Master's Flame (Cirque Masters)

by Joseph, Annabel

  “Oh, I do much more than that,” he said, using her hand to yank her close. When they were nose to nose, he ran his fingers down to her bare ass and squeezed. “You, my dear, are having a meltdown. This is not the time or place for it.” He squeezed harder, until she whimpered in pain. “There is never a time or place for it in my world. I don’t know what brought on this ridiculous display”—he emphasized the word that hurt her so badly—“but it’s over. And every time you begin again with your love and perfect-ness and feelings, you’ll be mocked again.”

  “I love you,” she said, pushing away from him. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

  He stalked past her to his fourteen rows of shoes and hundreds of belts. He chose a black belt from the middle and turned to her, doubling it over between his fingers. “Go ahead. Say it again.”

  “I love you.” She didn’t even hesitate. She screamed it. He could beat her for a million hours and she’d still scream it because she loved him and it was killing her trying to keep her feelings inside. He stalked toward her and pinned her facing the wall, and striped her ass with a volley of strokes. Instead of screaming in pain she just kept screaming, I love you, I love you, and sometimes te amo, and sometimes je t’aime.

  “Enough,” he barked over her babbling. He pulled her up and shook her. “You want love like a child wants candy. You’re a junkie for it.”

  “It’s better to be like you? A hard, emotionless man?” She struggled away from him, or perhaps he let her go. He flung the belt aside and threw wide his arms.

  “You and your love, Valentina. You’re so deluded. You think love is delicious and sweet. You want to hoard it and gorge on it until your stomach aches and your teeth rot out of your pretty head. But you can’t demand love of someone,” he said, his voice rising in fury and sharpness. “It’s one of those things, like slavery, that requires consent.”

  Her ears rang from the volume of his outburst. She stayed very still, her throat gone dry, her ass throbbing from the belt strokes. He’d never, ever used a voice like that with her. It occurred to her that for the first time ever in their relationship, he had lost control. The music flowed on in the background, the pleasant, harmonious notes too light for this fearsome moment. She put her hands over her ears. “I’m sorry.” She began to say it in the same hysterical way she’d professed her love, and in the same way, she couldn’t stop repeating it over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  She jerked when she felt his hands on her, but there was no more violence, no more of that hoarse, furious voice. He took her in his arms and cradled her head against his rapidly beating heart. “Okay,” he said. “It’s okay.” And then, a few moments later, “I’m sorry too.”

  She took long shuddering breaths against the soapy-fresh scent of his skin, against his sandalwood-lotioned neck. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” It was only a whisper now, which he silenced with one of his fingers pressed over her lips. When she finally calmed enough to breathe normally, he drew back and leaned down to look in her eyes.

  “Let’s forget this ever happened. It wasn’t a good conversation. It was a conversation we shouldn’t have had.” He pushed her hair back from her face and used the pad of his thumb to brush away her tears. “You see now why it’s better to do things my way?”

  It took a long time for Valentina to produce the words of agreement he wanted to hear, because she didn’t believe them. But she eventually managed to force them past her lips. “Yes, Master. It’s better your way.”

  He studied her another moment, then nodded. “Hang up my belt then, and meet me downstairs.”

  Chapter Seventeen: Back Room

  Michel felt empty, as if someone had reached inside him, scooped out everything, and left a vast, echoing shell.

  Damn her for her ridiculous emotional outbursts, and damn him for entertaining them long enough for the episode to blow up into a disaster. He should have cut her off at the start, told her to be quiet and wait for him in the car. Now he was stuck with the memory of beating a woman while she screamed hysterically that she loved him. He’d have nightmares about it forever. It was precisely the kind of thing he set up his life to avoid. He had the same feeling now that he had after his mother and father screamed and fought each other, the same shell-shocked paralysis that had dogged him through much of his early life.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror. He’d put Valentina in the back seat, needing distance and peace. He’d offered her the choice of wearing a gag or committing to absolute silence. She chose absolute silence and understood it would last all night. He wouldn’t mind the noise of the Citadel. In fact, he looked forward to it, because it would drown out the other noises in his head. Her screaming and whimpering, her crying, her manic I’m sorry’s.

  No one on the planet was more fucking sorry than him. He was sorry he’d indulged himself, sorry he’d wallowed so long in Valentina’s tempting charms. He’d become lazy, stupid, and slow over her, so slow that he hadn’t seen this breakdown coming. A screaming match in his dressing room?

  After tonight, he’d start working again on releasing her. He thought perhaps he could offer her money to rent space in an art studio. Paris was full of them, and it would occupy her time when she wasn’t performing. It would keep her out of his hair. Maybe he could hire her a gigolo to stay at her dormitory and keep her busy. Maybe he’d buy her a house so she could spend hours and hours painting the walls and making it into as much of a mess as her corner in his living room. Maybe he could visit her on occasion and see what she’d done to the place...

  No, he couldn’t visit her. He had to let her go, completely and finally. How had he gotten himself into this situation, after so many years of caution and restraint?

  A restless anger seethed in him. It wasn’t anger at her, it was anger at himself, but when they arrived at the Citadel he helped her out of the car with a bit more force than was necessary. There was a fine line between a Master and a bully and he was teetering on the edge of it. As for Valentina, she looked beautiful in her black velvet and stockings, and her shock of red hair. Her eyes were still a bit red from crying. How telling, that even though both of them felt miserable, they’d both been eager as ever to come here and play.

  Should he play with her? Misgivings dipped and danced in between the anger, creating a mess of disquiet in his brain. Once inside the club, he walked around and invited upwards of fifty people into the back with them. He invited women he thought were pretty, men he thought were handsome, and every heavy hitter and mind fucker who’d ever gained his respect. He invited old friends and people he barely knew but was curious about. It was probably too many people but it created the noise and distraction he needed.

  Thirty minutes later, his private dungeon writhed in an orgiastic party of epic proportions. Bare, supple bodies paraded around the room. Cocks grew hard, pussies shone between spread thighs. Music thumped below the screams and sighs of the players. Michel sat on his great leather chair with Valentina at his feet, observing the proceedings with a sense of pride. There was no shame here. Women were openly lustful and men flaunted their erections. These cocks were fondled, worshipped, or tortured, depending on who they belonged to. They were forced into pussies, mouths, and assholes, both male and female.

  Meanwhile, Valentina lavished attention on his cock. She caressed and licked it in slow concentration. He’d taught her well, and she was always so beautifully eager to please.

  “Don’t make me come yet,” he warned. “Amuse me, but don’t make me come.”

  She stared up at him, her nose buried between his balls. She was the only clothed woman in the room because he wanted her trapped in her corset, just as he enjoyed trapping her in his home, in his cage.

  No. No more trapping. You have to let her go.

  He wouldn’t think about that now. Not tonight. He reached down and tugged on her hair, then thrust so deep in her throat that she choked and pulled away. The only answer to that, of course, was to repeat the
action until she submitted. It only took a couple more ball-tightening thrusts before she stared up at him in capitulation, gagging, tears brimming in her eyes.

  These were the tears he lived for. The face-fucking tears, the sexy-hurt tears that were part of a BDSM scene. He didn’t like the other tears, the ones in the dressing room from true emotional pain. He felt a tenderness for her, remembering how he’d hurt her. He pulled out of her mouth to let her breathe.

  “You’re okay?” he asked over the low thrum of the music.

  She nodded, sworn to silence. Was she really okay, or was she only nodding because she loved him, as she had professed so dramatically? He looked away, pursing his lips. If he leaned forward he could see the angry stripes he’d left on her ass with his belt, ten or more of them, clear as day. He’d intended to put her on the rack here and play with her, perhaps even let others play with her, but they were bad bruises and he didn’t want to risk further damage.

  Bad bruises...because he’d lost control.

  He bellowed a string of curses in English and French. A few people playing nearby stopped and looked at him. Valentina sucked his cock faster, harder. He stopped her, taking her face in his hands. “I don’t want to come yet. Toy with me, slave. Make it good for me,” he said, infusing his words with an edgy sensuality.

  His job here wasn’t to hash over his personal issues or his complicated relationship with the slave at his feet. His job here was to be a good host and to give his fellow perverts a night to remember. Unfortunately, for some reason, he’d invited in more men than women, and now many of the men stood around the room pumping their dicks, inactive. The solution to this seemed all too obvious.

  He looked down at Valentina, pushing her head back with a firm grip in her hair.

  “I wonder, do you still have a taste for every cock that comes your way?”

  She stared back as if she didn’t understand his words. What was there to understand? There was a need in the room and his slave could fill it. She loved cock, didn’t she?

  “Go lie in the middle of the floor,” he said, loudly enough for at least half the room to hear, the half of the room that wasn’t busy fucking each other. “Lie down on your back and spread your legs.”

  People moved out of the way to make a space, because he was the Master here, Le Maître, and he wanted a show. He was the Master and people did as he asked. Even Valentina, who stood and backed away from him, didn’t dare deny his orders. She walked to the area he indicated and lay down in the middle of a circle of observers.

  “Good girl.” It was almost silent now. “Spread your legs as I told you. Don’t make me get the whip.”

  It didn’t occur to him until much later that she might have preferred the whip to what he was about to do. He pointed to a man named Girard, who looked particularly frustrated jacking his own cock. Girard was a bottom, so he didn’t mind taking orders. “Put on a condom and fuck my slave,” said Michel. If he was in a really cruel mood he might have said something disparaging about Girard’s size, since he possessed probably half Michel’s girth, but he wasn’t feeling that cruel or petty, and Girard probably would have gotten off on the insult.

  No, he wasn’t feeling that cruel, only very relaxed and sure he was doing the right thing. Valentina liked cock and she’d had quite enough of his over the past few weeks; she was probably dying for some variety. And there were perfectly hard men standing around with nothing to do, men who would probably never in their lives have a chance to fuck a pussy as delectable as Valentina’s.

  “Put your hands over your head and spread your legs wider,” he ordered. “Show us how much you like it.” There was total silence as Valentina complied. Such a good slave. Not one word or motion of protest, only complete submission. He stared a moment at her glistening pussy, watched her arch her back and sigh as Girard moved into her. Too soon, his pumping ass blocked out Michel’s view.

  Ah, well. He could spend the time deciding who went next. He lined up three more guys, some of them dominant types who liked submissive pussy, some of them, like Girard, subs who were eager to be forced to perform. He made sure they were all wearing condoms. When the fourth guy had trouble mounting Valentina, Michel provided lube. Through all of this, Valentina kept her hands over her head as he’d ordered her. He watched her carefully for signs of dismay or protest but she was beautifully surrendered, a slave for the ages. If she was dry, well, that was bound to happen after four guys had fucked her.

  He tagged a pair of men next, and told one to use her mouth and one to use her pussy. By now guys were lined up ten deep, taking places without even asking his permission, and Michel started to have the first inkling that what he was doing might be a bit beyond back room fun. In between this group and the next, Valentina looked over at him with a gutted, bewildered look.

  She didn’t have a safeword. She’d never had a safeword. Slow, he was so slow. And so cruel.

  One of the dominants he knew, one he respected, walked by his chair on the way to the door. “While you’re at it, why don’t you put a noose around her neck, you fucking asshole?”

  Michel pretended not to hear him. He decided that guy wouldn’t be invited into his back room ever again. But after one more pair of men fucked Valentina, Michel decided that particular scene had gone on long enough, and yelled at everyone to get out.

  *** *** ***

  Valentina lay very still on the floor. Her pussy hurt. Her mouth tasted like latex and a little bit of vomit, because the last guy had thrust in her too hard. My Master is going to come save me now, she thought. That’s what this whole scene was about, right? He’s going to make me endure this and then he’s going to come and gather me up and soothe me...

  But he only sat staring at her from his chair. He looked unhappy. Angry. After all she’d gone through, the scene, the gangbang, he didn’t even look turned on. This upset her so much that she started to cry. Or maybe she was crying because a dozen cocks that weren’t her Master’s had just pressed into her one after the other, without respite.

  I didn’t like that, she wanted to scream. I hated that. I hate you.

  He finally got up from his chair and approached her, standing over her. “Calme-toi, petite. Don’t cry. It was just a scene.”

  That made her cry harder. With a grim noise of frustration, he went toward the wall. She braced for some kind of punishment, but he brought back a blanket and wrapped it around her. “Let’s take you home and get you cleaned up.”

  Yes, she wanted to get cleaned up. She wanted to clean this entire night off her memory forever, from the moment he’d given her the velvet corset until now, when he hauled her up without the least bit of tenderness and bundled her out to his car.

  “I want to go home,” she said, shivering in the back seat.

  “We’re going home.”

  “I want you to take me to my home.”

  His piercing eyes flicked at the rearview. “No,” he said in a hard voice. “You’re going back to my place and you’re going to spend the night there.”

  “I don’t want you to touch me.”

  He looked away again. “Our two hours are over. So if you don’t want me to touch you, I won’t.”

  Our two hours?

  I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

  As much as she had loved him earlier this evening, she hated him now. She hated him for refusing to care for her and love her. She hated him for giving her to other men so carelessly and coldly. It hadn’t even turned him on. So why?

  “Why did you do that?” she asked. She meant to sound angry, but the words came out as a thin whine. “Why did you let all those men fuck me and breathe on me and sweat on me...?” She fell silent, unable to say more.

  “I did it because I felt like it.” She could see his frown in profile, his immovable expression. “I did it because you’re my slave and I thought you needed some cock.”

  She wanted to rip his cock off and shove it up his ass. “I hated it. I hated every second of it.”

>   “I’m sure you did. But you went through it anyway at my direction, which is the very definition of slavery. Good girl.”

  She shot him a scathing look, even though he couldn’t see it through the back of his head. “I don’t think it’s the definition of slavery. I don’t think I’m that good of a girl, because I hate you right now.”

  He gave a bitten-off laugh. “From love to hate in one night. Of course.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “You’re not going home. You can leave in the morning if you wish.”

  “If you try to touch me—”

  “I’m not going to touch you,” he said, cutting her off. “You and I have come to the natural end of things, don’t you think? It’s time for me to find a new slave, one who’s a bit less mercurial. All this loving and hating is making my head spin.”

  She squeezed her hands in her lap and didn’t respond. It had been a very long night and she was far beyond fighting, far beyond anything but surviving. At his house, he made her shower while he stood outside the glass with his arms crossed over his chest. She stayed in the steaming enclosure for thirty minutes, maybe forty, just wanting him to leave, until finally he reached in and turned off the water and ordered her out.

  They had another standoff outside the cage. He insisted on locking her in. She insisted on being unlocked. He finally left in disgust, telling her she could do whatever the hell she wanted.

  She sat on the edge of her cage bed, leaning against the slack, unlocked panel of bars for a long, long time. Hours, it seemed. She was like a captive bird so befuddled by freedom that she didn’t fly through the door when it was opened. But she had to find the courage to fly. She knew that.

  If she could only understand why he acted the way he did. She knew she wouldn’t be attracted to him if he was an evil, soulless man. She might be an emotional basket case, but she was an intuitive emotional basket case. Mr. Lemaitre was missing some part of his soul that allowed him to feel love properly. Perhaps that was why, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t finish a sketch or painting of him.