by Sosie Frost
He watched me squirm. Tense. Tighten. Wetten.
“Don’t. Come.”
His thrusts deepened. I fought against the restraints.
Cruel, terrible bastard. My breathing raged, torn from my lungs. I forced myself to concentrate on anything besides the pulsing ache that’d spread from my core outwards. Every muscle screamed, and my heartbeat strained against my chest.
I wasn’t above begging. Anthony’s arms tucked closer against my body. His chest lowered to mine. I was lost. This was torture. Skin against skin, heat against heat.
My head lolled back. I wished the rest of me were restrained. My hips pressed upwards, offering more of my body. My breasts aimed up for him. To see. To touch. To bite.
Anything he wanted was his, including the hot, wet mess that his cock claimed.
And he knew it. His breathing became a singular, hollow growl. The cadence of his thrusts quickened. I could ignore his touch. I could ignore his length twitching inside me before pounding against my most delicate area. But I couldn’t ignore him. His scent and weight over me. He was all I could see, all I could feel.
And his desire was as great as mine. He held back as much as I did. Every movement, every groaned effort and passion-fueled caress.
And then I understood. My pleasure came with his. It was simple. Natural.
Intimate.
But I could no more deny the pleasure searing me from the inside than I could hide how I felt for this man.
He had a power over me. A terrifying, humbling power. Submitting to him made sense. But this closeness. His gaze. The way he held me and kissed me and what he demanded of me…
This wasn’t a hierarchy enforced by Duchess. This was all Anthony. What he gave me. What I returned.
I stole his kiss, fearing any words I might utter in my new confusion.
Or clarity. I didn’t know.
“Pet.”
His body trembled and sweated. I shared the feeling—the pain of denial and the desperate, pleading ache for release.
I arched, letting his body take what he needed. My relief broke with his.
He came inside of me, the jet of heat filling me from the inside out.
I didn’t need to tense or prepare or cry out or ask. My orgasm was just there. Released with his and wrapping me in a cocoon of warmth. My legs squeezed him close, forcing him deeper, as my tightness gripped every last inch in a wonderful, silken bliss.
The pain in my body faded, even the mild throbbing of the almost-too-tight restraints pulling on my arms. I closed my eyes and accepted Anthony’s cum, every drop of boiling pleasure.
I rose with him. Crested with him. Then dropped back to reality and crashed with him.
He didn’t pull out. Even that was intentional. His cock hadn’t softened, and my body swelled around him, tightening as I could do nothing but wait for the moment he decided to withdrawal from my melted core.
He released my hands from the restraints. I didn’t move until he gave the permission.
Then I tangled with him. Pulled him close, touched his body and ran my hands through his long hair, loose over his shoulders. He crushed me. I didn’t need air. I needed Anthony.
“Perfect,” he whispered.
My lips nibbled his. I blinked through tears.
I don’t think he knew how much that word represented and what phrase it allowed me to bury back inside before I revealed too much.
He thumbed away the one tear that escaped, and I braved a smile. Nodded. Shuddered in his arms.
“Everything is perfect, sir.”
18
I finished the concerto with my traditional, this-sounds-natural-but-only-because-I-mastered-this-movement-years-ago flourish and allowed the silence to echo in the hall before facing the conductor.
Challenging song. Perfect performance. Charming smile.
That’s how the Old Morgan rolled. How the girl who was now pants-wetting terrified of auditions used to play these things.
My reaction was as practiced as the concerto. Conductors could smell nerves, and it wasn’t what they wanted polluting their stage. Confidence—anything from Anthony’s quiet composition to Simone’s aggression—could earn a spot, even if the song faltered.
Fortunately, my violin sounded good. No missed notes. No dropped accidentals. No freak-outs. Masquerading as someone who belonged inside a theater came easily when I did everything right.
The conductor and musical director leaned over the table. The nightclub was no Duchess, but it catered to an equally exclusive clientele—though these swingers were far more musical than the couples from Duchess. Jazzy scenes and neon lights masked the interior with an old-fashioned, Tropicana style. This wasn’t a stuffy theater with a graying conductor who forgot the time signature halfway through the song. The club felt alive, bursting with big-band excitement.
“Miss Bradley?” The musical director didn’t even look at the audition package I’d prepared. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, sir.” I grinned, but even the slipped sir didn’t bother me. If nothing else, I became politer under Anthony’s diligent hand. Not necessarily a bad thing with a prospective employer.
I threaded my fingers over the neck of the violin and awaited the good news.
The director exchanged a glance with the conductor. They both shifted.
“No, Miss Bradley.” He moved my packet aside. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome?”
Another silent second passed. I swallowed, catching the eye of the director before he flipped the application for the person scheduled to audition after me.
Thank you.
All the prim and proper, forced politeness, regimented societal meanings behind the words crumbled like the flaking bits of my spine.
He didn’t commend my performance.
I didn’t get the part.
They hadn’t watched me as I’d played.
They hardly listened to the song I’d sweated to perform.
They didn’t even have the courtesy to learn my name while my heart bled out every last note I wrenched out from behind the scars.
My stomach twisted. The conductor said something. I didn’t listen. Not like it mattered. Ice webbed up my veins, the frost beginning with the betraying instrument in my hand.
I’d worked hard to bury the misery music cast over me a year ago, but I’d never forgotten the pain. Rejection, scorn, and humiliation seeped through the cracks of the haphazard confidence I’d cobbled together by mimicking Anthony.
I never thought I’d repeat this life lesson. A year ago, I’d sworn I’d never open my soul and let people terrorize the melody inside ever again.
This was my fault.
I deserved this agony. I’d attempted music even though I knew exactly the heart-rending destruction it’d cause.
I bolted from the audition as I began to cry.
And I left everything musical about me behind.
19
I’d failed the audition.
But Anthony didn’t have to know.
For two weeks, I’d kept the secret. Hid my shame from the only man who might have offered me some consolation.
Anthony closed in behind me as I dressed for work. He wound the string of my apron over my tummy, binding my arms to my sides. His eyes studied his handiwork in the mirror.
“Come back here as soon as your shift ends and get ready.” He kissed my neck. “We’re eating out tonight.”
I smirked. “We go out to eat every night, sir.”
“Tonight is different. I want to show off my beautiful pet.” He nodded towards the violet dress hanging in his walk-in closet. Just one of the many dresses and outfits he’d purchased for me. “Wear the new gown tonight. I want you to look good enough to eat.”
“I guess my beefy mac and cheese didn’t hit the spot?”
He smiled. I loved how easily I cracked him now. Anthony could close multi-billion dollar business deals and bench press two hundred and fifty pounds, but
he was the only person who was a worse cook than me.
He nuzzled the side of my head, drawing the apron’s strings tight. “We’re meeting friends.”
“At Duchess, sir?”
“No. But Simone, Nate, Reed, and Thomas will join us.”
He didn’t mention their submissives, but that was on purpose. A Duchess ritual I was beginning to understand. The subs weren’t nearly as important as their masters.
Hmm. Dinner out with very dangerous people in a location that wasn’t built for a scene. I shivered. They’d planned something, and it probably wasn’t a five-course meal.
“Be ready by seven,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
He released my apron and left me to prepare for work. The door closed behind him, his cell already ringing. I released a shaky breath.
The apron looked hideous.
It didn’t matter how clean and pressed it was. The apron was more a shackle than any restraints decorating Anthony’s bed.
I peeled it off and shoved it into my bag. Maybe someone would mug me on the way to the café. I’d shove the bag into their arms before they even asked. Hell, maybe I’d earn a spot in the thief’s street gang too. Anything was better than the cafe.
My eyes were puffy, but Anthony hadn’t seen me crying. That was all that mattered. I applied a bit of concealer. If I could, I would have covered myself completely with makeup. Blended and contoured until I faded out of existence.
If someone had told the academically-floundering, financially-drowning, musically-delusional Morgan of a year ago that the highlight of her generally mismanaged life would be a “no-clothing” rule instituted by a millionaire boyfriend, I’d have wished for my fucked-up fairy godmother’s magic long before the college catastrophe.
And I liked my fairy tale, even if Anthony kept his princess in bondage. I had great sex, sported a few interesting bite marks over my more sensitive areas, and learned the consequences of forgetting to say sir. We’d dined at fancy restaurants. He’d provided beautiful dresses for our engagements.
And all he asked in return was that I tend to his every sexual desire.
Perfection.
But even his fantasy-world regimen of foreplay, exhibition, and animalistic sex couldn’t change the words spoken at the audition.
Thank you.
Unfortunately, we’ll be seeking other performers.
Anthony didn’t know I’d failed, and that was the only reason I hadn’t yet cleaved my heart from my chest. The brilliant little nightclub with their beautiful music and healthcare benefits didn’t think I was good enough for their orchestra.
He’d never understand.
Nothing had ever challenged him before. His challenges weren’t just conquered, they were bound, gagged, and kneeling at his feet. Anthony had no concept of failure.
I couldn’t tell him his perfect concert violinist would remain imperfect, unemployed, and tragically silenced.
It was stupid to even try the audition. As much as it pained me, my musical career was DOA. I’d peeked out into the real world and got bitch-slapped so hard I was lucky the violin’s strings didn’t break. The sooner I accepted reality, the better my life would become.
Maybe.
So, that was it. No need to put myself through that torture and uncertainty any longer. The only thing offering me any semblance sense of pride was stripping naked for Anthony and performing every lude and wicked activity he demanded.
It wasn’t music, but it was fun. I could handle the endless shifts at the coffeehouse, student loans, and searching for an apartment with cheaper utilities if I knew my responsibilities faded the instant I knelt at Anthony’s feet.
My shift began the same way it ended—the constant drudgery broken only by a peek into the classifieds left in a bundle of newspaper next to a spilled coffee. No listings for an ex-musician, and most of the jobs required a college degree.
What was I going to do?
Anthony. I’d do Anthony. Anything he wanted. Anything he desired. Living my life for him had worked so far. I hurried to his penthouse after my shift and readied myself for the best dinner date my burnt-out hair straightener and three-year-old makeup could offer.
The dress swept across my skin in shear layers, dipping into my cleavage and wrapping around my hips to end above my knees. It was the prettiest dress I owned, and, without a doubt, the most expensive. Anthony matched me, a black suit with a violet silk square tucked neatly into his pocket. I spun for him and giggled as he drew me close with a kiss.
His hands trailed over my sides. “Pay attention Morgan. Tonight is going to be…challenging.”
“Naked in front of other people challenging?”
Anthony smirked. “This one will be harder for you.”
I gulped. “How can it get any harder?”
“From this moment on…” His hand stoked my cheek. “You are no longer permitted to speak.”
“What?”
“You didn’t last three seconds, pet.” He covered my lips with a finger. “You aren’t permitted to speak during this dinner.”
I cocked my head.
“Seen and not heard. This dinner is not a social event for our subs. No talking, giggling, or drawing attention to yourself.” His hand brushed over my dress. “You are to be my pretty little decoration.”
I bit my lip. He sighed.
“What is it, pet?”
“Do I still get to eat?”
“It’s probably the only way to keep you quiet.”
I rolled my eyes. His hand landed quick on my backside. Message received, along with a dozen other tingly feelings.
I should have been insulted. Instead, I was grateful for the command. Keeping my spirits up took a tremendous amount of mental energy, no matter how wonderful it felt trailing after Anthony like a kitten chasing a string.
But like always, I didn’t realize how deep I’d fallen over my head until we’d arrived at the restaurant, someplace French I couldn’t pronounce even if I had been permitted to talk. Our party awaited us in a private room. I prayed no one was lying naked on a table covered in crepes and escargot.
“Anthony, right on time,” Thomas said. The door shut behind us. “Reed was starving, so we ordered the hors d’oeuvres.”
Shannon, Genn, and Mariah stayed silent as the men greeted Anthony with handshakes and smiles. Simone ordered a glass of wine from a passing waiter, the only feminine sound in the masculine haze.
I shivered at her words. Anthony had satisfied my every desire, but he didn’t treat me nearly as roughly as the demon in the black dress. Though the cane marks had faded, my skin prickled in memory standing so near to her.
At least I didn’t have to speak. I wasn’t ready to explore all parts of my sexuality.
We took our seats, and the waiter hovered at my side. “Miss?”
“Um...”
Anthony snorted. Damn. Would an innocent um break the rules?
Shannon rocked an eyebrow at Genn. Yep. I’d already screwed up.
I closed my mouth and feigned ignorance at the menu selections. Not a hard trick. The menu offered more wine than food, and none of it was in English. Anthony stilled my bouncing knee with a fierce grip over my thigh.
Two strikes against me and we had just sat down.
“Sauvignon blanc,” he ordered. The waiter scampered off.
That was the easy part. Once he returned with our wine, Anthony slapped my hand before I could take a sip.
The waiter cleared his throat and retreated. I wished I could do the same.
No talking. No drinking without his permission either.
Anthony said nothing, but, after a moment, slid the glass towards me. I didn’t dare drink, not until the heat faded from the back of my wrist and the waiter who witnessed the strange, upper-class domestic violence disappeared to the kitchens.
The other subs waited patiently for their masters to feed them. Mariah eagerly sipped from the glass Nate offered. Reed went easier on Genn,
waving a hand for her to take what she wanted. I guess I fell somewhere in the middle. But I’d already made enough mistakes.
My missteps weren’t anything serious, and Anthony had warned the lifestyle had a steep learning curve, but my stomach twisted into a knot more elaborate than the napkin swan on my plate.
I didn’t want to mess it up. I didn’t want to disappoint Anthony.
I didn’t want to disappoint myself anymore.
So, I resolved to model my behavior after one of the other girls.
Not Mariah.
Her lips parted into two beautiful pink puffs, and her nipples peeked through the soft material of her dress. I didn’t know what was going on with her, but the little electronic gadget in Nate’s pocket remotely controlled how much she twitched in her seat.
And I couldn’t emulate Genn. Reed gave her too much freedom, even letting her fetch her own bread. Anthony had seated me next to Simone for a reason, another pair of eyes to monitor my behavior. I wouldn’t reach for anything.
That left…Shannon. Sitting perfectly still, hands on her thighs. Thomas practically dared the waiter to question her silence as he set the appetizer before her. She managed to stay silent without appearing condescending to the waiter.
Impressive.
But this was harder for me. During any other dinner, Anthony might have hand-fed me samples from his plate, but in those instances, I was treated like a prized pet.
Here…I was nothing.
Not a date. Not a slave. I sat at his side, still and quiet, just another decoration around the table. Something for the men to admire then ignore as they discussed politics and sports.
By the time the cheese, salad, and main course were delivered and eaten, my stomach threatened to revolt.
It was too easy for Anthony to ignore me.
A dark whisper of insecurity slithered into my head.
I needed his attention. His touch.
Two weeks had passed since the miserable audition, and I should have told him the truth. I needed a hug a hell of a lot more than a plate of coq au von.
A look passed between Nate and Mariah over a sip of wine. He nodded, and Mariah rose from the table. Genn and Shannon awaited similar nods from Reed and Thomas. They followed Mariah to what I assumed were the bathrooms.