Prodigal Slave

by Roxy Harte

  He points in the direction of where things lay.

  East, “Stables.”

  West, “Vineyards.”

  North, “Outdoor swimming pool, the gardens, and the orangerie.”

  South, “Caretaker’s house and chai.”

  He catches my gaze. “There are sixty-four acres, you have free roam of all of them. Try to not get lost and do not leave the grounds without an escort, either myself, Pierre-Louis, or I have three trusted employees. Of course, you will ask permission should you require doing so.”

  I don’t bat an eye even though I am shocked. I’d forgotten. So many restrictions, so little freedom. Can I really do this again? He smiles, motioning toward the house. “When you are ready, I’ll show you around.”

  I try to take in the view of all that surrounds me. In the distance ponies are romping in a field. I shade my eyes, scanning and easily finding where the vineyards begin. The sheer beauty of this country setting is too much. Too idyllic. As much as I dreamed … and more. I would very much like a closer look at the stables and I suppose at some point I will be given a tour of the chai. Part of the dream I had when we were together before was to help him with the day to day operations of the winery…

  Regret for a lost past twists my heart. I reach out my hand to be pulled along inside. He announces rooms as we peek inside each on the ground floor: “Entrance hall, grand salon, dining hall, kitchen, office, library, interior courtyard.”

  It is too much magnificence. My entire cape cod would fit inside the interior courtyard. He points through the windows at the swimming pool which is sparkling clean and well cared for. Just beyond the pool the shining glass of the greenhouse, what he referred to as the orangerie, is visible. He explains, “Nude sunbathing on nice days is expected.” At my look of stark horror, he amends, “Unless we have guests.”

  “You have maids? Butlers?” I stammer.

  He smiles. “My employees are well used to the way my household is run. They won’t pay any attention whatsoever. The house rules are the same here as in Chicago. Both you and Pierre-Louis will be nude at all times unless we have visitors. Below us there are three wine cellars and of course the dungeon that has been converted to a rather entertaining playroom.”

  The dungeon, of course. I shiver, expecting that he is teasing me, betting he isn’t. I sincerely hope he doesn’t expect me to disrobe immediately.

  “Ready to see the upper floors?” He asks.

  I hate to be rude but I don’t think I can take more tour in my five inch heels. They are beautiful, but painful. He starts toward the staircase. “Come, come.”

  I suck up the pain and follow him. Pierre-Louis requests permission to stay behind and make certain the kitchen is in good order for our stay. Frankie explains as we climb the stairs, “While we are here, Pierre-Louis will do much of the cooking and baking. It is what he enjoys. So, what is it you enjoy?”

  I pause on the steps. What do I enjoy? It takes me a moment before I answer, “I still like to read.”

  “Ah, oui, my little bookworm. You will be happy to know the library is on the second floor.”

  Reaching the top step, he turns left and starts the tour. “There are thirteen bedrooms, seven on this floor, six on the floor above us. We will share this bedroom,” he says as we enter a large suite. A wide window bank opens onto a balcony much as his bedroom in Chicago. He points to a second set of doors. “Through there is the bathroom. It will have a bedroom similar to this one on the other side. Pierre-Louis will stay there for now.”

  For now? Eyeing the supersized bed in the room, which was obviously built with three or more in mind, I don’t ask. I turn to face him, letting out a small sigh. Stepping closer, he brushes his fingertips over my cheek before pulling me toward him for a kiss. Our mouths lock and I remember the hours we once spent just kissing. He steals my breath away, making me ache with want. Releasing me he asks, “You will let me share you with Pierre-Louis tonight?”

  I understand it is not a question but a request. Still, I nod my assent, making him smile. He kisses me again and I find myself wishing we were here alone, no Pierre-Louis; but that dream was the one I walked away from. I had Frankie all to myself. Once. Threw it away. My future it seems, if it is to include Frankie, will also include Pierre-Louis.

  You will let me share you with Pierre-Louis tonight. My mind is flying over the possibilities.

  “You may disrobe now.”

  I pull from his grasp and walk over to the bed, where I sit on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed to remove my shoes. I place the shoes on the floor before standing to shimmy from my jeans and pull my top over my head. I strip for him without self-consciousness. How many times have I stripped for this man? Standing before him in my bra and panties, I start to remove my bra but he lifts a hand, signaling for me to wait. He motions for me to turn. I turn for him slowly, not once but twice, waiting for him to say, “Stop.” Isn’t it funny how memories long forgotten return? This was one such moment. Turning for him, letting him see the handiwork of each mark he has left on my body. I am surprised when he says, “Stop,” after only two turns. He says, “Remove the rest.”

  I slide out of my bra and panties, then stand unmoving as he looks.

  It is hard to stand under such scrutiny, so much easier when my body was in motion. With my body still, my mind is in motion, thinking too much about how he sees me. If he is disappointed by the extra pounds, the extra curves. He steps closer and his hand drops to the soft girly curve of my belly. His fingers trace the deepest groove of my not so obvious stretch marks. I have four from my pregnancy, all faded to soft silvery-white lines; but one is dented and he found my imperfection immediately. I tighten my jaw, stiffen my spine. Did he expect me to be as beautiful as I was when I left, when I was twenty-seven and at the height of my physical perfection?

  He surprises me when he drops to one knee and kisses the scar. “I did not give you this mark.”

  “No,” I whisper.

  “I regret that, mon bel, because it is the most beautiful mark on your body.”

  When he stands and walks away, I am shocked; even more so when he exits the room, leaving me alone. He leaves me not knowing what to think, not knowing if or when he will come back. I don’t follow him, though I wish to. Damn it, I’d forgotten how hard it is to be a silent, compliant, obedient sex slave…

  I am left looking around the lavishly decorated room. My bags have not only been delivered but unpacked, with all of my intimate clothing put away in drawers and my slacks, tops, and dresses hung in the armoire. My shoes, jewelry, and toiletries also organized. Invisible servants. I look over my shoulder, expecting to see I am not alone after all. He said his staff was well trained. I’ll say.

  I open my purse and take out my cell phone, carrying it with me out onto the balcony. A brilliant sun falls over my nakedness, warming me. I sit on an upholstered chair and scroll through my phone, wanting to talk to my daughters. No, I need to talk to my daughters. A dose of reality is definitely in order, especially now that I am once again the very naked property of François de Hart.

  “Mommy!” Ellie answers, sounding much happier than the last time we spoke.

  “Hi, beautiful!” I sound high-pitched and nervous, probably because I am sitting out on a balcony—naked. Will I ever be able to get used to this again? I go back into the bedroom and rummage through a drawer until I find a comfortable shorts and a shirt outfit to wear and dress while we talk. The whole lounging around the house naked thing was fine when I was twenty-something; now, it is uncomfortable, especially while talking to my daughters. “How’s the boat?”

  “Dreadful. We both got seasick and had to disembark.” She giggles. “It was horrible, we were puking because of the motion-sickness and then we started sympathy puking for each other. You should have seen it.”

  “Mm, the visual is enough, thanks.” I assure her, laughing and thinking it must be genetics. “So what’s the new plan? Did you see a doctor for some mot
ion sickness pills?”

  Her voice is full of disappointment when she says, “You didn’t see my blog yet? We’ve joined up with a bus tour for a scenic drive through Italy. Then France. Then Spain. After that? Who knows.”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” I say, feeling sympathetic, knowing a group bus tour is as far from an exciting Mediterranean cruise as night and day. I promise, “I’ll look at your blog tonight, but that’s actually why I called. Is your sister there beside you?”

  “Of course. What’s wrong?” Her voice switches from bored and desperate to concern in seconds. I think she sounds so much like her father…

  I assure her nothing is wrong before asking her to put her cell on speaker. “I don’t want you to worry, but I’ve decided to take a trip myself. I’m actually in France.”

  “You’re planning on spying on us!” Ells accuses.

  “Oh, Mommy! Really? France? France isn’t far at all!” Bree exudes then yells to others, “Mom’s in France!” and I assume she is making the announcement to my parents. Knowing I’ve assumed correctly when I hear my mother in the background, “France? Your mother is in France?”

  I interrupt them all, “I’m visiting friends and I have no intention of spying on you. Or interrupting your trip. I just wanted you to know I’m not in the states.”

  “You have friends in France?” Ells asks, sounding suspicious, and I decide she sounds exactly like her father.

  “I do and it seemed like perfect timing to visit them.”

  “Let me have the phone,” I hear my mother demand in the background.

  “Charlotte?” Mother sounds concerned. “You’re in France?”

  “Yes.” I laugh, trying to sound nonchalant. “I needed to get away and a friend invited me to France.”

  “The friend wouldn’t be anyone I know? Would it?”

  I’ve never been a very good liar, so I don’t even try. “It’s Frankie, Mom. I’m certain you’ll remember.”

  “How could I forget the Frenchman?” she asks, making the Frenchman sound like that asshole without ever saying the word. I know that she thinks that he stole my heart and then broke it into a million pieces. I never corrected that assumption. Number one: I never wanted to talk about him again, never wanted to hear his name again, because I knew I would have lost my resolve and gone back to him. And number two: she never really liked him or approved of him too much. I think she thought he was too mysterious, but it was only that we kept most of our relationship a dark secret; I couldn’t actually share that I was his sex slave, could I? She also thought he was too beautiful…

  …for me.

  “So, how is Francois?”

  I sigh. This was not the conversation I’d intended on having. I lift my face into the baking sun, wishing I could just hang up and go find my Frenchman. I answer, “He’s good. It was nice to hear from him again.”

  “He called you?”

  “Yes. But does it matter? Who called who?”

  “It might,” she answers furtively. “It just might.”

  I hear Frankie calling my name from outside and rush out to the balcony to look over the railing for him. He is standing on the far side of the yard between the pool and the greenhouse. He tilts his head, a questioning look on his face and I know it is because he just left me nude and now I am dressed again. He points at the building he calls the orangerie, but I call a greenhouse. I find his word charming. I smile and wave, pointing at the phone. He points at me and then the greenhouse. I smile and nod before telling my mom, “I need to go. But call again soon, okay?”

  Chapter Ten

  I hurry to the greenhouse, still wearing my shorts and shirt. I’m nervous because, technically, I was told to stay nude. Those are the house rules, problem is: I don’t know if I can abide by this rule and I don’t know if it is negotiable, but I’m about to find out.

  The smell of warm, damp earth and moss is my greeting. The greenhouse is hot and humid, the glass forming the walls drips with moisture. The heat seems a visible mist in the air. From behind me Pierre-Louis sweeps me off my feet to hold me in his arms. He carries me to the center of the room. Frankie is a step ahead, sweeping aside crockery and potting tools from the top of a wooden table. The surface is not clean, not by a long shot, but Pierre-Louis lies me down on top of its surface.

  My heart skips a beat when Frankie tosses a length of rope to Pierre-Louis and the man grabs my wrist to tie to the corner of the table, by attaching the rope first to my wrist and then to the leg. While Pierre-Louis is tying my wrists, Frankie spreads my legs and starts tying my ankles. He asks, “How attached are you to the clothing you are wearing?”

  It takes a second for the full weight of the question to become active thought. Obviously my outfit is at risk. I tell him, “Replaceable,” even though I really adore the shorts.

  “Bon,” he says. “Did I not say you and Pierre-Louis are to be nude at all times?”

  I figure the question is rhetorical and so I don’t answer. A second later Pierre-Louis is blindfolding me, a moment more there is a snip, snip sound near my ear, larger and heavier than scissors by the sound, possibly some type of pruning sheers. I shiver, nervous, excited, strangely not scared being tied spread-eagle though I suppose if I dwelled too much I could make myself terrified.

  Cool metal is rubbed against my cheek.

  “Kiss it,” Frankie commands, and in my head he feels very much like Master. Except for the first night when he caned me, I haven’t really felt his dominance so much. The heavy metal presses down on my lips and I kiss it.

  I decide grass clippers even though I can’t see them, because the metal seemed flat against my mouth and if they were pruning sheers they would feel curved. Drawn over my cheek I can feel the solid edge and the sensation makes me shiver.

  “Cut holes,” Master instructs. “I want to see her breasts.”

  I feel a tug on my shirt, my nipple caught with fabric, making my heart jump into my throat before Pierre-Louis corrects and holds only fabric. I am relieved when I hear snip, snip but am not left in agonizing pain. When he releases the shirt and bra I can feel my left nipple is sticking through the hole in my shirt and bra. He grabs the shirt over my right breast, tugging, not catching nipple. Snip, snip.

  It feels odd having my nipples exposed. Frankie leans forward and takes my nipple into his mouth, though I am not one hundred percent certain it is Frankie and not Pierre-Louis, until he makes a content sound in his throat. He sucks and bites, bringing my nipple to a tight, aroused point. He repeats on the other side. When he pulls his lips away I am left with a flash of pain in my right nipple and then immediately my left. I whimper from the pain. Nipple clamps. He tugs both and I realize clamps attached to a chain, confirmed when he puts the chain between my teeth with the command, “Bite.”

  I bite down, holding the chain.

  Frankie says, “Her twat now.”

  I hear the snipping sound before I feel the metal. Pierre-Louis takes his time cutting a hole in my shorts, effectively making both the shorts and panties beneath crotchless, and I am glad he took his time.

  The room is silent and still, I could almost believe the men disappeared into thin air for the quietness. There is a rustle above me and I hear a chirp. A bird is either in the greenhouse with us or landed on the roof. Chir-wee, chir-wee. I shiver, hoping the bird isn’t in the building. It is silly perhaps in light of my being tied, my clothing cut, but the thought of a bird landing anywhere near me, worse, on me, creeps me out.

  Chir-wee, chir-wee.

  “Pull the chain, Cassiopeia.”

  I tug the chain caught between my teeth, stretching out my nipples, sending fresh waves of pain through them after having forgotten the clamps were even attached.

  “Jerk the clamps off.”

  Me? Oh shit.

  I pull but it is not nearly hard enough. It hurts. I pull harder and the clamp on my left breast pops off, arching my back as the pain shoots from tit to spine. “Goddamn!” I cry out, wishing I wasn’t ti
ed so I could fold into myself, fold into the pain. The chain drops from my mouth.

  Master says, “Tsk, tsk. Now how will you get the other clamp off?”

  I shrug, tossing my head.

  “You may ask my assistant.”

  I ask softly, “Pierre-Louis will you take the nipple clamp off?”

  He asks Master, “Sir, may I remove the clamp for Cassiopeia?”

  “No,” he answers tersely. “She must do it herself.”

  I am glad I have the blindfold over my eyes so that he doesn’t see me roll my eyes. “Pierre-Louis, will you put the chain back in my mouth?”

  He asks, “Sir, may I help Cassiopeia by putting the chain back into her mouth?”

  “Oui.”

  I hear a rustle in the foliage between me and the windows. I tense, guessing the bird is in the room even before I hear the chirp. Chir-wee, chir-wee. I shiver. Pierre-Louis puts the cool metal chain back in my mouth and I pull as hard as I can, popping the clamp off and screaming when it seems to hurt twice as much as the first did. I feel a warm, wet mouth closing over the screaming flesh and I am not sure whose mouth it is. It feels so good after the pain, my body throbs with the pleasure of the soft suckle. My hips move on the table top, my pussy clenching, wanting attention. I can feel myself growing wetter by the second. The cool drip of my fluid sliding between my ass cheeks.

  There is a sound next to me on the table, a rustling and I imagine it is the bird. I listen more closely, tensing, relaxing after heart pounding minutes, probable only seconds, realizing it is not the bird, it is either Master or Pierre-Louis doing something, perhaps laying out floggers or other sundry items. I understand the sound very quickly as having been the soft rattle of wooden clothing pins when Master tells Pierre-Louis, “the sensitive skin inside her upper arms, the inside of her thighs,” and Pierre-Louis very quickly and efficiently starts attaching the pinch-type wooden pins. My pussy clenches with each attachment, pinch, pinch, pinch, just under my right arm pit where the skin is super sensitive on both arms, then again under my left arm. Pinch. Pinch. Pinch. I feel his warm hands between my thighs, pushing up the legs of my shorts to get them where he wants them. Pinch, pinch, pinch. He moves left to right. Pinch, pinch, pinch.