ProdigalSlave

by Roxy Harte

  “Ha,” Frankie cries out, “I know that sound. He is between your legs, oui?”

  He sounds positively overjoyed.

  “Yes,” I admit.

  “Then what is the problem. American morals? You must call me first to make certain I am okay with the two of you fucking?” He laughs. “Please, fuck. Fuck like bunnies in the springtime.”

  The visual is overwhelming.

  “That’s the problem. We have no condoms.”

  The line goes silent.

  “We had condoms, but now we are out. Pierre-Louis is trying to convince me that since the two of you are fluid bonded and have been exclusive for almost a decade and because you have both been tested regularly…that it would be safe for the three of us to be fluid bonded. I realize over the phone isn’t the best way to have this conversation.”

  I stop babbling because a moan fills my throat. Pierre-Louis intent on distracting me. He pushes a second finger inside my vagina to join the first in creating havoc with my G-spot.

  “I wish you were here.”

  “Me too,” he whispers. “To see your face right now. To see Pierre-Louis’. Mon dieu.”

  I close my eyes, having one lover on the phone and one lover between my legs stretching my limit on how much I can take. Frankie makes a sound in the back of his throat and I know he is touching himself. “Tell me what he is doing.”

  “He is stroking my G-spot with his fingers.”

  “Ahh,” he sighs. “And you are enjoying it?”

  “You haven’t been listening to my moans?”

  “We are fluid bonded. We have been for seven years. If you choose to enjoy him bareback, it will be fine. But I will expect the same privilege when you return.”

  “Of … ahhhhh … course.” My back arches when Pierre-Louis licks his tongue over my clit. I am embarrassed by the sounds I make in my throat and tell Frankie, “I should go.”

  “Hang up?” he asks, demanding, “No. I want to hear. Put the phone on speaker and enjoy him, but do not disconnect.”

  I do as I am asked, feeling more self-conscious, but then I admit to Pierre-Louis, “We have Frankie’s blessing.”

  He lifts his face and smiles. He crawls over me, touching his lips to mine. My scent is on his face and I taste myself on his lips. For whatever reason, the two combined make me crazed. I want him. Need. Him. I try to hurry him with kisses, grabbing his length in my hand to guide him in, but he angles away. “A moment as precious as this cannot be rushed, ma belle.”

  I pout, lifting my hips to try to force the issue. He nods at the phone. “He’s listening?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiles and it is wicked. I’m not certain what he has planned until he pushes my legs over my head, bending me in half. “Hold your ankles and do not let go.”

  As long as it gets his dick inside me, I would agree to anything. I am savage with need and don’t understand why every time he fills me, every time he makes me come, I only want him twice as badly…again.

  He fills me with a deep thrust, making me cry out, and my pleasure is tamped down by thinking too much about Frankie listening. Pierre-Louis pushes my legs further, stretching muscles I’ve probably never stretched, ever, but when he kisses me, filling my mouth with his tongue, I forget the pain and my climax shoots me to the moon.

  It is many minutes before I remember Master is on the phone. “Are you still there?”

  “Oui, though feeling a bit forgotten.”

  “Never, Master.” I sit up. “I was only catching my breath.”

  “And perhaps I would have heard you panting as you report on my lover’s expertise.”

  My heart lodges in my throat. It seems Frankie has gone from pleased to peeved in a very short time, but then I remember what it was like to listen outside the door. I release a long, slow breath, hoping he doesn’t hear the exhalation. “He was everything you promised and more. Thank you for the opportunity to experience him, Master.”

  I watch Pierre-Louis leave the bed and disappear into the bathroom. He looks less happy than Master sounds. Shit. “Are we all right, Master?”

  “Are we?”

  “I am more committed to you and the lifestyle we share than I ever have been. I love you. I respect you.” It seems there is so much more I could say and like I’ve already said everything wrong. I whisper, “I wish you were here beside me right now. I wish you were here to hold me.”

  “Then we are all right, Cassiopeia. Faites des beaux rêves. Je pense à toi, toute la nuit.”

  Crap. My French is so rusty. I think he said sweet dreams and… something about night. I love you seems a reasonable response, right? “Je t’aime.”

  He hangs up without saying anything else.

  I throw the phone across the room and it lands in a chair. Too bad it didn’t crash into the wall and fall in a million pieces. I bury my face in my hands.

  “He wanted this to happen between us.”

  I look up to see Pierre-Louis leaning against the wooden doorjamb between rooms.

  “So everyone keeps saying.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “I think he thought he wanted it and now that it’s happened—maybe it was a mistake.”

  Pierre-Louis crosses the room and joins me on the bed. “I don’t believe that.”

  He smells of shampoo and sweet lavender soap. “What does ‘Faites des beaux rêves. Je pense à toi, toute la nuit’ mean?”

  “This is what he said, oui?”

  I nod.

  “Then he told you ‘sweet dreams’ and ‘I will think of you all night.’ It is nothing to worry about.”

  Then why am I so worried?

  * * * * *

  We wake up early and drive to the next stop on the bike tour, collect our bikes and start riding. Though staying in bed all day would have been preferable, I can’t say I am up to another day of marathon sex. But on the same note, my body, or rather my pussy, isn’t up to a whole day on a bike either.

  I am a true masochist.

  After three hours, I know my limits as such.

  I hobble to a large rock under a tree and sit. Pierre-Louis brings me a boxed lunch filled with gourmet goodies only the French can conjure. I eat, closing my eyes as my taste buds dance in delight.

  “We can take the shadow van to the hotel.”

  “Do I look that miserable?” I open my eyes to find him nodding.

  “There’s no shame in knowing your limits.”

  “I’m not sore from the bike.”

  “I know.”

  I agree to ride to the next hotel and we check in to a single room. I announce, “I’m soaking in a tub.”

  Pierre-Louis doesn’t acknowledge. After carrying in the bags, he drops on to the bed like a stone. I think he’s asleep before his head even hits the pillow. So much for the marathon-man twenty-eight year old.

  * * * * *

  I feel much better after a long soak and Pierre-Louis’ power nap seems to have revitalized him. I don’t bother with clothes and it isn’t hard to get him out of his. I lose track of how many times I peak, but know for a fact Pierre-Louis has ejaculated six times. He was going along with a two-to-one deal but then he made me come a third time before he did and after that all deals were out the window and now he strives to break a world record. I don’t think the number of climaxes a woman has had in a day is a category with the folks at Guinness but dissuading Pierre-Louis is too difficult. Plus, I don’t care.

  We have dinner brought up by room service. I’m too damn happy, which I comment on randomly. “I feel stoned.”

  “Stoned?”

  “Blurry, disconnected, higher than a goddamn kite. I think your spunk is infused with mind-altering drugs.”

  “Oh, I have heard of this, oui. Like chocolate.”

  “Chocolate isn’t a mind-altering drug.”

  “No, but if you overindulge you will feel high.”

  I laugh at him, rolling over on to my back to twist my own nipples. My distractio
n tactic works. Sort of. He lowers his mouth to take my nipple into his mouth. I writhe, my nipple seemingly attached to my uterus, his suck making my womb spasm, needy. He says around the soft pink flesh, “It was an article in Time magazine. Chocolate goes to the same brain receptors as THC.”

  “Marijuana?”

  “Oui. And so it is like too much sex. I think if you are feeling stoned, you have had too much for one day.”

  I laugh at him, wrapping my hands around his face to pull him closer. I kiss him, asking, “Are you ready to sleep then?”

  He smiles coyly. “Not likely.”

  When my cell phone rings, I jump to answer it, thinking it is Ells and Bree. My heart sinks, seeing it is Master. I drop the phone back into my purse. “I can’t do this again tonight.”

  “Was that wise?”

  “You want to call him back?”

  “Not really.”

  “Good.” I caress his face. “Where were we?”

  “Kissing.”

  “Then why aren’t you kissing me?”

  His lips descend on mine and Master is forgotten in a rush of pheromones.

  * * * * *

  Morning comes too soon and we both wake up quiet. Is it because we know we are going back to the château…and Frankie? I’m not sure why that should matter though. I find myself packing slowly and sighing a lot. I won’t deny I am worried about the dynamic of our relationships, mine and Frankie’s, mine and Pierre-Louis’, and of course the three of us and how we interact together. I also worry about the consequences of not answering Master’s call yesterday and worry that it is worse because he didn’t call back, although at the time I was glad he didn’t. Irritated, I sit on the bed by my bag and watch Pierre-Louis fold shirts. “Why did we do this? Why did we come here together? What in the hell did Frankie expect?”

  “It wasn’t Frankie’s idea. You must know that. I told him I wanted time alone with you to see what would happen…to let nature take its course.”

  “Well, that was stupid.”

  “Was it?”

  He’s right. One way or another this would have eventually happened. There’s too much attraction. Too much chemistry.

  “Why would he agree?”

  Pierre-Louis kneels in front of me. “If he fought me I would have become even more determined and the consequences—” He shrugs, making me wonder what he thought the consequences might be. Obviously, we all want the ménage to work, and if jealousy entered the picture, it wouldn’t.

  Looking down at my hands, I mull it over a bit before looking at him. “I have to know, although I shouldn’t ask…” I shake my head, not sure whether I really want to ask or not. Pierre-Louis takes my hand and encourages me with his eyes. I square my shoulders, bracing for his answer. “When you are together, which one of you is dominant?”

  He smiles and laughs. “Do you really have to ask that? You’ve seen me naked and collared.”

  I nod, thinking too hard. “But behind closed doors—”

  He smirks, squeezing my hand. “You want to know which one of us…er…pitches and which of us catches.”

  I snort and shake my head, blushing eight shades of crimson. “Yes, I guess that’s my question. Who fucks whom?”

  He sits back in his seat, withdrawing his hand, and I feel I have offended him. He looks thoughtful, weighing how his answer will affect the outcome of our holiday. I hurriedly say, “It isn’t going to change what I think, or how I feel about you…either way.”

  “I am not so sure about that.” His lips twitch. “As it is now, Frankie is your Master, he is my Master, and that is a very powerful dynamic. If you knew for a fact that I sometimes fuck him up the ass, it might very well change how you see him—and I do not want that.”

  I swallow, realizing that I have been too bold, too curious. I’m not so certain I do want the answer.

  “On the other hand, I do wish to top you at some point and if you see no strength in me whatsoever, if you only see me as the weaker of the two—”

  I interrupt quickly, grabbing his hand. “There is nothing about you that is weak. Nothing.”

  He squeezes my hand. “I need you to trust me, because I do want you to know that if you give me your submission I will cherish it, and so I will tell you the truth of this despite my fears. François always tops. Always. And I would have it no other way.”

  I swallow, not sure how knowing the truth does make me feel. I do see Pierre-Louis as very strong, very assured…very male. And to know this…I look at him, seeing both fear and hope in his eyes…changes nothing. I sigh, shifting in my seat.

  “I didn’t top him from below, if that is what you are worried about. We discussed what I was feeling. This seemed a reasonable answer to an unpleasant situation.”

  “Unpleasant?”

  “Me, longing after you like a lust-filled schoolboy.”

  “Ahh.”

  “I’m sure it was obvious.”

  “Perhaps to Master, not to me.”

  “Yes, well, he knows me.”

  I remember what our original intent was supposed to have been and begin to think we could have made better use of our time instead of just having sex.

  “We fucked away our time,” I say. “We should have at least exchanged stories, gotten to know each other.”

  He tilts my chin in his hand. “Do not look so disheartened, mon amour. We are learning each other. But I do not understand this—stories?”

  “From your childhood. From your teenage years. What has made you you?”

  “That is too much for a single weekend, ma belle. It would require a lifetime to share so much. What is something easy you wish to know?”

  “Your birthday.”

  “February first. What is your worry?”

  “Master sent us away to get to know each other better. I know no more about you than when we left the château.”

  “Non, he sent us away together to allow us to bond.” He kisses me, a quick peck before standing to finish folding and packing. If he meant for his words to be reassuring, they weren’t.

  * * * * *

  If I felt strange driving away from the château and Frankie three days ago, returning is stranger still, but when I see him standing on the stoop, waiting, smiling, I know that somehow everything will be okay. I squeeze Pierre-Louis’ hand before I step from the car. Frankie kisses me on both cheeks. “You had a good holiday?”

  I blush. “Yes, thank you.”

  Pierre-Louis joins us and Frankie kisses him on both cheeks as well. “Bienvenue.”

  We walk into the house together. Frankie turns to us both, commanding, “Disrobe.”

  Oh. Shit. Every bruise comes to mind, both the ones I left on Pierre-Louis and the ones he left on me. Well, on with it then. It’s easy enough to undress. I wore a sleeveless cotton-jersey dress that I can pull over my head, which leaves me wearing solely peep-toe black pumps. No bra. No panties. No thigh-high stockings. Pierre-Louis takes a bit longer, but not too much, polo shirt, khakis, thong underwear and leather loafers with no socks. He strips out of everything.

  Standing in the foyer, sun streaming in through the still-open front door, we are spotlighted and I see Frankie’s eyes widen appreciatively at the long tracks of welts I made down Pierre-Louis’ back. He traces one. “Fingernails.”

  He touches the scabbed-over bite mark I left on Pierre-Louis’ shoulder. “Teeth.”

  He looks at the large black-and-blue mark on his ass. His eyebrows arch. “Paddle?”

  Pierre-Louis’ lips twitch. “I wish. I was showing off and fell off my bike.”

  “Ah. Oui.”

  He points at the road rash on his thigh and calf. “Obviously.”

  He circles me. For the most part I am unmarked, bruising on my shoulder from a lover’s bite. He taps it. “A hickey? That’s it? And I thought that Pierre-Louis was my more passionate lover.”

  I frown. I’m not as passionate as Pierre-Louis? I don’t have any time to dwell on that though because the next thi
ng Frankie says is, “Dungeon. Now.”

  Any time Master says the words dungeon and now in that tone I know that there is soon hell to pay. My heart starts racing and I don’t even think, I go, I hurry to the stairs leading down. I’ve never seen the dungeon here, but I know what to expect having seen the one he keeps in a modern basement in Chicago. Hitting the bottom step, I am not disappointed. I do not know how old the château is but the dungeon seems to have been here since the dawn of time. Stone walls, stone floor, wrought iron pieces meant to hold torches and candles. On the left we have the wine cellar and on the right—

  Wow. I’m stunned. It appears Frankie is a collector of mint-condition antique torture devices. Iron cages, a rack, yokes, stocks and implements I have no name for and am not certain I want to be introduced to. I hope they are for ambiance, not usage.

  It takes me a moment to realize I am alone and I only notice that I am not accompanied by Frankie or Pierre-Louis when I hear them arguing upstairs. Obviously Pierre-Louis is made of stern stuff. I want to go back upstairs but I won’t. The marks from the caning on the night of my return are only just faded.

  “You didn’t even attempt to top her?”

  “Non.”

  “But you allowed her to top you?”

  “Non.”

  “What do you mean? Non, non?”

  “We fucked, that is all.”

  “You, fucking her, left these marks?” He runs his fingertips over a raised red line that runs the length of Pierre-Louis’ back.

  “Oui.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “We fucked like bunnies, that is all.”

  I hear Pierre-Louis moan and I can imagine that Frankie has pinched one of the welts I left down his back. “Did she gain pleasure seeing her mark on you?”

  “You would have to ask her.”

  “Oui, I will,” Frankie agrees. “I am not certain I like seeing her mark on you.”

  My anxiety level triples, realizing Frankie has issues. I left marks on Pierre-Louis. I had considered it would not be wise if Pierre-Louis left marks on me, because Frankie is a very possessive man, but I am not sure why I didn’t consider he would be as possessive of Pierre-Louis. Oh hell. Hearing a footfall on the stairs, I wish I could hide, but I stand at attention, waiting, palms sweating, heart pounding, adrenaline pulsing forcefully through my veins. He will blame me…for all of it. For enticing Pierre-Louis, for leaving the marks on him, for not answering the phone. An excuse to punish me, though in truth he needs no excuse at all.