes, Master,” I say around Pierre-Louis’s hard flesh in my mouth. He pushes deeper and I try, but we are at the wrong angle. Swallowing him seems impossible, tied as I am. He pushes farther, gagging me. I sputter. I’m not sure which is more arousing for me, the fact I am making him moan or the sound I make gagging around his cock. All I know is that I want him to fuck me. My hips rock and my pussy clenches around nothing, the weight of the clothespins heavy on my labia.

  “Keep sucking,” he commands, standing, walking away. “Don’t even think about stopping.”

  Sucking I can do. Pierre-Louis pulls out just enough for me to hold him solidly in my mouth, rolling my tongue over him and sucking without any gagging.

  I feel Master at my ankles, his touch light as he slides up my legs. He releases each of the clips on my inner thighs. “Ow. Owwwww.”

  My hips buck but I keep sucking.

  He removes one of the clips from my labia and I scream, trying to roll away from the pain, my ankles pulling against the rope. I keep Pierre-Louis’ cock in my mouth, moaning around it. I feel Master’s finger rub along the screaming flesh, helping the blood flow to return quicker and it hurts and feels good equally. I try to push harder against his caressing fingers. He releases the second clothespin. “Holy fuck.”

  He smacks my labia as if he is spanking them, and I am close enough to orgasm I think I might. “Ohgodohgodohgod,” I say, or try to say.

  “Tell me what you need, Cassiopeia.”

  Pierre-Louis thrusts in and out of my mouth as I curse and beg, making anything I am saying fairly unintelligible. “I want you to fuck me, Master,” becomes “I-on-ew-ew-uuu-eee-aa-er.”

  The table groans and I realize Master’s weight has been added. He lifts my hips and fills me in a long, deep stroke.

  I close my eyes, blocking the image of Pierre-Louis’s face as Master rubs his finger over my clit and thrusts, matching the rhythm of Pierre-Louis thrusting in and out of my mouth.

  Pierre-Louis tenses, going still and I know he is coming, filling the condom. He pulls his spent length from my mouth and Master keeps thrusting and rubbing. Pierre-Louis tweaks my nipple, pinching, pulling. Helping? Distracting? God, oh god. I am so close to orgasm. I moan and toss my head.

  Pierre-Louis shoves two fingers in my mouth and I suck, bucking against Master’s touch, feeling him deep inside me, thrusting, thrusting.

  Sucking.

  Thrusting.

  We both moan, his moan heightening my need, whisking me higher, and then I am plummeting, my orgasm jerking through my body, lighting every nerve with fire.

  * * * * *

  I am still bound and lying on top of the dirty wood potting table. The men talk in low voices from somewhere inside the greenhouse, though I guess it could just as easily be outside the main doors because their voices are soft and indiscernible, leaving me too much time to fixate on doubts. The sex was amazing, always has been, but there is something missing that was there before but is gone now. Is it me? Is it the way I feel, being twenty years olde
r, not so blindly obsessed?

  At approaching footsteps I turn my head and see Master. He kisses me. Gently. Tenderly. “Merci, ma belle.”

  I smile against his lips as he kisses me again. “Merci?”

  “For returning to me… But it seems to me you do not have your heart in it.”

  My heart stills in my chest then jumps before returning to its pace, faster than before.

  “I have sent Pierre-Louis to the kitchen to start preparing dinner so I may have you to myself for a while. I hope you don’t mind.”

  I shake my head. Mind? How could I mind when his touch on my face speeds my heart, his words both terrifying and comforting me at the same time.

  “You put your clothing back on. Did you even wait for me to be down the hall?” The sting of his words is softened by his gentle hands rubbing over my breasts.

  I shake my head.

  He pinches a nipple softly, pulling ever so slightly, but they are still sensitive from the clothespins and so I suck in my breath. “Do you wish to explain yourself?”

  I rush to do just that. “I was talking to my daughters on the—”

  “Shh.” He silences me. “I did not say ‘explain,’ I said ‘do you wish to offer an excuse?’”

  Ah. Still a stickler for details. “Master, I do wish to explain.”

  “Oui, I am certain you do.” He rubs his hand over my stomach. “However, do you remember my policy on excuses?”

  Our gazes lock. Of course I remember. How could I not remember?

  “Should you be punished, Cassiopeia?”

  I whisper softly. “Yes, Master.”

  “Oui,” he says, kissing me gently again. I lift my face, basking in the sweetness of his lips, knowing this bliss will soon be replaced with torment. He strokes my face. “I think instead of punishing you, I would prefer to play with you a bit more. Would that be acceptable?”

  I sob with relief. “Yes.”

  Playing with Frankie is always extreme—before, with Pierre-Louis, it was as though we were still getting to know each other—now, he won’t hold back. “Yes, Master.”