Sacred Revelations

by Roxy Harte

  I’ve never known Garrett to be jealous. He loved once, his business partner, Tony Giovanni. They’d shared a committed relationship that made room for others even though they loved each other completely, passionately. He’d never exhibited this kind of jealousy. Maybe because it’s been so long since he’s been in a relationship, five years, almost six, since Tony was murdered, and Celia is Garrett’s first interest of any kind since Tony. It may be a reasonable explanation. I could probably think of dozens more, but my job is not to psychoanalyze Garrett. Right now, my duty is to Celia, and I am not meeting her best interests by sitting in my kitchen, arguing with my friends about how to top her.

  I stand, coughing faintly to get their attention before announcing, “Thank you for coming George, Garrett, sorry for the scare. I’d like you to leave now.”

  Garrett stands. “I want to see her.”

  “You agreed to accept my professional advice, correct?” George asks.

  Great, now the psychiatrist wants to speak.

  “Yes.” Garrett answers, leveling his gaze.

  George faces him squarely and reaches a hand out to grip his shoulder. “It’s not in either of your best interests for you to see her right now, she’s too conflicted, and you’re too emotional. If she is to stay here, she needs her dominant link to be Thomas, not you, and part of the struggle within her right now is her connection to you, knowing you are waiting for her.”

  Garrett jerks away, not liking the answer.

  Turning to me, George doesn’t offer a touch, folding his arms across his chest instead. His stern look is what keeps me from making a comment. “I want to caution you, Thomas, she is very vulnerable emotionally. The men in her past have been manipulative and abusive, which is one of the reasons she is here. She needs a safe place to fight her inner demons and, from what she’s told me, I think you’ve exceeded my expectations. You used good judgment today calling me, and I assume you will continue to use your best judgment after we leave.”

  My level of respect for George ups a notch. Nodding, I open the front door for them. The sun is bright but dark clouds are gathering over the ocean, lightning strikes visible far out to sea. It’s beautiful, too beautiful not to share, so I point for George and Garrett to take notice. We stand for a while watching, the storm moving closer. George comments unnecessarily, “Still a few hours away.”

  “Did I mention Kitten is afraid of storms?” Garrett asks.

  “Yes, you told me. I’ll keep her safe, stop worrying.”

  His jaw tightens and it is his tension that makes me react, pulling him into me, hugging him, holding him, even when he would struggle away. “Stop worrying. You love her. I get that. It’s going to be okay, just trust me.” A second later he relaxes, hugging me back.

  “I trust you, Thomas. If I didn’t, she wouldn’t be here.”

  I stand on the other side of the heavy carved door that leads to my bedroom, technically her bedroom since she is occupying it, and the easy solution for today would be to just retreat and leave her alone. After a week in a cage, she deserves time alone, but that is a chicken answer and I am no coward. The truth is that, after a week caged, she especially needs the mental and emotional support of her Master—of me.

  I press my forehead against the door. Two hours ago, I was ready to jump her bones, now I’m afraid to be in the same room with her and I am not sure what’s happened to cause the change in how I feel. It wasn’t seeing Garrett, though seeing him reminded me of their bond. Learning of her inexperience made a definite difference, but it’s still not completely responsible for what I’m feeling. Sighing, it is a now or never moment, and mastering myself, I push open the door.

  She lies on her side, facing away from the door. I approach her quietly in case she sleeps, but I know immediately that she is awake because she stiffens beneath the blanket.

  I sit on the edge of the bed carefully, not touching her. “I know you’re awake, look at me.”

  Rolling onto her back, she groans and I know it is sore muscles not the command that causes her discomfort.

  “Are you okay?” I ask softly, seeking her eyes and finally making eye contact.

  “I’m okay,” she answers, holding my gaze. It seems a good start.

  “Hungry?”

  “Not yet,” she whispers, her lower lip quivering into a pout. “I’m sorry.”

  I stroke her cheek and draw my thumb over her pouting lip. “Whatever for?”

  “I’m weak. You were right. Maybe I’m just not tough enough for you.”

  There is honest desolation written across her features. Scooting closer to her, I lift her to pull her halfway into my lap, causing her to gasp.

  “Long-term bondage is exhausting. Where do you hurt?”

  “Everywhere,” she moans. I have no doubt.

  “I’ll run you a bath; a good soak would be good,” I offer.

  “Not yet. Did you mean what you said when you first brought me here about being honest enough to tell you what I need?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that include asking you to just hold me?” Her lip dips out farther and I know it is not contrived. Quivering, it is an honest pout. A tear slips and slides over her cheek.

  “Do you need me to hold you?”

  “Yes, Lord Fyre.” Her voice breaks, a prelim to the larger sob that wracks her body when I pull her fully into my lap.

  “You were a very good girl caged, Sophia, you were very brave,” I commend her, stroking her head, letting her cry.

  Chapter 4

  “Constantly just to herself, mind! This is the quality of true passion.”

  -George Meredith, Sandra Belloni

  Kitten

  I fell asleep in his lap, actually cried myself to sleep, and obviously he let me. Awake, I am still exhausted, and still held in his arms. He sleeps as well. I shift in his arms and he is awake instantly.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s okay,” he answers, looking down at his watch. “You’ve only been asleep an hour,” he says, shifting his weight to lie me on the bed. “Scoot beneath the blankets.”

  I obey, gladly, every muscle on fire from too long in the cage. Stretching out, I moan, unable to help myself. Lord Fyre stands. “I’ll be right back,” he says before he disappears into the adjoining bathroom. He leaves the door ajar and I can hear the sounds he makes, his piss hitting the water in the toilet bowl and then the water running as he washes his hands. I flush, embarrassed that I’ve overheard the intimacy of such a small thing as him using the bathroom. Was it only a few days ago that he caught my piss as I urinated out of desperation? Does it get any more intimate than that?

  He returns with three pills, a glass of water, and a bottle of liniment, Icy Hot. “Ibuprofen,” he explains, having me open my mouth so that he can put the pills directly in. He holds the glass of water to my lips and helps me drink, washing down the pills.

  “That was a very un-sadist thing to do, Lord Fyre.” I say bravely, thankful for the pain reliever.

  “How do you know I am not thinking of my own comfort?” he asks.

  I frown, not understanding, as he lays me back onto the pillow and takes my right arm between his hands. I had not noticed he had already squeezed a good size measure of Icy Hot onto his palm until he started rubbing the cream into my muscles. Massaging me until the massage and the Icy Hot covers every inch of my arm, his massaging fingers paying particular attention to the places that make me gasp and moan, his fingers pressing harder, finding all the agonizing tender spots.

  “My God, you’re enjoying this,” I hiss between clenched teeth, trying to breathe through the pain he is causing. He spreads the cool cream into the other arm, bringing me to tears because he won’t stop, even when I beg. He doesn’t stop torturing my muscles with the firm pressure of his fingers.

  “Relax,” he commands, spreading more over my sternum, between and around my breasts, over my abdominals and my ribs. I’m embarrassed that he is touch
ing me intimately, but it isn’t sexual. It still feels sensual. When he rubs my stomach, I tense, feeling things happening low in my belly that I am not ready to face and am relieved when he moves on to my thighs, skipping my private places, not because I fear the sting of the Icy Hot on my genitals, but because I fear my reaction to the man. Bending my knee, he works the liniment into both the front and back muscles of my thighs and my calves until finally he sits back, finished.

  “Icy Hot is such a double-edged sword. Soon your skin will flame, becoming almost unbearable, but within a few minutes the flames will recede and you will be left feeling very warm and deliciously languid—and then you will sleep, and more importantly at this juncture, I will sleep,” he tells me.

  I realize that he has had little to no sleep the entire time I was caged. “You must be exhausted.”

  “That, dear Sophia, is the understatement of the century. Make room.”

  I scoot to the left, making room for him on the right, suddenly forgetting my pain and the burn of the Icy Hot, thinking too much, worrying too much as I watch him pull his shirt over his head. He chuckles. “No worries, sweetheart, there will be no debauchery tonight. Your Master isn’t up to it.”

  Master.

  Is he my Master? I have thought of him only as Lord Fyre, but yes, I suppose he is my Master. I try to not make mental comparisons as he pulls his slacks down his legs. Chewing my bottom lip, I cannot stop making comparisons. Lord Fyre is taller, wider-shouldered, and heavier-muscled than Garrett. He is also darker, a warm golden bronze, his dark brown tan line displaying a paler ass. For some reason his tan lines make me smile.

  I scoot farther away from him when he climbs into the very wide bed, wider than a king, actually longer than a normal bed as well. It dawns on me that there is room in this bed for a lot of people.

  “I didn’t mean scoot off the bed entirely,” he says, lying flat on his back, arms to his sides, eyes closed. “I know that you told George that you’re afraid of me, afraid tonight that I was going to have sex with you.”

  “Oh God,” I moan, thoroughly and completely embarrassed, hiding my face behind my hands. “So much for doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  “Don’t fear me,” he mumbles softly and I realize that he is already asleep. It is most anti-climactic after being so terribly embarrassed. Well, embarrassed, but in a way that this is something I need him to force me into talking about embarrassed. How am I ever going to get this dialogue started again?

  I close my eyes but reopen them, realizing the lights are on still. I wonder if he left them on because I had such a problem with the dark before. Closing my eyes becomes easier, knowing that it will be light when I open them.

  I move closer to him, allowing my face to rest on his shoulder, happy for the touch of skin on skin in a purely human, non-sexual way after so long being caged. His heartbeat becomes a comforting rhythm in my ear. He smells of exotic incense-fragranced shower gel, cinnamon, and leather. It is a heady, comforting combination that I know I could get used to and that scares me. I try to remember the cool citrusy scent of Garrett, but the warm fragrance of Lord Fyre overwhelms my memory.

  Lethargic muscles refuse to move, even my eyelids seem too heavy to lift. I am annoyed that I am awake, so tired, I want only to sleep. The thought goes through my mind that perhaps Lord Fyre has awakened me, ready for more sadistic games. My body isn’t ready, I am not ready. I crack open my eye, finding the room pitch black, confused because the lights were on when I fell asleep. Fear assails me for no other reason than it is dark, and not it’s going to be okay, my eyes will adjust to the light dark, but pitch-black dark. A searing flash of light fills the room, followed by a crash.

  “Aaaah!” I scream, scooting into the farthest corner of the bed, away from the window, knowing suddenly that it was the storm that woke me. Another flash, crashing thunder, screaming.

  I pounded the floor of the bell tower, screaming. Rain slammed into me through the bell tower’s graceful arches, lightning so close that the hair on my arms stood up with each strike, thunder so loud, so close, it was like gunfire, ripping through my eardrums. I covered my ears with my hands, curling into a ball, crying, over and over again, “Mommy, mommy, mommy.”

  My mother wasn’t coming. That was the reason I’d gone to the bell tower, my hiding place, my secret place, the one place she always knew to find me when she’d looked everywhere else. I wanted her to find me; I wanted her to take me with her.

  Lightning hit the large iron rod on top of the steeple the same moment my father pushed open the trap door, but he didn’t pull me into his arms as mother would have done, he grabbed me by the hair on top of my head, and dragged me down the spiral staircase, screaming at me to stop screaming. Screaming, “You stupid girl! You could have been killed up there! Do you want to be stuck under the dirt like your mother?”

  Hands grab me and pull me into solid warmth and still I scream. “It’s okay, sweetheart, the power went out, but you’re okay, I’m here with you.”

  The storm seems to go on for eternity, lightning, thunder, rain pounding into the glass of the French doors leading to the balcony. Lord Fyre holds me in his arms, stroking my arms and talking to me softly, calling me Sophia with each gentling sentence. “It’s going to be okay, Sophia, relax. You’re safe here, Sophia.” He whispers a mantra of my name, “Sophia, Sophia, Sophia,” and I don’t cringe. I don’t feel sick with the pain of losing my mother and, finally, I can relax against him, finding peace in my name, and it seems my mother has finally found a way to comfort me during the worst of the storm.

  I awake, realizing I fell asleep during a storm, and it wasn’t a small storm. Unbelievable.

  Storms terrify me. Normally, I sit vigil, waiting for the end of the storm, fear keeping me immobile. It has been that way since I was a child, though I don’t know why. I only know that I hate storms. I wait for the end to come, not the end of my fear, but the end of time. With each roll of thunder, I wait for the trumpet blast that will signal the return of the King—the return of Jesus. Silly? Yes.

  The storm has ended. No Jesus.

  I am going to hell—for many reasons—but for today, I am going to hell because I am glad Jesus didn’t come. I would have felt sorely cheated if he had returned before my three months with this man had ended. Oh yeah, so going to hell.

  I look at the man lying next to me, looking so incredibly sinful. He sleeps and even in sleep he looks unholy. Totally and inexplicably forbidden. Sleeping, he is too much temptation and I reach my hand out to touch him, the hard plane of his chest, the skin stretched painfully taut over his pectoral muscles, his nipples hard points in the midst of all that stretched skin. Pushing down the cotton sheet that drapes over his body, I look, taking in the angular lines and solid muscle that forms the man.

  Where has my shyness gone?

  Where is the woman who hid under the covers from Garrett?

  I am not that same woman. I do not know where she went, but I am no longer she, and honestly, I am glad that she is gone.

  She would have been too afraid to join Lord Fyre for three months. She would have been too afraid of the feelings awakening in the very tissues and fibers of her being, feelings that make me want to reach out and stroke the imperfections of his body. I’ve never seen him naked. Last night that changed and I was too tired, too sore to pay much attention. I am still tired, languidly so, still not wanting to move, but it takes little effort to stroke the length of the scar on his left forearm, long and deep, slightly ragged, even though it appears to be an old scar. I wonder only for a second how he got it, then he moves, startling me, but he only rolls onto his side, in sleep. I sigh, taking note that his back is scarred just as much as his front. My gaze moves to the next imperfection, a row of round circles, angling across his back, not decorative, not on purpose, though their effect accentuates his power. It is a wonder he survived whatever caused the marks, and because I know instinctively that he is lucky to be alive, I trace each dented, perfec
t circle reverently.

  My touch must tickle because he rolls back over, hiding the scars that make me curious. I smile. Looking at his body, it is so hard not to. Even scarred, or maybe because of his scars, he is perfection and it makes me giddy. Perfection in my bed.

  My touch could wake him, but there is no fear of him waking even though I lie in his bed naked. He too is as naked as the day he was born. Even though, yesterday, I admitted to Dr. Psycho that I fear sex with him, I explained it wrong, or the explanation was twisted by the time it reached Lord Fyre, because it wasn’t that I feared the sex. I feared my inexperience. I feared not being able to please him. I feared the ultimate outcome—losing Garrett forever if I allowed my baser needs to win and I gave myself to Lord Fyre fully.

  I do not know how long we’ve slept; I know only that it is daylight again, and in my mind, time for him to awake. Awake before I lose my nerve and am no longer brave. Awake before I start thinking too hard about consequences, guilt, and judgment.

  I smooth my hand over the flatness of his stomach, dropping lower, finding him hard. Wondering what thought God had when he made all healthy, able men awaken with a hard-on. Awaken. Hard. Oh, shit.

  “How long have you been awake?” I ask, letting my fingers close around his length. His hand closes around my wrist, holding my hand still, though I don’t release his length, feeling him grow stiffer in my hand.

  “Long enough to see where you wanted your exploration to lead.”

  I bite my lip, not looking at him, taking in the very fine vision of his hard cock. He is not a deep rose color as the other two men I’ve had sex with have been. Lord Fyre’s penis is a darker tan, with distinctive purple undertones.