by Roxy Harte
I do as I am asked, feeling more self-conscious, but then I admit to Pierre-Louis, “We have Frankie’s blessing.”
He lifts his face and smiles. He crawls over me, touching his lips to mine. My scent is on his face and I taste myself on my lips. For whatever reason the two combined make me crazed. I want him. Need. Him. I try to hurry him with kisses, grabbing his length in my hand to guide him in, but he angles away. “A moment as precious as this cannot be rushed, ma belle.”
I pout, lifting my hips to try to force the issue. He nods at the phone. “He’s listening?”
“Yes.”
He smiles and it is wicked. I’m not certain what he has planned until he pushes my legs over my head, bending me in half. “Hold your ankles and do not let go.”
As long as it gets his dick inside of me, I would agree to anything. I am savage with need and don’t understand why every time he fills me, every time he makes me cum, I only want him twice as badly … again.
He fills me with a deep thrust, making me cry out, and my pleasure is tamped down by thinking too much about Frankie listening. I reach for the phone and disconnect; Pierre-Louis raises his brow but doesn’t comment. He pushes my legs deeper, stretching muscles I’ve probably never stretched, ever, but when he kisses me, filling my mouth with his tongue, I forget the pain and my climax shoots me to the moon.
* * * *
We have dinner brought up by room service. I lose track of how many times I peak, but know for a fact Pierre-Louis has ejaculated six times. He was going along with a two to one deal but then he made me come a third time before he did and after that all deals were out the window and now he strives to break a world record. I don’t think the number of climaxes a woman has had in a day is a category with the folks at Guinness but dissuading Pierre-Louis is too difficult. Plus, I don’t care. I’m too damn happy which I comment on randomly. “I feel stoned.”
“Stoned?”
“Blurry, disconnected, higher than a goddamn kite. I think your spunk is infused with mind altering drugs.”
“Oh, I have heard of this, oui. Like chocolate.”
“Chocolate isn’t a mind altering drug.”
“No, but if you overindulge you will feel high.”
I laugh at him, rolling over onto my back to twist my own nipples. My distraction tactic works. Sort of. He lowers his mouth to take my nipple into his mouth. I writhe, my nipple seemingly attached to my uterus, his suck, making my womb spasm, needy. He says around the soft pink flesh, “It was an article in Time magazine. Chocolate goes to the same brain receptors as THC.”
“Marijuana?”
“Oui. And so it is like too much sex. I think if you are feeling stoned, you have had too much for one day.”
I laugh at him, wrapping my hands around his face to pull him closer. I kiss him, asking, “Are you ready to sleep then?”
He smiles coyly, “Not likely.”
* * * *
Morning comes too soon and we both wake up quiet. Is it because we know we are going back to the châteaux … and Frankie? I’m not sure why that should matter though. I find myself packing slowly, and sighing a lot. I won’t deny I am worried about the dynamic of our relationships, mine and Frankie’s, mine and Pierre-Louis’s, and of course the three of us and how we interact together. I also worry about the consequences of hanging up on Frankie yesterday and worry that it is worse because he didn’t call back; although at the time I was glad he didn’t. Irritated, I sit on the bed by my bag and watch Pierre-Louis fold shirts. “Why did we do this? Why did we come here together? What in the hell did Frankie expect?”
“It wasn’t Frankie’s idea. You must know that. I told him I wanted time alone with you to see what would happen … to let nature take its course.”
“Why would he agree?”
Pierre-Louis kneels in front of me. “If he fought me I would have become even more determined and the consequences—” he shrugs, making me wonder what he thought the consequences might be. Obviously, we all want the ménage to work, and if jealousy entered the picture, it wouldn’t.
Looking down at my hands, I mull it over a bit before looking at him. “I have to know, although I shouldn’t ask…” I shake my head, not sure whether I really want to ask or not. Pierre takes my hand and encourages me with his eyes. I square my shoulders, bracing for his answer. “…when you are together, which one of you is dominant?”
He smiles and laughs. “Do you really have to ask that? You’ve seen me naked and collared.”
I nod, thinking too hard. “But behind closed doors—”
He smirks, squeezing my hand. “You want to know which one of us … er … pitches and which of us catches.”
I snort and shake my head, blushing eight shades of crimson. “Yes, I guess that’s my question. Who fucks whom?”
He sits back in his seat, withdrawing his hand and I feel I have offended him. He looks thoughtful, weighing how his answer will affect the outcome of our holiday. I hurriedly say, “It isn’t going to change what I think, or how I feel about you … either way.”
“I am not so sure about that.” His lips twitch. “As it is now, Frankie is your Master, he is my Master, and that is a very powerful dynamic. If you knew for a fact that I sometimes fuck him up the ass, it might very well change how you see him—and I do not want that.”
I swallow, realizing that I have been too bold, too curious. I’m not so certain I do want the answer.
“On the other hand, I do wish to top you at some point and if you see no strength in me whatsoever, if you only see me as the weaker of the two—”
I interrupt quickly, grabbing his hand. “There is nothing about you that is weak. Nothing.”
He squeezes my hand. “I need you to trust me, because I do want you to know that if you give me your submission I will cherish it, and so I will tell you the truth of this despite my fears. François always tops. Always. And I would have it no other way.”
I swallow, not sure how knowing the truth does make me feel. I do see Pierre-Louis as very strong, very assured … very male … and to know this … I look at him, seeing both fear and hope in his eyes … changes nothing. I sigh, shifting in my seat, wondering if and when we will ever have the chance to see what it would be like to have Pierre-Louis top me for real … or for me to top him. I begin to think we could have made better use of our time instead of just having sex.
“We fucked away our time,” I say. “We should have played some.”
He tilts my chin in his hand. “Do not look so disheartened, mon amour. We will have much time together in the future to play with each other.”
He kisses me, a quick peck before standing to finish folding and packing. If he meant for his words to be reassuring, they weren’t.
* * * *
If I felt strange driving away from the château and Frankie three days ago, returning is stranger still, but when I see him standing on the stoop, waiting, smiling, I know that somehow, everything will be okay. I squeeze Pierre-Louis’s hand before I step from the car. Frankie kisses me on both cheeks, “You had a good holiday?”
I blush. “Yes, thank you.”
Pierre-Louis joins us and Frankie kisses him on both cheeks as well. “Bienvenue.”
We walk into the house together. Frankie turns to us both, commanding, “Disrobe.”
Oh. Shit. Every bruise comes to mind, both the ones I left on Pierre-Louis and the ones he left on me. Well on with it then. It’s easy enough to undress; I wore a sleeveless cotton-jersey dress that I can pull over my head, which leaves me wearing solely toeless black pumps. No bra. No panties. No thigh high stockings. Pierre-Louis takes a bit longer, but not too much: polo shirt, khakis, thong underwear, and leather loafers with no socks. He strips out of everything.
Standing in the foyer, sun streaming in through the still open front door, we are spotlighted and I see Frankie’s eyes widen appreciatively at the long tracks of welts made down Pierre-Louis’s back. He traces one. “Fingernails.”
>
He touches the scabbed-over bite mark I left on Pierre-Louis’s shoulder. “Teeth.”
He looks at the large black and blue mark on his ass. His eyebrows arch. “Paddle?”
Pierre-Louis’s lips twitch. “I wish. I was showing off and fell off my bike.”
“Ah. Oui.” He points at the road rash on his thigh and calf. “Obviously.”
He circles me. For the most part, I am unmarked, bruising on my shoulder from a lover’s bite. He taps it. “A hickey? That’s it? And I thought that Pierre-Louis was my more passionate lover.”
I frown. I’m not as passionate as Pierre-Louis? I don’t have any time to dwell on that though because the next thing Frankie says is, “Dungeon. Now.”
Any time Master says the words dungeon and now in that tone I know that there is soon hell to pay. My heart starts racing and I don’t even think, I go, I hurry to the stairs leading down. I’ve never seen the dungeon here, but I know what to expect having seen the one he keeps in a modern basement in Chicago. Hitting the bottom step, I am not disappointed. I do not know how old the chateau is but the dungeon seems to have been here since the dawn of time. Stone walls, stone floor, wrought iron pieces meant to hold torches and candles. On the left we have the wine cellar and on the right—
Wow. I’m stunned. It appears Frankie is a collector of mint condition antique torture devices. Iron cages, a rack, yokes, stocks, and implements I have no name for and am not certain I want to be introduced to them. I hope they are for ambiance, not usage.
It takes me a moment to realize I am alone and I only notice that I am not accompanied by Frankie or Pierre-Louis when I hear them arguing upstairs. Obviously, Pierre-Louis is made of stern stuff. I want to go back upstairs but I won’t. The marks from the caning on the night of my return are only just faded.
“You didn’t even attempt to top her?”
“Non.”
“But you allowed her to top you?”
“Non.”
“What do you mean? Non, non?”
“We fucked, that is all.”
“You, fucking her, left these marks?”
“Oui.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“We fucked like bunnies; that is all.”
I hear Pierre-Louis moan and I can imagine that Frankie has pinched one of the welts I left down his back. “Did she gain pleasure seeing her mark on you?”
“You would have to ask her.”
“Oui, I will,” Frankie agrees. “I am not certain I like seeing her mark on you.”
My anxiety level triples, realizing Frankie has issues. I left marks on Pierre-Louis. I had considered it would not be wise if Pierre-Louis left marks on me, because Frankie is a very possessive man, but I am not sure why I didn’t consider he would be as possessive of Pierre-Louis. Oh hell. Hearing a footfall on the stairs, I wish I could hide, but I stand at attention, waiting, palms sweating, heart pounding, adrenaline pulsing forcefully through my veins. He will blame me … for all of it. For enticing Pierre-Louis, for leaving the marks on him, for hanging up the phone. An excuse to punish me, though in truth he needs no excuse at all.
I remember this from when we were together before. Although the cane was rarely used, there are many ways to punish a person’s body. Some are enjoyable, some are not. It seems like forever since I returned to Master and yet it has only been a week. And in truth, my time alone with Pierre-Louis has taken most of it.
Frankie enters the dungeon alone. “I think you have forgotten what it means to belong to me, ma cherie.”
I swallow hard. Ma cherie. My darling. This is bad. This is very bad.
“You have enjoyed looking at my collection?”
I lick my lips nervously. “It is very impressive.”
“Oui,” he agrees. He walks over to the corner and picks up a newer wooden stock which is obviously not an antique. Bringing it over to me he lowers the top half onto my neck and brings the bottom half up to meet it, locking the two parts together. I slide my hands through the three holes so that I am carrying it on my shoulders like a yoke. I take a deep breath, trying hard to remain silent … because he is.
He attaches a leather cuff to each wrist, which he then attaches to the stock, making it impossible to slide my hands back out. He attaches a chain to each end of the stock. A pulley rewinds the chain until I am where he wants me to be—on tip toe.
“Is that comfortable?” he asks.
“Not really, Master.”
“Hmm,” he says. “Do you think I want you to be comfortable?”
“No, Master.”
He lowers the chain, feeding out length until I am flat on my feet again, but then he continues to feed chain, saying, “Bend forward.”
I bend as the chain feeds until I am at an angle with the floor, bent at my thighs, not my waist.
“Better?” he asks.
I exhale, relieved. “Yes, Master.”
“Good. I want you to think awhile about what it means to belong to me.”
I do not expect him to walk away, but that is exactly what he does. I am left hanging in the stocks, thinking how ridiculous. How childish. Wondering how long he intends to leave me to think.
I stare at the stone floor and it becomes apparent fairly quickly that the wooden contraption around my neck is going to grow very heavy, very fast, and that is a concern. My bigger concern is having nothing to think about. Not that I don’t have plenty to think about, just that I don’t want to think about any of it.
Damn it to hell.
I stubbornly, adamantly refuse to think.
I shuffle around, bent over, stuck in stocks, making a small rotation, trying to find something of interest to look at to keep my mind from thinking about whatever it is he wants me to think about. A few minutes later I reverse my shuffle, focusing on the stone stairwell he just ascended. Better to just watch and wait for his return.
* * * *
I shuffle, forward a few inches, backward a few inches. My back aches, my calves are screaming bloody murder. The wood on my shoulders officially weighs tons and I am getting angry. I don’t deserve to be punished. I didn’t do anything. I stare at the stone steps and wait…
* * * *
Nodding off wakes me up immediately because it causes my throat to push into the wood around my neck, hurting, cutting off my air. I want to scream for Master to come down and release me. I want to talk about this like civilized grown-ups. Yes, I left marks on Pierre-Louis but what is the answer to that? I shouldn’t have? It isn’t like I meant to. It isn’t like I purposely marked the man.
* * * *
I’m not sure when I started crying, but my face is wet when I hear Master descending the stairs. I do not want him to see my wet face, I do not want him to know I cried, but there is no way to hide the evidence, no way to wipe my face. It seems like days have passed with me standing here, but it has only been hours. I know this because I have stood days before and this doesn’t compare. Uncomfortable, but not unbearable, and not yet humiliating.
He comes up to me and bends down to establish eye contact. “Are you comfortable?”
“Fine, Master.”
He narrows his eyes at me before wiping his fingers through my tears. “Not in pain?”
“No, Master,” I answer and a sharp pain stabs through my shoulder to remind me I am lying.
“Ah, Cassiopeia. You were always so willing to suffer for me a little. I was hoping your stubborn streak would have softened with time.”
“I am who I am, Master.”
He laughs. “I suppose you are.”
We stare at each other until he stands. He asks, “Why did you return to me?”
I’ve wondered that myself. “Because I missed you.”
“Missed me? Or missed the play?”
Play. Interesting that something sometimes painful and humiliating is caused play. He has his back to me, having walked over to a workbench. I see that it is also a storage area for very adult toys. “I missed you … being y
ours … and what we did together.”
“Can you agree a servant can only serve one Master?”
I blink, hating where this is going. He turns toward me carrying a riding crop.
“Pierre-Louis did not top me.” I realize my mistake as soon as I say the words.
“But you topped him?”
“Only a little,” I whisper.
He strikes my hip with the crop and the sting reverberates through my body. He strikes me again. “Did you get to know one another while you were on holiday?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Really? So you can tell me where he was born? Perhaps his brothers’ and sisters’ names?”
I jerk, anticipating another strike but the crop only caresses the inside of my thigh. I do not know where he was born or that he even has brothers and sisters. If he asks me his favorite color or favorite food I will not know the answer to that either. I am so screwed.
“What can you tell me about Pierre-Louis that you did not know before you went away on holiday with him?” He slides the crop up and down my inner thighs. I admit, “You were right about him being an amazing fuck.”
His laughter echoes around the room. “So you would like the privilege of being allowed to fuck him again?”
Oh God. Is this a trick question?
“Yes, Master.”
“So, you would have no use for me, then?”
All of my muscles tense at once. I wish my arms were free so I could throw my arms around his neck. I wish I knew what he was thinking. Feeling. I know how I felt when I knew John was fucking women half my age and it wasn’t pretty.
“No one can replace you, Master.” I recall with complete clarity what being owned by François de Hart felt like. I was precious to him. He cherished me. He placed me before all else in his world and I did the same for him. No one has ever made me feel as needed or as protected as Frankie made me feel. It is an addictive thing. The more I pleased him, the more he praised me, the more I needed. I’m not a young girl needing praise and approval anymore, but a small voice in my head demands. “You are my world.”
“I was not your world when you disconnected the call last night.”