by Sykes, Julia
The intimate contact was broken all too soon. Master stepped back from me with a grunt, his hands closing around my upper arms and pulling them down so that my hair cascaded down my back. He applied gentle pressure, turning my body so I was facing him once again. His predator’s eyes shone with a hungry light, but his lips were pressed into a thin line. As though he couldn’t help himself, he reached out to stroke his fingertips along the line of the silver chain.
“Beautiful,” he said softly. But he wasn’t looking at the pendant.
I touched my fingers to his, silently communicating that I welcomed the contact.
“Thank you, Master,” I whispered fervently.
Shaking his head slightly, he cleared his throat. But his movements were hesitant, regretful, as he pulled away from me. My face fell as disappointment flooded me. Resolutely, I rolled the chain between my fingers, reminding myself that he had claimed me as his, even if he was fighting his desire for me. His jaw clenched as his eyes followed my gesture, and he tore his gaze away from me, his attention turning to the other package.
Moments later, he offered me a large sketchpad and a vibrant set of colored pencils. Again, I hesitated to accept his gift. My flash of memory the day before had unsettled me, and I wasn’t at all sure that I wanted to tap into that part of myself further.
“I want you to draw something for me,” Master said firmly.
I swallowed hard, knowing I couldn’t refuse. Compliantly, I took the sketchpad from him, but I offered no words of thanks this time. Master studied my troubled expression.
“It would make me very happy if you would draw something for me,” he told me gently.
A pang shot through my heart. Now I definitely couldn’t refuse. If I could do anything to please him in the way that he had pleased me, then I had to do it.
“What would you like for me to draw?” I asked, my voice slightly tremulous.
“How about someplace that makes you happy?” He suggested. “And don’t draw my apartment,” he stipulated after a moment’s consideration.
Uneasiness made my gut churn. I didn’t know anyplace else that made me happy. I bit my lip, but I nodded to demonstrate my compliance. Master closed the short distance between us to kiss the top of my head sweetly.
“Good girl,” he said with approval. “I’m going to sift through some of this goddamn paperwork. Otherwise Clayton might come by and demand that I return to the office.”
No. I couldn’t allow that to happen. If he needed me to draw so he could focus on his work rather than being distracted by a movie, then I would happily do so. I flipped open the sketchpad before he had even made it to the couch.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath.
I re-arranged his suggestion into an order, allowing his will to guide me rather than my own mind.
Draw someplace that makes you happy.
Taking up a pencil, I settled into a trance-like state, the sketch coming to life before me almost of its own accord. I had tapped into some contented part of my mind, where primal emotions ruled me rather than my own busy thoughts. I slipped out of time as I sank back into that deep part of myself, and I barely even noticed what I was drawing.
“Chicago, huh?” The sound of Master’s voice just behind me made me jump. “That’s really beautiful, sweetheart.”
I blinked, pulling myself out of my trance to actually take in what I had drawn. The colors were muted, the scene softly illuminated by the early morning sun that shone weakly through the blanket of snow clouds above. The city rose up abruptly from the shore of Lake Michigan in the distance. A woman stood in the foreground, her face in profile as she stared out over the lake. She huddled in her purple pea coat as the wind caught up her light brown, wavy hair, lifting it so that it floated behind her, lending her an ethereal quality.
“When were you in Chicago?” Master asked.
I froze. Ice began to crystalize at the base of my spine, creeping upward to radiate a chill throughout my entire body.
“I wasn’t,” I said. But my voice wavered.
“Then why did you draw yourself there?” Master’s voice rumbled through my skin, but it didn’t bring the comfort that it usually did. It sank into my chest, filling the space until my lungs threatened to burst.
“I didn’t,” I insisted.
Master reached around me to point at the woman in the picture. “That’s you,” he told me firmly.
“No.” I shook my head vigorously. “That’s not me. That’s Lydia.”
My mouth snapped closed, and coppery blood spilled onto my tongue as I bit the inside of my cheek hard.
Master grasped my shoulders and forcibly swiveled my body on the barstool so that I was facing him. I wouldn’t meet his eye. I couldn’t face what he was saying.
“That’s you, sweetheart,” he said, more gently this time. “You’re Lydia.”
A small whimper slid up my throat as I shook my head again. I wasn’t her. I wasn’t her.
He gripped my chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning my head so that I was staring down at the drawing. I squeezed my eyes shut, unwilling to face it.
“Look at her, girl,” he ordered.
Oh, god. Why was he doing this to me? Master was going to destroy me. I wasn’t Lydia; I was his slave. And I didn’t want to be anyone else.
“I won’t tell you again.” This time his words were a threatening growl.
Dread pooling in my stomach, I obeyed, forcing myself to study the woman in my drawing. Her skin was lightly tanned, and her cheekbones weren’t as pronounced as mine. But she had my delicate, sloping nose and my pointed chin. Even though her gaze was directed towards the water, her eyes flashed a hint of blue-green.
“This is Lydia,” Master said firmly from beside me. “She’s been to Chicago. Judging by her hatred of the Cardinals, I’m guessing she’s a Cubs fan. She’s an artist and an excellent cook. She hates romantic comedies. She prefers dresses to jeans, and her favorite color is purple. Isn’t that right, girl?”
My entire body trembled, and tears pooled in my eyes. “She doesn’t exist anymore,” I whispered desperately. “She died.”
Master applied pressure beneath my chin, forcing my face back to his. His expression was hard, determined. But something akin to sadness flickered through his steely gaze.
“She’s not dead. She’s you. You’re Lydia.”
Panic tore through me, ripping my insides apart.
“NO!” I shrieked. My knees hit the tiled kitchen floor as I flung myself at his feet. I stared up at him with feverish desperation. “I’m yours, Master. I’m yours. I don’t want to be her. Please…”
His features twisted with horror and disgust.
He didn’t want me anymore.
I screamed as my entire world shattered, the shards of it ripping at my soul. My body collapsed to the floor, and I curled up in on myself, hugging my knees to my chest protectively. My fingers closed around the pendant at my throat with a vice-like grip as despairing sobs wracked my body.
I wasn’t Master’s slave. He didn’t want me anymore.
But I wasn’t Lydia either. I couldn’t be Lydia. She would be disgusted by what my former master had reduced me to. She couldn’t face that.
I was no one.
I was no one.
My mind went completely blank as I allowed the thought to claim me. If I didn’t exist, then nothing could hurt me. The pain would stop.
God, I wanted the pain to stop.
My trembling ceased, and I went utterly silent as I embraced the nothingness. I was aware of the sound of his voice, but his words were meaningless. It was easier that way.
“Fuck!” His thumb traced the line of my cheekbone. I chose to ignore the almost painful sweetness of the sensation of his skin against mine. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. Look at me. I’m right here. I’ve got you.” His voice was taut with anxiety, but I didn’t respond. He didn’t have any authority over me.
He grasped my shoulders, shaking me. �
��Look at me, girl,” he almost snarled the demand.
But I wasn’t his sweetheart and I wasn’t his girl. I was no one.
“God damn it!” He shook me harder. “Lydia!”
I certainly wasn’t her. I remained in my merciful blankness.
Curses dropped from his lips in a continuous stream. After a few minutes, he went quiet, and his touch left me. Dimly, I was disturbed by the loss of the heat of him. I shied away from the emotion. I was tired of hurting.
God, I was tired.
When he spoke again, his voice was deep and authoritative, his words even. All signs of his earlier kindness and concerned anxiety were gone.
“Open your eyes.”
The clear, controlled tone frightened me. His iron will was almost strong enough to penetrate my sweet nothingness, and I flinched ever so slightly.
Stinging pain bloomed on my cheek as his palm cracked across it.
“I gave you an order, slave.” The calmly-spoken words held a more serious threat than his ferocious snarl.
Slave.
Tears of joy spilled down my cheeks as my eyes snapped open. His expression was cool and remote as he stood, his arms folding across his chest as he towered over me. I scrambled up onto my knees, desperate to demonstrate my utter devotion and gratitude.
“Master.” My voice broke on his title.
He brushed his fingers over the top of my head, accepting my submission. Unable to help myself, I leaned forward, pressing my cheek against his leg. This was where I wanted to be. This was where I belonged. Master owned me. He would take care of me, protect me.
He allowed me to stay there for a few minutes, my tears dampening his trousers as I clung to him.
After a while, he bent down and gathered me up in his arms, cradling my body against his chest. I stared up at his perfect face with open adoration. He caught my eye, but he quickly looked away, his jaw tightening as he resolutely gazed straight ahead. Once we were in the bedroom, he settled down on the bed, his back resting against the wall so that he was sitting upright.
My heart swelled when he didn’t release me. Instead, he shifted me so one arm was supporting my back. His free hand brushed against my cheek. My skin pulsed with gentle heat where he had struck me.
“I’m sorry I had to do that, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know what else -”
He cut himself off, clearing his face of concern. His hard, impassive mask was back. I loved the sight of it. I didn’t have to worry about anything when Master was in control.
“You’re going to listen to me now,” he told me coolly. “You’re not going to protest and you’re not going to cry. You’ll take deep, even breaths while I’m talking to you, and you’ll look me in the eye. You are not allowed to panic. You’ll accept what I’m saying because you don’t have the choice to do otherwise. I expect your complete obedience, or there will be consequences. Do you understand me, girl?”
I was utterly enthralled by him. I took a deep breath and stared up into his captivating metallic eyes. “Yes, Master.”
He gave a short nod, acknowledging my compliance. “I don’t want you to think about the woman in your drawing. You are not allowed to worry about who she was or what happened to her. But you will accept that she is a part of you.”
I flinched.
“Breathe,” he commanded sharply.
I obeyed. I would never refuse him anything.
“Your name is Lydia. And I’m going to call you by your name. You will answer to it. Understood?”
I could do that. He could call me whatever it pleased him to call me. I was his slave, and I would obey him in everything.
“Yes, Master.” The tremulous note was gone from my voice; the words rang out clear and fervent.
His perfect smile hit me like a blow to the solar plexus, taking my breath away. “That’s a good girl. I’m very proud of you, Lydia.”
The praise sent joy bubbling through me. And I was distantly amazed to find that I liked the way the name sounded on his lips.
My name.
I was Lydia, and I belonged to Master.
I stared at those full lips that had formed my name so perfectly, and I licked my own as longing rose up in me. I wanted to be closer to Master, to somehow express the magnitude of what I felt for him. My gaze flicked up to his eyes, and a little thrill shot through me at the hunger that shone in them as he watched my tongue swipe across my lips.
Surrendering to my desire, I leaned up into him and softly pressed my mouth to his.
He had ordered me not to do anything sexual for him, but this wasn’t sexual. This was pure, desperate need, a painful yearning to connect. I wasn’t doing this to please him; I was doing this because my soul craved to brush against his.
He responded instantly, a low growl rumbling from somewhere deep inside of him. I caught it on a gasp, taking it into myself, relishing the way it reverberated through me. His tongue delved into my open mouth, stroking me with almost feverish intensity. The kiss wasn’t sweet, and it wasn’t gentle. The voraciousness with which Master claimed me let me know I wasn’t the only one who had been longing for this intimate contact.
My hands closed around the back of his neck, holding him to me more tightly as I drank him in greedily. He nipped my lower lip in reprimand, and I moaned into him, savoring the sharp, sweet reminder of his dominance. My head spun as he consumed me, controlling my very breath. Just when my lungs began to burn from lack of oxygen, he jerked away from me. I gasped in air, panting as I stared up at him, wide-eyed.
My wide, silly grin melted instantly in the wake of his anguished expression. I touched my fingers to the creases in his forehead, trying to erase them. He flinched away from me, his eyes tormented.
“I can’t do this,” he said raggedly. He started to shift my body away from him, to put distance between us. I tightened my hold around the back of his neck, my fingernails pressing into his skin.
“Please,” I begged hoarsely. I couldn’t bear his distance. Not now. Not ever. “Just hold me, Master. Please.”
Uncertainty clouded his expression, his inner turmoil etched clearly across his handsome features.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he finally conceded on a sigh. His lips thinned. “Okay, Lydia,” he corrected himself. He speared me with a significant look. “I’ll hold you. You didn’t do anything wrong. I shouldn’t have… We can’t do that again.”
My heart sank in my chest. Master’s kiss had been the singular most glorious experience of my entire existence. But as much as I hated the thought of never experiencing it again, the idea of him turning away from me was far more painful. I would do anything to stay close to him.
All I could do was hope that one day he might change his mind.
Chapter 12
Lydia,
Master’s Slave
Three long days passed, and Master didn’t so much as bring his lips close to mine. We returned to our regular schedule: I cooked our meals, Master and I exercised together in the afternoon, and he held me as I sat beside him on the couch. But something had changed between us, and now he spent more time being absorbed by his work than he did laughing with me. I longed to reestablish our closeness; I feared that I was losing him. Sometimes when I called him “Master,” something shifted in his eyes, and I wasn’t sure if it was desire or disgust.
True to his word, Master called me “Lydia.” I missed the endearments “sweetheart” and “girl,” and thrill shot through me every time he slipped up and used one of them. I couldn’t deny that it was strangely fulfilling to hear the name “Lydia” fall from his lips, but I didn’t want Lydia to fully replace who I had been before. Lydia and Master’s slave were one in the same, and I longed for him to give equal acknowledgement to both sides of me.
I hadn’t touched my sketchpad since I had brought Lydia back to life, but I decided it was time for me to try again. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I lifted the pencil, the result of both the fear that had gripped me after my firs
t attempt at drawing and nervousness at my daring plan. But this time, I had a clear objective, and I wouldn’t allow my subconscious to determine the image that flowed from my pencil strokes. This time, I wouldn’t give form to something horrific that stirred unsettling memories.
Master glanced over at me curiously as I settled myself down at the kitchen counter. I was pleased to notice that he was frowning slightly at my distance from where he sat working on the couch.
“What are you doing, Lydia?” He asked. “I thought we were going to watch a game.”
“I’d rather not,” I said, my voice a touch incisive. Master had suggested we watch a Cubs game, but I had decided against it. It was the first time I had chosen to do something of my own volition since he had taken me into his home. But my purpose was more important than my reluctance to counter his wishes. He hadn’t outright ordered me to sit beside him and watch TV, so I wasn’t technically defying him.
I was surprised when he gave me an encouraging smile. “That’s the first time you’ve told me what you want,” he pointed out. “That’s one rule you had yet to follow. I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”
“You will always tell me if you want something that I’m not giving you.”
I beamed at him, all reservations regarding my defiance melting in the wake of his wholehearted approval. And he had called me “sweetheart.”
His expression turned more serious. “I want you to draw something that makes you happy, Lydia. I don’t want you to get upset again.”
My smile took on a sly, secretive edge. Oh, I fully intended to draw something that made me happy. “Yes, Master,” I agreed sweetly.
He cocked his head at me, clearly trying to puzzle out my expression. I ducked my head before his suspicions could become further aroused, pointedly turning my attention towards my sketchpad. After a moment of silence, the clatter of Master’s fingers darting across his laptop keys resumed. I was careful not to audibly heave a sigh of relief.
I chose a black pencil. I intended for my sketch to be stark, commanding Master’s attention through rendering the image in bold black and white.