Bound in Blue

by Annabel Joseph

  “Good day?” he asked, offering resistance to help her stretch her legs. “Is it what you’d hoped?”

  “It’s beyond anything I dreamed of. The lights, the big windows, the beautiful equipment.”

  Sad, to find standard equipment “beautiful,” but Jason supposed it was, if you weren’t used to having it. To her, it was luxurious, a miracle. He realized how spoiled all of them had become.

  “Wait until you’re performing in a show,” he said, pushing back her other leg. “With the costumes and makeup, and the special effects, and the cool props.” He studied her as she relaxed into her stretch. Her muscles were strong, slender. Perfect. He wanted to rip off her clothes and thrust inside her, gripping her neck, whispering in her ear. He tried to refocus his thoughts to the conversation. “You’re with Cirque du Monde now. We’re state-of-the-art. And Lemaitre’s taken a shine to you.” At her confused look, he clarified. “That means he likes you. He thinks you’re good. Sara...just...be careful.”

  She gazed at him, guileless as a baby deer. “Careful of what?”

  Careful of Lemaitre. Careful of your beautiful spirit. Don’t be too brave. “Just...be careful of everything,” he said. “Until you’re settled in.”

  “Mr. Lemaitre said he would get Baat to come.”

  He could see the tension beneath the hopeful expression on her face. “Mr. Lemaitre has a talent for persuasion, so your partner should arrive shortly. In the meantime, Theo will keep you on your toes.”

  “On my toes?” Her brow wrinkled in confusion again.

  “It’s an expression, to keep someone sharp, on their toes. Your English sounds so natural, I forget it’s not your first language.”

  “My mother used to help me before she died. She spoke English and a little French. Before me, she traveled with her family’s act all over the world.” She hugged her knees to her chest. “Of course, in those days, there was no Cirque du Monde.”

  “She would have been proud of you.”

  Sara didn’t answer. She looked a little peaked. He wanted to take her in his arms, comfort her, but he didn’t dare do it in front of everyone. “Do you like your new place? Your new apartment?”

  “It’s wonderful. But I miss you,” she said softly.

  He slid a look at Theo, who was eavesdropping on their conversation with a bemused grin. “Do you want to see a show tonight?” he asked, angling away from him. “A Cirque du Monde show? There’s one here in Paris.”

  All her sadness fled, chased away by an excited smile. “Of course I want to see it.” She turned to Theo. “Will you come too? So I can meet your wife?”

  “Not tonight, ma brillante.” With those words, he nodded to both of them and walked off.

  Sara turned to Jason with a questioning gaze. “What did he call me? Mob-bree-yawn?”

  “Ma brillante. Do you know the English word, ‘brilliant’?” Jason shrugged. “Take it as a compliment.”

  “He looked upset.”

  “He doesn’t care for Cirque Tsilaosa.” Jason couldn’t tell her why. He couldn’t tell Sara that Theo had dropped his trapeze partner in that show a couple years ago and that she’d died, because Theo was Sara’s coach now and she needed to have faith in him. Theo hadn’t really dropped Minya anyway, only lost her. It happened. What had Lemaitre said? Timing is everything in trapeze.

  “Don’t worry about Theo,” he said, standing and taking her hand. “He doesn’t like Tsilaosa, but I’m sure you will.”

  Chapter Five: Dream

  Sara sat across the table from Jason, in a beautiful bar on a beautiful Parisian street, in a beautiful dress she’d borrowed from her neighbor at the dorm. She barely sipped the Kir Royale he’d ordered her. It was bubbly and sweet, but she was too excited to drink.

  She’d just watched her first ever Cirque du Monde show, and she had no words to describe the magic. This was what she’d ached for all those years in her dreary circus tent, even though she never realized until now that it existed.

  “Don’t you like it?” Jason asked, pointing to her drink. “I can get you something else.”

  “It’s good. I’m just...still...” She shook her head, at a loss for words.

  “It’s okay to be overwhelmed,” he said in his deep, soothing voice. Then he fell silent, studying her. She felt hot all over when he looked at her that way. She was falling so hard for him, but then, that was only natural, wasn’t it? If not for Jason, she wouldn’t be sitting here. She’d be back in Mongolia serving drinks at a sex club and waiting to do another pathetically amateur show. She didn’t realize back then how awful their show was. Her face burned, remembering Jason’s praise backstage, his excitement, when in his head he must have been comparing their circus to the splendor of a production like Tsilaosa.

  “I owe you so much.” It was all she could think to say.

  “You don’t owe me anything.” He took a sip of his drink and pushed back his hair. Sometimes he wore it in a ponytail but mostly it was loose. It made him look wild and a little dangerous.

  “We need to talk,” he said abruptly. “About us. About our thing together, about what happens now.”

  “I want to be your slave.” The words came out before she even thought them.

  “I know.” She felt his hand under the table, tracing her knee and then closing on her thigh in a tight grip. “I want that too. I’ve had lovers, little one. A fair amount. I’m thirty-four, twelve years older than you. I’ve been around, played in vanilla relationships and Dom/sub relationships and Master/slave relationships. None of them have ever made me feel the way you do.”

  He meant what he said, she could see it in his eyes, feel it in the tightening of his fingers on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

  “But...”

  There was a but. Sara didn’t want a but.

  “But you and I have known each other less than a week. And in that week, everything in your life has turned upside down. You should take some time to get your bearings, to be sure. Because once you’re mine...”

  “I’m already yours.”

  His eyes bored into her, hard ocean blue. She put her hand over his and traced the tops of his fingers. “When I’m near you, I want to be yours,” she said. “When I see you, I’m overcome with...with this feeling of need, of desire. I’ve never felt that with anyone else.”

  His fingers slid up, farther along her thigh. She tensed and drew in a shuddering breath.

  “Don’t react to what I’m doing,” he said. “People will notice.”

  She tried to maintain a neutral expression as his fingertips inched to the gusset of her panties. The café tablecloth hid his actions but she had much more trouble hiding her reactions, especially when his fingers slipped under the material and caressed her smooth pussy lips.

  “Open your legs.”

  She did, and then he said, “Wider,” so she had to shift on the seat to comply. Her whole body trembled from the effort of keeping still. She wanted to moan and whisper to him, I’m yours, I’m yours. Take me. But she didn’t have to say anything. She was wet for him, so wet that his fingers slid inside without the least resistance. She brought her hand to her mouth and bit down on a nail so she wouldn’t cry out.

  “You see?” she said. “How I feel for you?”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “Please...Master,” she whispered.

  His fingers moved in her, forward and back, a pulse of possession. “Here’s the thing. I’ve played before, done this for fun, but you don’t inspire playfulness in me. This could be risky for both of us. You know what I mean?”

  “I do trapeze for a living. I’m not afraid of anything.”

  His eyes burned, they were so intent. “You should be, little girl. If we do this, it’s you and me. Master and slave. Your abject submission whenever we’re together. I like control. I also like to hurt my slaves.”

  “I like to be controlled, and hurt.”

  “I might ask for things you don’t want, things you don’t like.
I’ll expect you to do them anyway. Those are my terms.” He withdrew his fingers and wiped them on her leg, and squeezed her thigh. “Think for a minute before you say yes, because none of this is a joke.”

  Sara paused. What if he asks me to do something I don’t like? But she liked everything about Jason. Everything about his body, his words, his expressions, even the fact that he enjoyed giving pain. Ever since she’d met him, some peace had settled over her, some knowledge that he was her perfect complement and that they belonged together. He knew exactly what to do with her. How much to hurt her, how much to soothe her. How to bring out the strange creature inside her that didn’t respond to normal love and sex. She wanted to give all of herself to him because he understood her as no one else had ever understood her.

  “I want to serve you,” she said, because it was the simplest expression of her feelings. “I want to be yours. Even if we have to hide.”

  “And none of this is because you feel you owe me? Because I brought you here and showed you this new life? Because you’ll have a whole new life in Paris. Are you sure you want to spend it tangled up with me?”

  “Why are you warning me so hard? Don’t you want me? If you don’t want to be my Master—”

  “You know I want you,” he interrupted in a quiet but sharp voice. “I want you more than I should. I’m warning you ‘so hard’ because I scene hard. In public, we’ll have to keep up appearances, play happy supervisor and artist. In private, I’m going to turn you inside out. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  She stared at him, at the warning in his eyes. He could warn all he liked. In her heart, she was already his. “Yes, Master. I’m sure it’s what I want.”

  He let out a breath and she did too, the wrought-up breaths they’d been holding. Around them, people continued chatting and drinking, living their normal lives. Life had just turned over—inside out—for Sara. She’d officially agreed to a Master/slave relationship with the beautiful man sitting across from her. She had no anxious feelings, no second thoughts.

  He touched her fingers where she clung to her drink. “Come. Now. Leave that. I’m taking you home.”

  He swept her jacket off the back of her chair and wrapped it around her shoulders, and then downed the rest of his drink in one great swallow. When he finished, he put the glass on the table with a bang. To Sara, it sounded like the door of her past slamming shut. He took her hand, wrapped it tight in his fingers, and led her from the bar.

  On the street he let her go. They were close to the theater, close to the Cirque dorms and headquarters. Their co-workers were all around them, people Sara could recognize as performers and athletes even without their costumes. A few times Jason greeted people, but it wasn’t the type of greeting that invited them to stop and talk. She was glad because she felt anxious to be alone with him. Her desire must have been written all over her face, clear as day for people to read.

  Finally, he led her to a stoop and through a door to a narrow stairwell. She followed him up two flights of stairs to a burnished mahogany door. It was an old building, a style she’d come to recognize as classic Parisian. He fumbled for keys and undid the lock, and only then did their eyes meet.

  Had there ever been such an intense shade of blue? He said her eyes were pretty but his own were much more beautiful. He grasped her shoulder and then her neck, and practically dragged her inside. He trapped her against the entryway wall, his great body looming over her.

  “Master,” she whispered.

  “Oh God.” On the heels of that prayer, his lips descended over hers. She’d thought herself prepared but she wasn’t really prepared for the intensity of his kiss, his rough embrace. His thumb stroked over the racing pulse at her throat, while his other hand yanked up her skirt. She responded clumsily, trying to match the passion and skill of his lips. This wasn’t sweet or romantic. This was possession.

  “Open wider,” he said in his Master voice. Or maybe it was just Jason’s voice, demanding and firm. She obeyed and he slid his tongue between her teeth, over her tongue. She felt a delirious, warm ache in her center and she wiggled closer against him, right against the thick, upstanding shaft outlined by his pants. His hands were all over her, pulling, twisting, trying to find the fastenings of her dress. He slid fingers beneath the neckline as if to tear it open.

  “Please,” she squeaked. “This dress isn’t mine.”

  He slowed, letting out a breath. “Tomorrow, then, we’ll go shopping for dresses I can rip off you.”

  She showed him the hidden zipper on the side and he helped her shimmy out of it. The bra and panties came next, pretty but practical undergarments that had been waiting in her room the night she arrived at Cirque. “If they’re not what you like, I’ll get others,” she said. “Whatever pleases you.”

  He silenced her with a fingertip to her lips. “I like nakedness. I want nothing between you and me. I like naked slaves.”

  Naked slaves. Plural. She wouldn’t be his first slave, nor probably his last. He might have other slaves here in Paris, women he used for his pleasure. She couldn’t be upset about that. He hadn’t known she existed a month ago. A week ago. She shook her head, willing those thoughts away. She had to stay in the moment, available to serve her Master. He twisted his fingers in her hair and wrenched her head back. She shuddered, staring up into his burning gaze.

  “Undress me,” he said through bared teeth.

  It was an order, taut and firm. Her fingers trembled as she hurried to obey. She pulled off his sweater, revealing a finely tailored, expertly starched button-up shirt. Oh no, buttons. She undid them as best she could while he kissed her and pinched her nipples. Beneath the fabric of his shirt lay an undershirt, and beneath that, a sculpted wall of abs that bunched as she touched them.

  “Keep going,” he said. “Naughty, distractible girl.”

  He pushed her hands down to his belt and she unclasped the woven leather. It was supple and soft, and it gave her feelings only a slave-type person would understand. How old had she been when she started reacting to things like belts and canes inappropriately? When she dawdled over it, daydreaming, Jason drew it from the loops himself and doubled it over in his hand. “You really are distractible. Keep going.”

  He did the slightest flick of the belt against his thigh and her heart rate doubled. She started on his pants, undoing the button and easing down the zipper. “Do you want me to hang them up?” she asked.

  “I want you to fucking take them off.”

  He was getting impatient. When she slid them down he kicked them away and she was left with the mouth-watering sight of his hard cock outlined by his tight boxer briefs. The sight of his huge manhood created powerful feelings of submission inside her. She wanted to touch it, lick it, worship it on her knees.

  “Be careful,” he said with a knowing glint in his eyes. “You got in trouble for taking without asking before.”

  Sara licked her lips. Maybe not the best time to remind her of their first sizzling encounter. She was dying of arousal. Was that possible? She was pretty sure it was. She slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs and removed them carefully, respectfully, so she couldn’t be accused of “taking without asking.” She placed them by his pants, and then sat back on her ankles and went still, because she wouldn’t do anything without his permission. He’d told her he liked control, and she really, really liked to be controlled.

  “Look at me.” She felt the belt nudge under her chin and she tilted her head up to see all six-feet-plus of her lover towering over her, strong and tan, as finely wrought as a statue. “Open your legs,” he said. “Straighten your back.”

  She obeyed, trying not to flinch as he traced her shoulders and breasts with his doubled-over belt. Oh, those fingers. They were wrapped around the buckle, clenching it, beautiful and broad knuckled. She had a thing for hands and fingers, maybe because she was a trapezist and locating and grabbing fingers was integral to her continued existence.

  “Focus,
” he said, tapping lightly at one of her nipples. “Eyes on Master.”

  Her gaze flew to his and he nodded in approval. “Listen, little girl. This is an old building with very thin walls. No matter what we do, you have to be quiet. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Now, I want you to go to my bedroom. I want you to crawl there on your hands and knees.”

  She started to obey, then realized she had no idea where his bedroom was. “Which way, Master?”

  “You have to find it.”

  Ohhh. A game. She could crawl around on her knees for an eternity if he enjoyed it. But then, she’d forgotten about the belt.

  Whack!

  It caught her right under her ass cheeks, a hot slap of fire. She cried out more from the surprise than the pain of it, and he whacked her again. This time it was painful.

  “Hush,” he said. “I told you to be quiet. Be a good slave girl and go to my bedroom.”

  She set off in the crawling version of a run. It would be a lot easier to be a “good slave girl” if she knew where she was going, and if he wasn’t following her around with a whippy belt. His place was huge, unfamiliar, and there seemed to be doors looming in every direction. She didn’t think his bedroom would be near the kitchen, so she went toward the other side of the house. She found a coat room first, and received a resounding smack for her trouble. She swallowed her yelp of pain and shut the door and went to the next one. A bedroom, but it was sparsely furnished, with a small bed. Definitely not his. But she was in the location of the bedrooms, thank God. The belt kept falling, hard smacks interspersed with lighter ones, her burning ass a moving target for his game.