by Roxy Harte
When he finishes the room is silent again. They are waiting, watching. Then suddenly, I feel warm fingers smooth over my labia. Master says softly, “I think two more.”
I know he is attaching the last two, pulling my labia lips apart to attach one left, one right. It hurts. I bounce my knees a little but I don’t cry out. He says, “Good girl,” and it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. How I went two decades without such affirmations is beyond me now that I am here with him again.
“Remove the shirt.”
The steel of the grass trimmers slides up my side as Pierre-Louis cuts away the remaining fabric. He pulls the shirt away, jerking it from under my back. He knocks off one of the clothes clips and the pain is intense.
Master says, “Leave it,” and I assume he means to not reattach it. He lifts the blindfold from my eyes and his gaze is questioning but I don’t understand what he is asking. He pulls his gaze from me to look at Pierre-Louis. “I want to watch her suck you.”
“Sir?”
“Strip. Now. Straddle her face.”
No one asks me how I feel about it. I am merely the object to be shared between two men. It is a perverse delight that I am excited by the prospect. I have seen Pierre-Louis completely nude, and he is an amazing attribute to the male species, we have kissed and he has touched me intimately, but I have not touched him. I try to not watch as he unbuttons his shirt, but flexing, bunched abdominals are hard to look away from. He slides out of his shirt and tosses it aside. He unbuttons the top button of his jeans, unzips, stops to take a wrapped condom out of a front pocket, then strips the rest of the way.
Unrolling the condom down his length he says lightly, “Strawberry, I hope you like that flavor.”
The wooden table groans a little as he climbs onto it and moves into position, one leg warm against my ribs, but he needs to be closer, and when he shoves his knee under my armpit another clip flies free. Oh!
Master reaches to remove the remaining four pins, and my body jerks with the removal of each; then steps away, standing where I can’t see him. I wonder what he is thinking, what he was asking me but didn’t say. I don’t have time to dwell on that though because Pierre-Louis swings his leg over my chest and his weight is straddling me, though not his entire weight, very little of it in fact, merely enough to let me know he is there, in position, knees high under my arms. His erect penis bobs in front of my face. His gaze locks on mine, but I don’t change my focus, I look intently at his eyes.
He strokes my jaw, angles my face, and draws his thumb lightly over my bottom lip. The tip of his erection closely follows. He smells earthy and warm, a hint of spicy cologne mingled with the scent of clean man. I open my mouth and he slides in, not deep, just a little. I stroke circles with my tongue around the glans before latching on for some fast hard sucks. He presses deeper even though I could suck and play with the head of his cock all day. He slides it all the way in so that he bumps the back of my throat, leaving me fighting the gag reflex. He backs it out enough for me to relax and suck but almost immediately pushes back in. “I want you to swallow his dick, Cassiopeia. Show him you know what to do with a man’s cock.” I hear Master whispering close to my face, his breath warm on my cheek. I jerk my head, looking, realizing only then how close he is, how close he has been all this time. He is squatted behind the table, seeing Pierre-Louis from almost the same angle that I see him.
“Yes, Master,” I say around Pierre-Louis’s hard flesh in my mouth. He pushes deeper and I try, but we are at the wrong angle. Swallowing him seems impossible, tied as I am. He pushes farther, gagging me. I sputter. I’m not sure which is more arousing for me, the fact I am making him moan, or the sound I make gagging around his cock. All I know is that I want him to fuck me. My hips rock and my pussy clenches around nothing, the weight of the clothespins heavy on my labia.
“Keep sucking,” he commands, standing, walking away. “Don’t even think about stopping.”
Sucking I can do. Pierre-Louis pulls out just enough for me to hold him solid in my mouth, rolling my tongue over him and sucking without any gagging.
I feel Master at my ankles, his touch light as he slides up my legs. He releases each of the clips on my inner thighs. “Ow! Owwwww!”
My hips buck but I keep sucking.
He removes one of the clips from my labia and I scream, trying to roll away from the pain, my ankles pulling against the rope. I keep Pierre-Louis’s cock in my mouth, moaning around it. I feel Master’s finger rub along the screaming flesh, helping the blood flow to return quicker and it hurts and feels good equally. I try to push harder against his caressing fingers. He releases the second clothespin. “Holy fuck!”
He smacks my labia as if he is spanking it, and I am close enough to orgasm I think I might. “Ohgodohgodohgod,” I say, or try to say.
“Tell me what you need, Cassiopeia.”
Pierre-Louis thrusts in and out of my mouth as I curse and beg, making anything I am saying fairly unintelligible. “I want you to fuck me, Master,” becomes “I-on-ew-ew-uuu-eee-aa-er.”
The table groans and I realize Master’s weight has been added. He lifts my hips and fills me in a long, deep stroke. He rubs his finger over my clit while he thrusts, matching the rhythm of Pierre-Louis thrusting in and out of my mouth. I feel Pierre-Louis tense, going still and I know he is coming, filling the condom. He pulls his spent length from my mouth and Master keeps thrusting and rubbing. Pierre-Louis tweaks my nipple, pinching, pulling. Helping? Distracting? God, oh God. I am so close to orgasm. I moan and toss my head.
Pierre-Louis shoves two fingers in my mouth and I suck, bucking against Master’s touch, feeling him deep inside of me, thrusting, thrusting.
Sucking.
Thrusting.
We both moan, his moan heightening my need, whisking me higher, and then I am plummeting, my orgasm jerking through my body, lighting every nerve with fire.
* * * *
I am still bound and lying on top of the dirty wood potting table. The men talk in low voices from somewhere inside the greenhouse, though I guess it could just as easily be outside the main doors because their voices are soft and indiscernible, leaving me too much time to fixate on doubts. The sex was amazing, always has been, but there is something missing that was there before but is gone now. Is it me? Is it the way I feel, being twenty years older, not so blindly obsessed?
Approaching footsteps make me turn my head and I see Master. He kisses me. Gently. Tenderly. “Merci, le bel.”
I smile against his lips as he kisses me again. “Merci?”
“For returning to me … but it seems to me you do not have your heart in it.”
My heart stills in my chest then jumps before returning to its pace, faster than before.
“I have sent Pierre-Louis to the kitchen to start preparing dinner so I may have you to myself for awhile. I hope you don’t mind.”
I shake my head. Mind? How could I mind when his touch on my face speeds my heart, his words both terrifying and comforting me at the same time.
“You put your clothing back on. Did you even wait for me to be down the hall?” The sting of his words is softened by his gentle hands rubbing over my breasts.
I shake my head.
He pinches a nipple softly, pulling ever so slightly, but they are still sensitive from the clothespins and so I suck in my breath. “Do you wish to explain yourself?”
I rush to do just that. “I was talking to my daughters on the—”
“Shh!” He silences me. “I did not say ‘explain,’ I said ‘do you wish to offer an excuse?’”
Ah. Still a stickler for details. “Master, I do wish to explain.”
“Oui, I am certain you do.” He rubs his hand over my stomach. “However, do you remember my policy on excuses?”
Our gazes lock. Of course I remember. How could I not remember?
“Should you be punished, Cassiopeia?”
I whisper softly. “Yes Master.”
“Oui,” he
says, kissing me gently again. I lift my face, basking in the sweetness of his lips, knowing this bliss will soon be replaced with torment. He strokes my face. “I think instead of punishing you, I would prefer to play with you a bit more. Would that be acceptable?”
I sob with relief. “Yes.”
Playing with Frankie is always extreme—before, with Pierre-Louis, it was as though we were still getting to know each other—now, he won’t hold back. “Yes, Master.”
He unties my wrists and ankles then helps me to sit up. I cross my legs, sitting still in the center of the table. I rub my wrists, not because the ropes were tied too tight but because of the phantom rope making me feel still tied, touching my skin helps me realize I am free. He is as nude as I. He runs his hand over my shoulder, asking, “What would you like me to do to you?”
My eyebrow arches. I ask, “I’m being given a choice?”
“Oui, of course.”
Oui, of course? Okay, where was the alien mother ship. The master of old didn’t do things this way. “I like when you bind me. I like it when you hurt me.”
He winks at me, his eyes filling with mischief. “Oui, but tell me how you want me to tie you, tell me how you want me to hurt you.”
My brain trips over itself and then it jumps to the memory always called to my thoughts when I was lying bored under John, waiting for him to cum. Sometimes, I even got excited enough to join him with an orgasm of my own. I readjust on the tabletop so I am squatting in front of him. “Do you remember when you used to attach a spreader bar between my ankles and hobble my thighs to my calves?”
He smiles wickedly and rubs his chin. “You always cursed me when I did that to you. Now, you tell me you liked it?”
“I hated it.”
He looks at me with new interest. He rubs his hands over my thighs and I tremble beneath his touch. “But first I should tie your hands.”
“Behind my back?”
“I think to your ankles for what I have in mind.”
I swallow hard, my mouth going dry.
“How would I hurt you, Cassiopeia?”
“Maybe you could use your imagination.”
He laughs loudly and I think how rarely it has been that I have ever heard him laugh. Has Pierre-Louis brought this change about in him? “I like to hear you laugh.”
His lips twitch. “I like to hear you scream, lets see what we can do about making us both happy, eh?”
A rope I did not realize he was holding whizzes around my ankle. He cinches it tight before wrapping it around my thigh and tightening it down in a loop at my ankle. He repeats the action with my other leg. I am already trembling and can’t imagine staying in this squat much longer, but we are just beginning.
“Spreader bar?” he asks.
I nod and he looks around the room, settling on a broom. He shrugs almost apologetically before tying my ankles and wrists to the handle. “Feel steady?”
“Yes, Master.” Surprisingly. It’s been a long time, I’m surprised I’m still limber enough to do this at all. Thank God for yoga DVDs.
“Comfortable?”
“For now.”
He stands looking at me and purses his lips. “You didn’t like the clothespins on your pussy lips did you?” It must be rhetorical question because he reaches forward to pinch my exposed labia. “Very tender? A little tender?”
“A little,” I answer softly.
He opens a drawer built into the table top and pulls out a ball of twine. He picks up two wooden clothespins and wraps the ends. I think I hear him humming under his breath but all I can think about is my shaking knees and the dread filling the pit of my stomach, knowing he is going to attach the clamps to my labia again. I seriously used to fantasize about this? Really?
He stretches out the skin of my labia, clamping on the first clothespin solidly. I squeal.
He smiles and it is beautiful. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes, goddamnit.”
He stretches the twine, stretching out my labia lip, pulling, hurting me. I stare at the clothespin lying on the table, waiting, but he doesn’t make me wait long. He attaches it to the other side. I whine to keep my voice silent, to keep from screaming and cursing. Tears slide over my cheeks and he looks at my face with a surprised expression. He collects one of my tears on his fingertip and traces it to its source. “It hurts this bad?”
I shake my head. I fantasized about this because I needed this.
His forehead furrows as he studies my face.
“I’m okay,” I assure him.
The tears are pure emotion, not from pain. When my grandmother had a stroke a few years ago and I volunteered to take her to physical therapy, the therapist explained that when she cried, claiming she couldn’t do the exercises because it hurt, it was her tears that told him she was in emotional pain. Yes, she was upset because she was disabled and struggling with simple tasks. If it was true pain, the therapist explained, she would be moaning, or screaming. No one understood it, not my mother, or my mother’s sisters, they wanted a different therapist, thinking the one she had was a sadist. I believed the therapist because I understood a bit about the workings of pain. I think Master understands as well, because he takes my face between his hands and kisses away the tears, drawing the salty moisture to my lips when he kisses me. He whispers against my mouth, “I have missed you,” and I whisper back, “I missed you.”
My knees are shaking, my ankles screaming, and my toes feel like they are on fire, but none of that matters while he kisses me. He is the center of my universe and I am the center of his.
Chapter Eleven
And then I sleep alone.
I’m not sure what I expected … the world to revolve around me maybe.
I have to assume the hours spent in the greenhouse before dinner were meant to be a balm to my soul as I lie alone in the dark. I am not the sun, I am merely one of two moons which revolve around Frankie.
It is a warm night and I have the double doors to the balcony open to allow in the breeze and the night sounds, insects, bats, small nocturnal animals. After worrying so much about a bird when I couldn’t see, now I want the distraction from any other noises that might waft through the house. I haven’t heard anything. No conversation, no moans, no whistled strikes or flogged thuds. I’m a pervert. I don’t want to hear it, but I am disappointed when I hear nothing.
I could be nosy.
I could amble down the hallway toward the kitchen. I am a bit parched, perhaps a glass of water … and perchance hear. Something.
Do I really, honestly want to hear them making love?
God. I hate this.
Frankie loves Pierre-Louis. Pierre-Louis loves Frankie. Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Their mornings begin with the greeting, their conversations end with the words, and throughout the day, “Je t’aime,” for no reason.
I know, I know. Pierre-Louis could have the same complaint. Why am I jealous of one night? Its one night! And I’m too sore and too exhausted to be included anyway. Too grumpy as well.
I want to throw something and break it for no good reason and I am not a temper tantrum kind of girl. I never was before.
I fling back the covers and climb out of bed, pacing, wondering what I could throw that would make me feel better, but wouldn’t get noticed by the cleaning staff, of worse, Frankie.
Nothing.
I got nothing but an angry beast trying to climb out of my body.
I am in the hallway and standing in front of Pierre-Louis’s bedroom door before I even realize I am out of my bed. My chest is heaving with emotion, my breath heavy, and I force myself to calm down. I want to go home. I want my life back. I want simple back.
I raise my fist but don’t pound on the door.
I hear Frankie’s voice. “Do you like that?”
I close my eyes and drop my fist to my side.
“Ahhh-ha-ha, yes-s-s,” he hisses.
“And this?”
He moans, “Oh God, Master, what you do to me.”<
br />
I walk backward from the door, colliding softly with the hall wall. My imagination spins wildly out of control as I listen, though I am not sure whether this is helping or hurting my jealous heart. With a shaky breath I go back to my room. I would not deny Pierre-Louis his pleasure just as he did not deny mine earlier today. If nothing else, we can all be civil about this, right?
I don’t want to go home. Not really. What is there besides loneliness? And tonight I am feeling a lot of things, but lonely isn’t one of them.
Morning comes too early since I only fell asleep the hour before dawn, the birds beginning to salute the day with their song. I am startled awake by one of Frankie’s servants. It is rare to see them, and I have never been woken by one of them. She knocks softly before entering. “Madame?”
I sit up in the bed, startled.
“Monsieur requests you join him in the vineyard immediately.”
I frown. Nodding I understand the message though I’m confused as to why he didn’t knock on the door himself. I don’t dress; I throw on my long silk robe, yellow printed with a bright floral pattern. I clip my hair up and grab the cup of coffee the maid left on my nightstand for me on the way out the door and down half of it before I get down the stairs, the rest before I step out into the bright sun, leaving the empty cup on a low table in the foyer.
I regret not putting on shoes as I cross the dew damp grass, my bare toes cold and covered in grass clippings.
I find Frankie walking between his grapes and hurry to join him.