by Q. Zayne
The library’s treasures kept me occupied throughout the heat of the day. In its shadowed, book-lined depths, I had no sense of time passing. I flitted from ancient Rome to Egypt to the Americas like a hummingbird feasting on nectar.
The treasures with their rich scent of old paper and leather came close to stopping me from longing for Marcus, but not quite.
Old books bound in leather and full of exquisite plates revealed the ancient world with a depth of detail new to me. The maps kept me occupied with musings about the extent of seafaring. Emerging evidence about trade and travel in ancient times fascinated me. Had the ancient Egyptians visited Australia? It boggled the mind that early people in simple ships set out and explored the world. I couldn’t get enough of the windows into the past.
I found mentions of cenotes as gateways to the underworld. Some of the deep, water-filled caves in the limestone substrate of the Yucatan held bones and artifacts. Did Submission Island have a gateway to the underworld?
Mind stuffed and eyes glazed, I put the treasures away, handling their crackled spines with reverence. I emerged into the hallway, blinking at the daylight.
I stalked down the hall, not stopping to admire the phenomenal original statues from all over the world. It was too much, and the disquiet, the nagging sense of something amiss on the island, refused to leave me in peace.
I retreated to my room and paced like a jaguar in a cage. I needed to do something before I burst.
After a moment of plucking at my coiled hair, I sighed and stopped my stalking. Time to face facts. I arranged the dresser and went to the window to view the island. The turquoise sea sparkled. White foam capped the waves that came in so clear I could see the white sand through the lucid water. It was like looking at a beach through one of those old blue-green Coke bottles. I lived in a state of magic.
As wonderful as everything was, something major was missing. Pride be damned, I wanted to see Marcus. Shouldn’t I hold out, maybe savor other erotic adventures the island had on offer?
I took a long time taking down my hair and deciding on the next hairstyle. Possibilities of gladiators, dungeons filled with unfamiliar implements, a mad scientist in his lab slid through me. I braided my hair into an elaborate coiffure while fantasizing entering the Mansion of Desire and selecting a different room. Would I brave The Knower before my time ran out? Or perhaps one of the stock heroes who had women’s fingers getting busy for decades? Or look deep into those slick folds of my secrets for some act I never dared admit I wanted, let alone tried? If not here and now, when?
I yanked my hair and flinched. I wanted to be the sexual adventurer trying everything, but I burned for him. Nothing I could imagine appealed to me as much as the anticipation of his hands on me.
I ached deep inside, longing for his body, the sweet expression of his eyes, his passionate lips, the force of his cock entering me and knocking me senseless at my core. Damn it, I wanted Marcus, and nothing else would do. I sensed that he could give me everything and more that I’d find in those other rooms, and do it better, for me, than any other man.
Hell of a thing to admit to myself so early in the day—and so soon into my Submission Island adventure. It seemed I was a hopeless romantic, smitten with a man playing a role. He played it to perfection, and I wanted more. His touch was real, his kisses, his lovemaking. A man couldn’t fake his arousal.
Enough musing. I’d ask for him. He said I could.
I secured my coils with one last pin. The effect suited me. My dark eyes flashed. I outlined them with kohl, the way Mom taught me. I looked so much like my mother, carrying her Egyptian heritage in my face. I’d worried Submission Island would reject me for not looking like the thin Caucasian women on the website. Instead, this place embraced me. I felt free here. I felt fully myself. I painted my lips scarlet, pressed them together, and left the suite. I levitated down the hall past a minotaur. I’d head into the grounds. Chuck might be hovering near, or maybe one of the invisible people who kept the place clean and supplied the delicious food and beverages.
I floated down the gorgeous stairway, feeling royal. I hadn’t loved my name as a child, but I grew into it. The braided hairdo felt stiff as I walked, yet looked regal, something my namesake might have worn when she ruled Egypt as Pharaoh, igniting Caesar and then Marc Antony to become her lover. One woman who created political and sexual alliances with powerful men who each fathered children on her. A woman accomplished in languages, diplomacy, all the subjects of her day, yet who continued to be diminished as though her sexuality was the main feature of her life. I credited her with great savvy. Her alliances allowed her to keep her throne—and may have spared her the fate of many of her family members: assassination. According to history, Cleopatra had her sister Arsinoe killed. The Ptolemies, like so many ancient dynasties, had a kill or be killed lifestyle. I envisioned the ruler in the library at Alexandria, her arms laden with scrolls, saving what books she could. To me, Cleopatra would always be heroic.
Outside, the birds called, and the sun made me put on my sun glasses.
Movement in the garden caught my attention. I rushed into the jungle, recognizing Isabella’s svelte form. A pale sea foam gown clung to her bones, draped off one shoulder. A tiny cape fluttered from her back below her exquisite shoulder blades. High couture for such a setting. Perhaps she had a lover.
She stopped, cocked her head at my approach. Her lips matched the spears of ginger surrounding us. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Good morning. I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Good morning, Cleo. Not at all. You’re welcome to enjoy the pathways. It’s best to have Chuck with you. This place is a maze.”
“Isabella, I’d like to see Marcus again.” I blurted it out before nerves could make me miss my chance.
She gave me a look. I couldn’t read it. Something closed off in her, like a door of black glass. She was tough as an obsidian blade inside. What was she hiding?
“Oh. I’ll let him know.” She sighed. “Plan on tomorrow morning. Chuck will inform you if there’s any change in plans.”
“Thank you.” I shrugged in apology.
Maybe it was a protocol problem. It seemed I should have made my request through Chuck. After all, Isabella owned the place. She wasn’t here to do the scheduling. I blushed. Apologizing might only make my gaffe bigger.
“I’m enjoying it here.” That seemed a safe change of topic.
“With Marcus?” She arched one brow.
“I saw him once.” I hated the defensiveness in my voice, but she seemed different. Was she jealous? I wouldn’t be surprised if every woman on the island was in love with him.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, dear. That’s the idea of this place. To have peace and freedom for enjoyment, to explore.” Her gaze past the fountain seemed wistful.
I didn’t need to be psychic to know she missed Alphonse.
“You’ve succeeded at that. He must be proud of you.”
She gave me another unreadable look. “What? Oh, Alphonse. Yes. I think he’d be thrilled.” Her smile wavered.
“I should go. I’m sorry for intruding.”
“Not at all, dear.” Her gaze remained distant.
She didn’t ask me to stay. I nodded, unable to get over the sense I was in the presence of a queen. I wondered about her heritage. Did her wonderful bone structure come from Spanish ancestors, mestizos, or the Maya? Or was I entirely off base? She might not have any local heritage. But I suspected she did. Isabella, Queen of Submission Island. What brought her here? Why this island?
I glanced back. She stood unmoving, watching something only she could see.
I rubbed my shoulders and hurried away.
The Mansion of Desire
Marcus sat in the big armchair in the same room where he spanked me, minus the cat. Everything was the same, but everything was different. I was different.
I had no idea what to say to him. In that eerie way he had, he spared me from spea
king.
“Strip,” he ordered.
I sucked in my breath. No greeting, no preamble. It was as though we never made love. Did he even remember me? He must. Had he been with other women in the meantime? Maybe he forgot which ones he’d fucked and which ones he hadn’t. It stung that there was no warmth, no special sense of pleasure at seeing me again. He seemed—aloof. Less interested in me than he’d been in the cat.
“Shall I leave?” I whispered. “If this is a bad time—.”
“Strip,” he repeated.
I turned my back and half-rolled my eyes, reminded of other times in my life I’d been ordered to do things I didn’t want to do. It wasn’t erotic. I got on with it before he could bark at me again. I supposed I was idiotic thinking his finishing me off with his cock after the spanking was something special. Men were different. For him, it was just a release. I happened to be handy. It didn’t mean anything. My eyes burned. I faced the shelf and yanked my dress off. I threw my lacy black bra on it and wrestled off my matching panties, managing to trip myself with my heel caught in them. My agitation made me clumsy. I felt too aware of my naked, jiggling, fleshy body.
Josh said at the end, ‘You’ve got a good body, there’s just too much of it.’ Fuck him. Fuck all men.
As before, I left my heels on. They were one of my favorite pairs. Red patent leather with a jeweled strap up my insteps and around my ankles. I stayed facing away from him for a couple of breaths to compose myself.
Marcus, his name was Marcus. Last time, he had me call him Master. I wanted to call him Master. This was Submission Island. I was supposed to be having a good time.
I couldn’t find a smile, so I looked at the floor and made myself face him. I straightened my shoulders and clasped my arms behind my back to present my breasts better. All of this was supposed to be sexy. I wasn’t supposed to want to cry, unless that’s what a scene called for, during a whipping or something. I had to go along with this. Just do it. I envisioned his cock, my saliva making it gleam. My pulse dropped to my panties.
Maybe after this, I could manage not to see him. I felt too much. That was my damned problem, I felt too much.
“Kneel.” His voice came out gentle.
He was a perceptive man. He probably noticed my red eyes, my tell-tale flushed skin. Not the red of arousal, the blotchy rash-pink of distress.
I got on my knees near his chair to save myself the ignominy of having to crawl to him. Good, maybe he just wanted me to blow him and I could leave. I’d go ahead and cry in private, because I wanted him ridiculously. I wanted him the way a shipwreck survivor wants fresh water.
I kept my gaze down. I never could keep emotions off my face.
“You don’t want to be here.”
It wasn’t a question. I didn’t speak.
“You may leave. It won’t go against you. You won’t get to pick another room today, but there are other activities on the island for your enjoyment. Tomorrow, you may pick a different room.”
Startled, I glanced at him. With that same equanimity I noticed when we met, he felt fine to dismiss me.
I stood, unsteady on my feet, guiding myself across the room with my hands. I held the wall and reached for my panties. He’d left a rose for me in this room and made my heart race, thinking he looked forward to seeing me as much as I looked forward to returning to him. How could I be so stupid?
“You know, Cleo, it’s only pleasure for me if it’s pleasure for you. Without your willingness,” he paused, “your eagerness, I have no desire for any of the activities in the Mansion of Desire.” A bitter tinge came through his words. “I sense you would service me as though it were an obligation. It’s never that. Unless the act comes from you, comes from wanting to please me, it’s an empty thing, a wrong thing.”
I tripped myself in my panties again. “But I want to please you!” I righted myself, searched for words. “It’s just you weren’t glad to see me, and you seem so cold. I realized it was just, you know, the games of the island. That I shouldn’t think anything about our first session.”
“Not think about it? I haven’t been able to think about anything else.” He rose and reached for me. His big hand grasped my shoulder and turned me to face him. His lips grazed my forehead. “Cleo.” I heard his heart in his voice. Mine stuttered. He enfolded me in his arms. “Cleo.”
I felt so vulnerable, naked against his clothed body. He smelled so good, and he felt strong and protective, like he’d stand against the world for me. His erection nudged me. I wished I dared to pull his clothes off.
He stroked my neck.
I buried my face against his chest. A tear sneaked out. He held me and rocked me against him. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be fun.
“I am pleased to see you, Cleo. More than I can tell you. I haven’t wanted a woman the way I want you—in a long time.” The huskiness in his voice hinted at a wound. “I suppose that’s why I feel so strict toward you. I want too much, so I want to put you through your paces, see if you can take it. Or prove to myself you can’t, so I’ll be off the hook and not have to risk getting hurt again.”
It was such a surprising thing to hear from a man, I arched back to see his face. The sorrow in his eyes startled me. It jarred me out of my pain to meet his. The Mansion of Desire seemed the home for the walking wounded.
He stroked my hair, his hand sliding down my back to rest on my ass like he owned it.
“Will you feel better if I give you another spanking, Cleo?”
“Yes, Master.”
He drew me to the chair, sat, and pulled me down on his lap. As though more at ease in our ritual positions, we sighed at the same time. He shifted to position his erection more comfortably.
“You have such a beautiful ass, Cleo. So rounded and creamy.”
I giggled. His hand came down on my ass. He squeezed. I was in for it now.
“I want you to tell me a word you can use as your safe word. Choose a word you wouldn’t say unintentionally, because when you say your safe word, I will stop. It’s safe to use your safe word. There’s no punishment or negative consequences. You say it, the scene ends. I’ll stay with you and help you come back from whatever we were doing, give you a soft landing. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Master.”
“Good. Tell me your safe word.”
“I don’t need one, because I trust you. Because you want me to have one, it’s rose.”
“Rose, your safe word is rose.” He nodded. “Good. A safe word doesn’t imply lack of trust. It gives us a tool for clear communication. I don’t know you well enough to read your body and sounds to discern if something is too much for you. A scene might be distressing emotionally for reasons I couldn’t know in advance. I’m honored by your trust. You will always have a safe word or some clear way to signal to me that you need to stop. If you need to catch my attention and can’t speak, tap twice with your fingers or your foot.” He demonstrated. “If it’s a matter of needing a break, we’ll take a break, and if you need to stop the session, we’ll stop the session. I want you to feel complete freedom. Using the safe word is not a failure and has nothing to do with the relationship between us.” He searched my face.
“I understand.” I quivered, my longing for him rising now that I felt sure he wanted me. The warmth of his legs and hand met in my body.
“Good.”
His hand smacked down on me at last. I gave myself over to the rush of the sting, the heat rising on my skin as though trying to follow his palm. He smacked me again.
I yelped. He held my ass with both hands.
He chuckled, a friendly, sexy sound. He had no unkindness in him.
He rained the spanks on both cheeks, alternating cheek to cheek. His driving rhythm and pounding palms drove the remembered width of his cock up my pussy. I writhed on him in heat. His deepening chuckle told me he was pleased. His cock pressed against me. I wanted it inside me.
I wanted the feel of him to extend as f
ar into my future as my altar journey took me into the past.
His blows came harder and faster. I felt him breathing hard, his firm body holding me in the cradle of his lap, keeping me safe, tormenting me with desire. I wanted the spanking to stop, for the intense sting to resolve to a burn.
He didn’t stop. He smacked my ass from below the curve of my cheeks, driving right into my sweet spot where I felt the blows resounding deep in my core, making me hotter. Damn, he was good.
My body jerked with the force of the blows. Tears ran down my face. It excited me he wasn’t holding back. He said he wanted to put me through my paces. I felt him testing me. I wanted to pass. I wanted intensely for him to be pleased. Not just pleased, blown away.
He took me out of myself. I rose on the energy he created. I became free, rocking on his lap. I lost my inhibitions and humped on him, so excited I didn’t care how raunchy I looked, how naked and blatant in my sexual desire.
He hit my lower cheeks with the side of his fist. Not in a mean way, the blows concentrated the pressure right where it felt best. I moaned. He continued.
“Yes, Cleo, give it up for me. I want you to come.”
His permission let me go for it. I humped wildly as he thumped me with his fist. I needed him. I wanted him. Yes, I’d come for him. I grabbed his thigh and squeezed his strong muscle. He pounded me. I arched, everything tightening. I couldn’t stand it, it was too much. I ground on him, gritting my teeth. He pressed his leg up at me.
“Do it, Cleo. Show me. I want to see you come.” He dug his fingers into my ass cheeks, deep into my sweet spots and added his pressure to my pussy grinding. His force and my humping tugged my clit just right.
“Oh, oh.” I fell over the edge, colors splattering, my body arcing, shaking. I cried out from my lower belly, deep sounds that rose and went on as though they’d been trapped forever.
I shuddered, too overcome and released to do anything but collapse. I rolled into a protective ball on his lap.
He held me. He kissed my face and smoothed my hair away from my eyes.