The Prince's Slave

by P. J. Fox

  “I…this is an ongoing part of my life. I’ve never wanted an emotional relationship with a man, never been attracted to a man in that fashion although more than one has been attracted to me. But I do…enjoy play. It’s something of a sport, I suppose, to me. A sport that I’m good at and that I’ve worked for years to perfect.”

  He rolled back onto his back and laughed. It was a quick, humorless sound. “For years,” he said, “a therapist I saw tried to convince me that I was merely…confused. That if I wasn’t purely straight then I must be purely gay or, indeed, like both genders equally. Which, of course, I don’t. I’m not suppressing anything.” He turned toward her. “I’m not exactly…one to suppress.”

  She smiled.

  “It might be that I’m an exhibitionist. Or a narcissist.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No. I suppose not.”

  They lapsed into silence.

  And then, “I want to share my life with you. All of my life. And this…is part of my life.”

  She moved over, curling up in the crook of his arm.

  “I have a friend coming to visit soon. His name is Piers. He and I have known each other since school. He rowed in the Olympics and now he’s with Scotland Yard. He’s married, to a woman, and their union is a blissfully happy one but she’s a confirmed vanilla. So, he indulges in certain…extracurricular activities, but with her full and informed consent.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s nothing like John.”

  Belle relaxed a little. “John is awful.”

  “I don’t perceive that we’ve any need to see John again.”

  Thank God.

  “I’d like you to meet Piers. He’s a dear friend—and that’s all. But he’s been a dear friend for a long time and is, I’d venture to say, one of the few people who truly knows me. Or wants to.”

  “Alright.” She still wasn’t sure where this was going.

  He propped himself up on his elbow, studying her. “I want to share him. With you.”

  “You mean—a threesome?” The word sounded entirely too banal for what he’d just proposed, but she didn’t know another. He’d always described himself as a jealous man and he was a jealous man, telling her repeatedly that he’d never allow another man to touch her. But now he wanted—to sleep with them both? At the same time?

  “I know what I’ve said,” he replied, as though reading her mind. “In the past. And I meant it. If you ever fell in love with another man, I think I’d have to kill him. Just to get past the idea. But this…this is different. To me. I don’t want this part of my life to be secret from you.

  “It would be…challenging for me. Yes. Seeing you in the throes of passion with another man. But you’ve given up a great deal for me and you shouldn’t be the only one called on to stretch their boundaries.”

  Which ignored the fact that he was the only man she’d ever been with. Stretching his boundaries; he was proposing that she have sex with a complete stranger. And still, she more knew that she should be horrified rather than actually was. In truth, the more she thought about the idea, the more curious she became: about being with another man, about being with two men at the same time. About seeing her lover with someone else.

  She was happy here, with him, in their fairy land. And if this was what he wanted…well, there was a time when she’d have passed out at the idea of screaming her ecstasy in a house full of servants, potentially while fully on display for their benefit.

  “Alright,” she said.

  EIGHTY

  Sunlight spilled across the bed, where Belle sprawled.

  She was naked, and she didn’t care.

  Her morning had begun in the same fashion as most of her mornings, lately: with a training session. She sometimes found it difficult to sleep at night, her mind was so wrapped up with thoughts of what was to come. Of the things he did to her and the intense pleasure that she derived from them.

  He never pushed her too hard but he never truly relented, either. He was like an iceberg, moving slowly forward. Cool. Implacable. Unstoppable. And she, in turn, found herself yielding. Not because she had to but because she wanted to. Because giving him control had brought her to heights she’d never before imagined—in or out of the bedroom.

  Her art was taking on new dimensions, as her mind stretched. Freed, more and more, from the bounds of conventional thinking, she continually discovered new avenues of creation. Avenues for which there was no room, in her mother’s rulebook. In the rulebook of nearly every person she’d ever met in Maine. Or in Massachusetts. Or, for that matter, anywhere else she’d been.

  To be an artist was to be free. She was free, now. Ash was helping her to be free. Charlotte wouldn’t believe that, in serving Ash, Belle had discovered the existence of a world that she’d never before contemplated. That she was freer than even a so-called liberated woman like Charlotte could imagine. But what did Charlotte matter?

  Belle sighed, contented.

  Because she hadn’t slept much the night before, she’d abandoned her studio after lunch in favor of taking a nap.

  She had a long night ahead of her.

  She thought about that morning’s events.

  This time, he’d used his tongue. He’d coaxed the pleasure from her as she contracted around the strange object. Again, and again, until her nerves were on fire. In the end she’d managed to hold it in, the tears streaming down her cheeks as she was rocked by the strongest orgasm of her life. He was right: with greater control did come greater pleasure.

  He’d recently asked her to start keeping a journal. Somewhere private, where she could meditate on her thoughts. And, ideally, start sorting them out. She knew he’d never read it, but she nonetheless found opening up like that—even to herself—extremely difficult. She’d spent too long being told that “good girls” weren’t “allowed” to have certain thoughts. Certain feelings. Like hating her life, and being angry at her parents. For failing her. For needing too much from her. For not being parents.

  She glanced over at the journal, sitting on the bed table. Untouched. Soon.

  After releasing her from the bed, Ash had shown her a whip. A cat ’o nine tails, more precisely: two foot long strands of suede, each capped with a golden bead. Those, she knew, would hurt. The handle was patent leather, also capped at each end with gold. A beautiful, beautifully made item. But not for the faint-hearted.

  He’d promised to use it on her, and soon. Examining it, she felt both terrified and strangely excited.

  The door opened and Luna came in, carrying a tray.

  Belle, almost as an afterthought, tugged the sheet up over her breasts. She was still waking up. She didn’t normally sleep naked either but after showering and drying her hair, she’d been so exhausted that she hadn’t bothered with finding clothes.

  “Oh,” Luna said, “it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  Belle made a face.

  Luna put the tray down on the marble-topped table near the window. “Tea,” she said.

  “I prefer coffee.”

  “You get tea.”

  Wrapping herself in the sheet like a Roman senator’s toga, Belle climbed out of bed. “Thank you,” she said, sitting down. Outside, it was raining again. With the storm, dusk had come early. A gust of wind buffeted the windows, rattling the glass in its panes.

  “Nice night for travel,” Luna observed, seating herself opposite from Belle.

  She was being sarcastic, of course. Belle couldn’t imagine Ash’s friend traveling in all this, but Ash claimed that the man had done a stint in the Peace Corps and seen worse.

  Belle shook her head, but said nothing.

  Luna began pouring tea. Earl Grey. The scent of bergamot filled the air.

  “How’s your man friend?” Belle asked.

  Luna shrugged. She seemed uncharacteristically down. Belle studied her friend’s face with concern.

  “He’s alright, I guess.” Luna sipped her tea and stared out the window.
>
  “Just alright?”

  “He’s been taking awhile to return my calls, and he never wants to spend time at my house.” She shook her head. “I mean…he has a very stressful job, I guess, so he can’t schedule things more than a little while in advance. He tells me that I should be more understanding of that….” She shrugged.

  “That sounds like my high school boyfriend.” If boyfriend was even the correct term. Her sometime activity buddy and prom date, who’d wanted more than she’d been prepared to give and when she told him she wanted to wait until marriage, he’d slept with her best friend.

  “Really?”

  “He was always working on his car.” If by working on his car he meant banging Susie Davis under the bleachers. Or on his older brother’s waterbed. In his creepy in-law apartment. “But the thing is…yes. There really are men who can’t plan their lives more than a few hours in advance. CIA agents. And maybe—I don’t know, fire fighters. Or something. Surgeons, when they’re on call all the time.”

  “Liam is a computer programmer.”

  “And honestly—the biggest red flag of all is that you’re wondering. If he leaves you wondering, about anything, he’s got something to hide.” Like a case of the clap. Or a supremely pissed off older brother. Or two other girlfriends. Or all three.

  Donna had thought Billy Meyers was such a catch.

  “He says I don’t understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “His commitments.”

  Belle steepled her fingers over her teacup. She fixed Luna with her best serious face. “Men are not complicated. If they want to see you, they see you. However busy they are, they make time. And if they don’t, it’s because you don’t have their full and complete attention. But to keep hanging around, making yourself available, when he’s not putting forth the same kind of effort…that’ll only end in tears. Making excuses for him won’t change his intentions.”

  “But I don’t want his intentions to be bad,” Luna wailed.

  Belle immediately felt guilty. “I know. But if I’ve learned one thing over the years, it’s that you should never let anyone—man, woman, or werewolf—treat you less well than you deserve. If a man doesn’t treat you well, doesn’t want to treat you well, on his own and with no prompting from you, he isn’t worth your time and effort. Let alone your love.”

  Luna blew her nose into a napkin. “How did you know that—that the prince was interested in you?”

  Belle considered the question. “He told me.”

  “And he’s never…forgotten about you?”

  “No,” Belle said gently. “And the right man won’t forget about you, either.”

  “Belle….”

  “What?”

  “You’re not…you’re not going to go away, are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Luna started to sob in earnest. “Well that horrible woman came and she seemed to think that you should leave with her and I just want you to know that we all love you even Diana and she’s horrible and everyone hates her and I just—I just don’t want you to go!”

  “Luna,” Belle soothed, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Her maid looked up. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Positive.”

  “You—you give me the best advice, even if I don’t always take it.”

  Belle, meanwhile, was thinking that perhaps where Luna was concerned it might be time to do a little matchmaking. Luna was hopeless on her own; she developed crushes on one useless man after another, none of whom deserved her. Belle wondered if she shouldn’t start asking around. Maybe solicit the advice of the hated Diana. Who wasn’t so bad. Not really. Or maybe she should ask Alec; he was a father.

  “Then I should help you get ready,” Luna said.

  “So soon?”

  “The prince asked that you be ready for a late tea.” Luna glanced at the clock on the mantel. “As it is, I think we might end up closer to a late supper.” She wrung her hands. “Oh, and then he’ll be upset.”

  “But he’ll be upset with me.” Belle’s tone was gentle, but firm. “Not you.”

  Luna sniffed.

  Even so, as time passed, she began to recover her usual spirits. That was the good thing about Luna: she was never upset for very long. In truth, she reminded Belle a little of a dog she’d had as a child. A beagle. Sweet-tempered but easily distracted.

  And moody.

  She loved Luna.

  Luna pulled Belle’s straight, shining hair back into a simple chignon that sat low at the base of her neck. The style did everything to emphasize its graceful lines; swan-like, had been the phrase that one dance instructor used. She kept Belle’s makeup minimal, focusing on her eyes. Watching her transformation in the bathroom mirror, Belle was struck by how seductive she looked. Growing up, she’d never paid much attention to her features. But the understated smoke of black eyeliner and charcoal gray shadow suited her.

  Leaving Luna to putter around in the bathroom, Belle returned to examine the box that Ash had sent up. Another dress, this one also too sheer to allow much underwear. After thinking over the matter carefully, Belle decided not to wear any at all. Disappearing into her massive walk-in closet, she selected only a pair of sheer lace-topped thigh-high stockings. And, with them, a dainty pair of shoes. Gray-blue, like the dress.

  The stockings, only the merest shade darker than her own pale skin, would only emphasize her nudity. Later.

  She felt a brief thrill of fear. When Ash had told her that his friend was coming, she didn’t realize that he’d meant the next night. She’d agreed to this, and it wasn’t that she didn’t want to…not precisely. She just wasn’t ready. Didn’t know if she’d ever be ready.

  Scotland Yard…that couldn’t be too upsetting. He couldn’t be too upsetting, right? And…she couldn’t help but think about the fact that, growing up, her mother had always said that a woman—or man—who wanted something else in the bedroom wasn’t really committed to her relationship. That something was missing. But wasn’t there a difference between love and sex? Between what she felt in her heart and what she felt in…other places?

  And she and Ash…had never truly said I love you. He’d referred to the concept, obliquely. But did he? Could he?

  There was a brief knock on the door and she almost jumped out of her skin.

  Turning, she saw Ash. She’d exchanged her sheet for a robe, but under his gaze she still felt exposed. And his gaze, right now, was…intense.

  He shut the door behind him. To call the room a closet was to do it an injustice; it was a huge space, appointed with its own set of furnishings. It was larger than some studio apartments Belle had seen. Still, his presence seemed to fill up the space.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “How are you feeling?” He studied her with that same dark, inscrutable expression she’d come to know so well. “Well rested, I hope.”

  She blushed.

  “I have something for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Something I want you to wear. In fact, two things.”

  He handed her a box. She took it, hesitantly. And then, lifting the lid, she gasped. Inside, cushioned on a velvet pillow, was one of the most beautiful bracelets she’d ever seen. A row of exquisite sapphires, each as pure and clear as the night sky, woven into a stylized Greek key design made from diamonds.

  “This is beautiful,” she breathed.

  “Not as beautiful as you are.”

  Taking the box from her and removing the bracelet, he carefully affixed it to her wrist.

  “But I can’t—this is too—”

  “You can and it’s not.” His eyes searched hers. “I should have given you twenty of these already. You should be so covered in jewels that you can’t move.”

  “Thank you.” She was so overwhelmed, she didn’t know what else to say.

  “And now for the second thing.” A glint came into his eye. “You’ll like this one less.”

  She felt a thrill of
fear.

  He was standing next to one of the chests of drawers that had been added as built-ins when the castle was remodeled. Opening the top drawer, he removed a second box and handed it to her. This box was much plainer and when she opened it, her eyes widened. But in shock. Inside, also nestled on a cushion, was a plug. Shaped like a spade, with a flanged base. Medical grade silicone, also midnight blue. It looked huge.

  “It’s been inside you before.” His tone was mild.

  She looked up, the color draining from her face.

  “I expect you to wear this now, and through dinner.”

  “But I….” She trailed off. She’d never done anything like this.

  Ash seemed unperturbed by her reaction. “You’ve made a decision,” he said, “to submit to my will. This…will help you reflect on that decision. As well as prepare you for later.”

  Later.

  “Perhaps a touch of the cane will help place you in the proper frame of mind?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Good girl.” He sat down on one of the two chairs that occupied the center of the room. “Come here,” he said.

  Obediently, she walked over to him. And then, at his direction, she knelt down and laid herself over his lap. Her robe fell forward, leaving her bottom exposed. She shivered as he caressed the soft skin. His hand slid down, between her legs, gently parting her as he moved his finger back and forth. Soon she was wet, rising up to meet him as if by instinct. She simply couldn’t help herself.

  He chuckled. It was an unpleasant sound. “That’s enough,” he said.

  The finger withdrew. She bit back a moan of disappointment. A minute passed and then she felt the touch of his hand again, this time applying lube. Working it into her, slowly but with inexorable force. Forcing her to open up, to accept him. She winced in discomfort; this kind of lovemaking was still so new to her, and still felt so unnatural. Her body, she knew, would learn to accept it over time. Had already begun to accept it. Although her mind had a harder time. She shouldn’t enjoy such things; good girls didn’t enjoy such things. Except she wasn’t a good girl, was she?