by Roxy Harte
“Too young for my American body,” I say vehemently, feeling angry and jealous and hung-over.
Frankie smiles and caresses my breast. “Your body is beautiful and because of how sexy you are, poor Pierre-Louis had an erection all evening.”
I sigh, not wanting to admit I’d noticed and had I been twenty years younger I would have done more than merely looked. I demand, “What are you thinking? It was going to be hard enough to tell my daughters, ‘Welcome to Mom’s new kinky life;’ how will I ever admit to them, ‘This is my Master, François, and this is his lover, Pierre-Louis. Maybe you know him from school?’”
Frankie laughs loudly and pulls me tightly into his arms. “Your children will know only as much or as little as you want them to know and if it will make you feel any better, Pierre-Louis is twenty-eight.”
“Oh god.”
“What?”
“I’m sixteen years older than he is!”
“So?” He asks.
I shake my head, trying to say the words that this is impossible, but I want it to be possible. I want to be the Cassiopeia I remember being. A tap at the door startles me.
“Oui? Entré.”
The door opens and still nude Pierre-Louis enters bearing a tray, shiny domes hiding what I assume is breakfast. He sits the tray on a table and throws open the double doors to the balconied terrace before motioning us to join him outside. He carries the tray out and sets the table. I look at Frankie, my vision a little blurred around the edges. Am I dreaming? Will I wake up in my own bed, another day older but otherwise unchanged?
Frankie rises and pulls on a gray silk robe. I sit up and the weight of my collar is heavy around my neck. I watch as Frankie joins Pierre-Louis on the balcony. He kisses his cheek and whispers softly to him in French, “Merci. C’est magnifique.” Their kiss becomes more intimate and I watch, unable to turn away even when Frankie whispers, “Je t’aime,” against Pierre-Louis’ cheek.
My ringing cell phone draws my attention to my purse. I don’t think to not answer, my children are in a foreign country, and today I don’t even know which country. In the back of my mind the thought is there that the Cassiopeia of old would have asked permission to make or answer a call. Oh hell. The Cassiopeia of old did not have a job … or children. “Hello?”
“Mommeee!”
“Bree!” I smile saying her name.
“Did we wake you? I know it is Saturday morning and you like to sleep in, but we’re boarding a ship in two days and I want you to know the plan because the itinerary is a little complicated.”
A plan? My parents have a plan, including a boat and an itinerary?
Concern knots my middle and I sit on the edge of the bed, bracing myself, trying to sound calm as I ask, “Where are you today?”
“Rome,” She answers excitedly, gushing, “It’s amazing here. I may never want to come home.”
My stomach flip flops.
“J.K.” She says, laughing. My mommy brain translates: just kidding. I manage to say, “Ha ha.”
Bree admits, “I miss you terribly! Are you horribly lonely without us?”
I look at the two men on the balcony before turning my back to them, hoping to stop the flood of desire for the sexual odyssey I have only to accept to embark on. I tell my daughter, “I miss you terribly.”
“Good. I’d hate to think you were out painting the town red like daddy is. Have you talked to him? Wow. How do you spell mid-life crisis? Freshman. Hello? But you did not hear that from me.”
I titter nervously, eyeing Pierre-Louis. “Really? I suppose she’s a red head.”
“Ick.” I feel her disgust, then without changing tone says, “Anyway, your other child is demanding I share the phone.”
Uh-oh. The girls are fighting. Marvelous.
“Hi, Mom.” Ellie is tightly restrained.
“Hi yourself, kiddo. What’s going on?”
“I hate men. All men. I don’t know how you ever put up with one long enough to conceive us.” I peek over my shoulder at Master and Pierre-Louis.
“Not all men are horrible.” I watch as Pierre-Louis lifts the shiny domes from the plates. He looks up and beckons me out. I shake my head and lift a finger signaling I need a moment.
“Bree mentioned a travel plan?”
“Yes,” she says, her misery evident in just one word. “A plan.”
I decide she sounds a bit like Eeyore from the Winnie the Pooh movie we watched to death when she was young. “God, Ellie, you sound miserable. Do you want to fly home? Because you can come home.” My heart is true as I make the promise, but an evil part of me hopes she really doesn’t want to come home because I’d really like to make some plans of my own and all of them are too x-rated to let my teen daughter know about.
“No. I’m fine.”
I sigh, relieved. Her imminent return delayed at least a little while. “If I’m going to be miserable I might as well be miserable in the most exotic locations on the planet.”
Definitely Eeyore. “Oh, baby,” I say, pouting. “I wish there was something I could do. Maybe you could do something for me?”
“Okay?” She answers suspiciously and I think for a moment she is concerned I am going to ask if it is okay for me to join them … I rub my face. I am more dreaded than the misery of lost love. When did my children start seeing me as a killjoy?
“Can you start a blog about your adventures? Then I won’t have to wait until you get home to see the places you are seeing.”
“Oh! Excellent!” Her voice brightens considerably. “Why didn’t we think of this before we left? I have so much to do just to get a page caught up from when we started to now! I’ve lost an entire week. Oh, Mom! Thank you. I’ll send you a link! Here’s grandpa. I love you.”
I hear the phone clatter. “Bree? Dad? Ellie?”
My dad’s voice comes over the receiver. “I’m here. I’m here. I don’t know what you said to her, but she’s smiling for the first time since leaving Amsterdam. Thank you.”
“You should have had her call sooner.”
He laughs and it is good to hear my dad do so. “Trust me, next time I will. I think I’m getting too old to deal with teen girl hormones.”
Now, I laugh. “Welcome to my world.” I turn completely around to see what the men on the balcony are up to. Biting my lip I gather courage to berate my dad about the girls’ trip to the discothèque and subsequent alcohol usage. And the brownies…
My head tilts as I watch Pierre-Louis pour Mimosa into Frankie’s glass. Muscles flex in his arm and chest I didn’t even know men had. He smiles at Frankie, Frankie smiles back and I shake my head, remembering I am here to enjoy Frankie … Pierre-Louis is just eye candy, that’s all.
My dad volunteers, “The brownies didn’t have any marijuana in them. I wanted you to know that. I made certain. You have enough to worry about with your girls out of the country and without being stressed about that too.”
“Wow,” I say, slightly stunned. “I appreciate your honesty … but there was some alcohol involved later that evening, I believe … and so I was still worried.”
He sighs. I know he wants this fight even less than I do. I can see him nodding his head in my mind; his face twisted trying to figure out what he can say that won’t piss me off. I talk when he doesn’t say anything, “Look, just keep them safe. Whether they are at a frat house next fall or in Europe with you, I know teenagers, and given an inch…”
He laughs. “They’ll take a mile. I’ll keep them safe, Charlie. Don’t worry.”
“Great,” I say, feeling a little better but not completely relieved of worry. I ask, “Itinerary?”
“It’s a bit complicated.”
“Maybe you should e-mail it to me.”
“We already did. Haven’t you checked your email?”
Guiltily, I look at the two distractions currently watching me from the balcony. “My server was down yesterday. I can open it today…” I catch the kiss Frankie blows to me and smile at him. “…hopefully.”
“Good, good. Look, here’s the quick rundown. We’re doing a bit of a Mediterranean cruise. All the big cities and some small ones. They’re all on the list.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing, nothing. I want the girls to see every place I possibly can show them. Tripoli, Tunis, Algiers, Malaga. Marrakech.”
My mouth drops. “Isn’t Marrakech dangerous? And Algiers? This doesn’t sound like any cruise I’ve heard of.”
“Completely safe. I’ve rented a vessel and the political climate is fairly calm right now. I wouldn’t take the girls if I couldn’t guarantee their safety.”
My unease spikes. “You rented a vessel? Who’s piloting the vessel?”
“Not me!” He laughs. “We have a crew and twenty-three ports of call.”
“Sounds ambitious.” I frown, thinking I’m glad it’s him and not me. As lovely as a trip cruising around the sunny, exotic Mediterranean, I’ve lived long enough to know the high seas and I don’t fare well together. I would be the one with my head hanging over a toilet the entire trip. “It sounds like a great time, Dad, I’m glad you could do this for Ells and Bree.”
“Love you, girl. We’ll call again soon.”
Click.
“Dad?” I say his name even though I am fairly sure he hung up. I shake my head and, keeping my cell in my hand just in case one of the girls calls back, I join the men on the balcony. My distress must be evident on my face because both Frankie and Pierre-Louis look at me sympathetically. Frankie asks, “All fine on the home-front?”
“Time will tell,” I answer.
I am naked except for the collar and strangely unselfconscious. It is an odd moment though when Frankie pulls out a chair for me. Both the table and chairs are ornate wrought iron, but the chairs are fitted with thick, soft cushions. My reaction must be readable upon my face because Frankie explains, “We’re not as young as we used to be, and I don’t expect you to kneel at my feet.” I nod and take a seat, although I am not sure whether I am relieved or disappointed. Obviously, regardless of age and virility, Pierre-Louis has been sitting on a seat and eating beside him. Much has changed since I was here.
Standing, Pierre-Louis grabs my plate. “I’ll reheat everything and make you fresh eggs. These are cold.”
I touch his wrist and our gaze meets. I jerk my eyes from his, not liking feeling what looking into his eyes makes me feel. “They’re fine. I’ve eaten a lot of cold eggs in my lifetime.”
He takes my plate away anyway, saying, “It’ll just take a moment.”
I look at Frankie and he looks like a cat that just ate the cream. “What?”
“Just enjoying watching you squirm.”
I lift my chin, denying. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Sure you do. When’s the last time you felt lust like that?”
“Last night. With. You.” I answer, making him roar with laughter.
“Lust for me?” He says coyly, “Oui. And I for you including every day we have been apart. I want you. I need you. I adore you. But. Him? The lust you felt for him was an entirely different animal, and I will not be hurt if you admit the truth. So, I ask again, when was the last time you felt lust as you felt for Pierre-Louis last night?”
I square my jaw and grind my teeth before admitting, “Maybe never. No offense, because you are beautiful, and you’ve always been beautiful…”
“But I couldn’t have competed with him even when I was twenty-eight.” He admits with a chuckle.
I can’t believe this is the same Frankie. I cannot believe I have been away so long. It seems like I haven’t been away … or that it was just yesterday. I cannot take my eyes off of him, he is so beautiful to me and it amazes me I was ever strong enough to walk away from him.
He volunteers, “Pierre-Louis is a fuck machine. I want you to know the pleasure he can give you. I want you to know the mind-blowing joy we can give you.”
“We?” I demand. “As in the both of you … with me … together? At the same time?” I sound shrill and offended even to my own ears, but the evil seed has been planted and the vision of what could be explodes through my mind. “Why are you doing this to me? Wasn’t it enough of a mind-fuck for you to summon me after almost two decades?”
“This isn’t a mental game, Cassiopeia. This is my life now. Pierre-Louis is part of my life, and I want you to be part of my life. The only way I see of making this work is for us to form a ménage.”
“No.”
“You want him.”
I laugh at the cruelty of the situation, and my laugh comes out cold and bitter. “I’m old, François. That young man isn’t going to want me.”
“You never did realize how sensual you were.”
“Key word. Were. Was. Not anymore.”
“Still. More so now than ever before. You have finally grown into your body.”
I sputter, wondering what in the hell that means. He spears a link of sausage and deftly changes the subject, “How are your daughters, today?”
“Oh shit!” I say, coming to my senses, remembering my conversation with my father. “Do you know anything about the political climate of Marrakech? Or Algiers? It seems there’s been a change of plans. Europe is over and done and the Mediterranean is on.”
Frankie pats my hand. “I’m sure they will be fine, but I’ll make some calls after breakfast.” His gaze doesn’t leave mine as he adds, “We could always join them if it would make you feel better.”
“Join them? I have work on Monday. I—” Why am I blaming work, when it isn’t work at all? Because if it was only work, I would have already been on the plane. The objection is the we and not even the we as in me and Frankie, I might actually be able to face my girls if it was just he; but when Frankie said we, I knew he meant all of us … and that I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for. I sigh, facing the truth. “As wonderful as it has been, seeing you again, I still don’t know how this—” I gesture at my nudity and collar “—will ever co-exist with my real life.”
“This is your real life now.” Frankie shakes his head, his lips twitching. “I will assist you in any way I can to maintain a charade of propriety while in the company of your children; but my slaves don’t work … at least not outside the home. You will quit.”
Pierre-Louis returns with fresh eggs and sits; I stand, shaking, sputtering. “I’m—I—what do you think—who do you think you are? I do work. I have a career. I cannot just give up everything on a moment’s notice.”
Too late I see the flash of hurt in his eyes, the discomfort in Pierre-Louis’s eyes. Of course he probably knows the story. I left. Without any warning. I just left. He does not have to say, “Once you did,” for me to feel the sting. Silence would have been enough. What am I doing? What?
I sit back down and stare at my eggs. They are perfectly prepared: over easy but flipped, an almost impossible task. And Pierre-Louis accomplished it not once this morning but twice. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Thank you for the eggs; they’re perfect.”
I manage to make eye contact with Frankie; I don’t know how, but I do. “I’ve never apologized.”
“An apology is unnecessary unless you are leaving me again.”
I shake my head, a tear sliding down my cheek, my heart lodged in my throat. I cannot imagine walking away from this man a second time. “Help me make this work.”
“Oui,” he says. “I will help you. You must do your part.”
“How? By giving up my job? What next? My home? My car? My bank accounts?” I start to panic and the terror is evident in my voice.
“We begin with breakfast. Eat.”
“Eat? When I have no idea how to do what you are asking me to do?”
“I am only asking for your unconditional surrender. After that, everything is simple.”
I start to laugh hysterically. “Simple. Sure.” I start to eat my eggs. “I realize how easy that is for you to say.”
�
�Au contraire,” he says. “Asking you to return to me is the hardest thing I have ever done.”
The emotion I hear in his voice makes me look up at him. “You and I are bound, Cassiopeia.”
Yes, I feel that.
“I do not want your house or car or bank accounts. I do not want to interfere with your relationship with your children.”
The offense I hear in his voice rips through my chest.
“I want you in my life—every second of every minute of every hour. I will not compete with a nine-to-five job when you have already stolen years from me.” His gaze burns through me, making me shake, not with fear but with need. Anger makes him growl, “Years!” as his fist hits the table, shaking the china and silverware. I jerk in my seat, wishing I could take back the pain I caused him but unable to wish away the time I spent without him. I understand. I wish I didn’t, but I do. I wish I could come back to reason, but I don’t believe I am insane. I realize without a doubt I want this too.
“Is two weeks notice acceptable?” I ask.
“If you use your two weeks in vacation time, oui.”
I nod, knowing that that won’t be a problem. It also isn’t much of a risk because my employer loves me and would take me back in a single heartbeat if everything fell apart. I don’t tell him any of that. I just sit nodding, accepting, letting it soak in that I am willing to do this. Unconditional surrender. I didn’t realize it was a war. I wave my white flag, saying, “As you wish, Master.” It sounds so corny in my head to say, and I wonder if it ever really sounded normal when I said it before. I hope it starts to feel normal soon so I won’t be tempted to giggle, because there isn’t anything funny about what is transpiring between us.
This is not a game. This is his life. And now, my life too.
He nods, returning his attention to the fresh fruit on his plate. “You will tell them that you will be leaving the country.”
I sit in stunned silence, my mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. He spears a bite-sized piece of melon on his fork. “You do wish to at least be in the same time zone as your children, oui? That will give you some peace of mind?”
I nod.
“Good, because I do not want to see worry etched across your face every minute of every day we are together. Pain? Oui. Orgasmic pleasure? Most certainly. But worry is not acceptable, and we have much to do if we are going to create a bond between the three of us.”