Twenty-One

by D. Victoria BonAnno

  Silence. Not even the attendants spoke. Twenty-One wished she could peek out and see her Master’s face.

  “How did Twenty-One do with the wax?” he asked finally, his tone flat and even.

  Faith’s voice was noticeably relaxed. “Not well. I know you’ve been eroticizing pain, but I don’t think she was ready for the wax.”

  “That’s why you’re supposed to consult me when you’re going to use my Model Slave,” Demetrius snapped.

  Twenty-One held her breath, too nervous to breathe. Her Master was irritated, possibly even angry, and it had to do with her. She had done what she was ordered, but that did not matter. If Demetrius wished to take out his anger on her, she would endure it. She would be used.

  “Have Six finish with Eleven,” said Demetrius. “Gabe, bring Twenty-One up to the suite. It’s time for her individual training.” Twenty-One felt her Master’s eyes on her like pinpoints of heat. “She has catching up to do.”

  Chapter 21

  November 11, 2011

  The interrogation room of the Oak County Police Department wasn’t the bare, dismally lit hole in the wall that Mariane had seen in so many movies. The walls were a warm wood colour, bare save for a plaque of the Miranda Rights on the wall opposite to her. The chair she had been sitting in for two hours was cushioned and comfortable, the desk on which she leaned smelled like disinfectant despite the pile of cigarette butts crumpled in the ash tray. Mariane had chain-smoked her way through a half a pack while two detectives dragged her through a string of monotonous and repetitive questions. She had come into the department terrified and ready for a battle with combative cops, but the past two hours had crawled by with about as much excitement as standing in line at the DMV. The detectives sitting across from her in drab street clothes had taken her through series after series of dull questions regarding the message she had left on Dr. Leroux’s office voicemail. Her fear had quickly dissolved into boredom.

  “How much alcohol had you consumed at the time you left the voicemail?”

  “Why did you leave a name and not more information?”

  “Who is Demetrius Heart?”

  She had answered and re-answered the same questions, including her name, job, years attending the Oryx, and she was finally at the breaking point.

  “Look, I was drunk, I was confused, and I was missing my friend, okay?” she snapped, tossing down her cigarette. “I’ve already answered the same fucking questions a million times. Can I fucking go now?”

  Detective Gatz, a mousey woman with an unremarkable round face and wire-rimmed glasses, fixed Mariane with a stare that somehow seemed both blank and invasive.

  “We’re just about finished, Miss McCandal,” she said.

  “You said that a fucking hour ago!” Mariane shouted. She rose halfway out of her chair and stopped. There was nowhere to go. She sat back down with a sigh.

  “Look,” Mariane said again. “Chloe’s my friend. I want you to find her, and you’re wasting your time on a stupid drunk dial I made.”

  Detective Gatz adjusted her glasses but said nothing. Her partner, an equally dull middle-aged black man named Billman, made a sound like a frog clearing his throat.

  “What we don’t understand,” he said, folding his arms over his chest, “is why you would give Dr. Leroux the name of a local DJ in reference to his missing daughter.”

  Mariane groaned. “I told you, I took Chloe to the Oryx the last night I saw her.”

  “Where she met the DJ?” Detective Gatz asked.

  Mariane shook her head. “No. They never met.”

  Gatz steepled her fingers and rested her elbows on the desk.

  “Let’s walk through the events of that night one more time.”

  Mariane cursed loudly.

  “I’ve fucking had it!” she said, throwing up her hands. “You two are fucking idiots! I took Chloe to the Oryx, we danced, we drank, we went home. That’s it. Demetrius DJs there every night and I don’t know why I said his fucking name. All he did was push her into the wall of blood, okay? That’s it.”

  Gatz and Billman exchanged a glance.

  “So Demetrius did have contact with Chloe Leroux that night,” said Gatz.

  Mariane’s heart dropped into her stomach.

  “No,” said Mariane. “Well, I mean, kind of.” She took a couple of steps back and pressed her back against the wall, which felt unbearably solid and confining.

  Billman stood up. “What sort of conversation did Chloe and Demetrius have at the Oryx on the night of September 23rd?”

  Mariane felt the colour drain from her face. Billman was speaking as if to a hidden camera, and Mariane had watched enough cop shows to know that there probably was a camera somewhere.

  “No,” she sputtered, her fingers tightening around her forgotten cigarette. “Stop, no, I didn’t say that, they didn’t have a conversation. You’re putting words in my mouth.”

  Gatz slipped off her glasses. “Ms. McCandal, you called Dr. Leroux’s office and left the name Demetrius Heart on a message. We traced it back to you and now you’re lying to us about the relationship between Demetrius Heart and your missing friend.”

  “No, I’m not,” Mariane insisted, panic thick in her throat. “There was no relationship-”

  She felt Billman move closer to her, too close for comfort. “Were they seeing each other in secret? Did Dr. Leroux disapprove of his daughter seeing a man like Mr. Heart?”

  Mariane sprung back from the wall, her skin cold with panic. “Oh my God, are you serious? There was no relationship. She was a stranger. They’re always strangers.”

  The words spewed out of her mouth before she could clamp her lips shut. A sickening dizziness washed through her. The little room spun with such velocity that she nearly missed the chair as she went to sit down. Billman and Gatz moved around her. She saw their lips move, but she couldn’t hear their voices. Mariane buried her face in her hands. Slowly, her hearing returned.

  “…indict you for withholding information if you don’t tell us what you mean,” Gatz was saying.

  Mariane’s head swam. She had just fucked up her entire life with a single slip of the tongue. Gatz and Billman may be FBI detectives, but the facility was still Oak County, and she knew Demetrius had his hands in the department on some level. Word would get back to him. Even if she shut up now, she was dead.

  She stared at Gatz and Billman, who had enough sense to shut up and let her think. They had backed her into a corner with skill, but that didn’t mean they could find Chloe, or protect Mariane. But what else could she do?

  “I want you to get me out of here,” she said, trying to regain her composure. She smashed her cigarette into the ash tray.

  “What do you mean?” asked Billman.

  Mariane hugged herself and took a deep breath. “Get me into witness protection or whatever, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  Chapter 22

  November 11, 2011

  11/8/11

  Ms. Dia Belaire

  2717 Straeleni Street

  New Orleans, LA, 70130

  Demetrius,

  Where are you? I’ve never gone this long without hearing from you. I even tried calling you. I know you hate talking on the phone, but I didn’t think you would ignore me. Have you forgotten about me? Please, Demetrius, I understand if you don’t want to give me away, but please don’t ignore me. I’m terrified and I need you now more than ever. I need you to tell me everything’s going to be all right. The wedding’s in two weeks. If I don’t hear from you, I don’t know what I’m going to do…

  Demetrius was on fire.

  He clutched his black jeans so hard that the open fly bit into his hand. The other hand he kept buried in Twenty-One’s short honey brown hair, straining to let her control the rhythm as he slid in and out of her mouth. He was supposed to be evaluating her skills. The moment those wet pink lips slid over him, however, he’d wanted to snatch the back of her head and fuck her until he bruised the back of her
throat. She stroked him with lips and tongue, grazing his most sensitive spots with just an edge of teeth, as per his instruction. He had grown used to the slaves he had taken from the streets, prostitutes who sucked hard and fast to get the job done quickly and move on. Oh, but he could tell it was a much more novel act for Twenty-One; she explored every ridge and crevice, savoured every little sensation. She did not even neglect the testicles, though many women did at first; carefully taking one at a time into her mouth, rolling her tongue around them, sucking gently. Demetrius had no control over the low sounds that came out of him. He curled his fingers into her hair, squeezing until she moaned, her lips humming along his shaft.

  Demetrius looked down at his slave. Her eyes were closed, her nipples hard, her hands straining to remain clasped behind her back. Slaves were not allowed to use their hands until they mastered using their mouths alone. It would not take Twenty-One long to reach that level.

  He stroked the side of her cheek and she opened those sweet hazel eyes and looked at him. He smiled at her, letting it spread to his eyes so she could see it. Tears in her eyes, again, tears. She had broken marvelously. The branding and her time with the other slaves had shattered her last shreds of resistance, yet the tears still came, especially when he showed her tenderness. The tears were no longer a sign of inner struggle, no, no, he could tell that she no longer fought against the chemistry between them. They were signs of her guilt at having embraced her fate. Soon that, too, would pass, and she would finally accept what she was, and to whom she belonged. He caught a hot little tear with the pad of his thumb.

  “When I come,” he said, “I want you to swallow.”

  He pulled himself out of her mouth just long enough for her to utter a breathless “Yes, Master” before he plunged back between her lips and began a rough rhythm. Twenty-One tensed at first, her elbows twitching as if she would release her hands and try to regain control. Demetrius nearly squeezed her hair to remind her of her place, but she did not break form. Rather, she took a deep breath through her nose and closed her eyes. He felt her throat open when it had been resisting his thrusts before. She gagged a little when he reached the very back of her throat.

  “Relax your throat, slave,” his voice was strained. “Open up to me.”

  Twenty-One obeyed, taking another breath, and he felt himself slide into the sweet pressure of her throat. He threw his head back. Oh, it was so delicious, it was too much.

  “Ohhh, good girl,” he purred.

  He pulled out of her throat, delighting in the rush of cool air hitting him when she took an involuntary gasp of breath. He let her recover a moment before returning to a steady rhythm. By her reactions, it was clear she had never deep-throated before. The thought of having penetrated her virgin throat lent a ragged urgency to his thrusting. It felt so good it hurt; the seal of her lips, the delicate tongue running along the underside of him, her silken throat. With one last buck, he came, hard, pumping the back of her throat and giving her no choice but to swallow. He came until his legs shook, and his vision blurred when he opened his eyes.

  Twenty-One sat on her knees before him, panting, her skin gleaming with sweat. Her hair was tousled, her lips slick, those beautiful breasts of hers heaving. Seeing her like that gave him the dangerous urge to gather her in his arms and kiss her lips, her pink cheeks, her eyelids. He clenched his fist and turned his back on the sight of her, refusing to give it another thought. He had assessed her oral skills. His own regiment dictated he leave her unsatisfied, emphasizing that his pleasure is more important than hers, but the pink marks that still decorated her stomach from the candle wax reminded him that he had much more work to do with her in eroticizing pain. He had been far too gentle with her for far too long, and his weakness had been exposed to his entire staff during that insipid little game downstairs. He could procrastinate no longer. She was ready and he had to trust himself to control his urges, no matter how strong they were around this particular slave. Was he a Master or not?

  “Are you ready to be bound again, chérie?”

  He turned back to the slave, whose eyes had grown just a bit wider at his words.

  “If it pleases you, Master,” she whispered.

  She was already trembling as she lay down on the bed by his orders, shifting so her brand didn’t hold any of her weight. It would take weeks to heal. Demetrius went to the bathroom and unlocked the storage chest, selecting a sturdy set of four leather cuffs. He loved the timeless feel of binding a slave with ropes, but after the branding he sensed he would have to gradually return to ropes with Twenty-One, lest she link ropes with the trauma of the branding process. He also chose a wide-tongued crop and a blindfold that matched the satin sheets on which she lay. The leather crop squeaked when he gripped it. The thought of striking Twenty-One’s soft, sweet skin still sent a dangerous jolt into his chest. It would be a trying day for both of them.

  He kept her unblindfolded while he fitted her wrists and ankles with the cuffs, had her watch him strip her of the power over her limbs. He let her see the crop. Tears again, most likely from fear this time. She whimpered.

  “Sh, sh, sh,” he whispered, stroking the warm slope of her cheek. “Those tears are charming, but keep them quiet. The only sounds I want out of your mouth are the ones I force you to make. Understand?”

  Twenty-One swallowed back a sob. “Yes, Master.”

  He couldn’t stop himself from stroking her cheek one last time before slipping the blindfold over her eyes. She looked exquisite, her arms and legs spread wide, her glistening sex betraying her desire, her short, shivering breath betraying her fear. The combination summoned a lust that almost hurt because he had just spent himself.

  Demetrius ran his fingertips from the hollow of Twenty-One’s throat down to her stomach, the barest of touches. The slave gave a shivering breath, her nipples growing hard immediately. He traced the curve of her hips, her collarbone, her exposed lips and cheeks, savouring the softness of her skin and the little sounds she made through closed lips. It was so easy; the simple sensation of their skin touching brought her to the state in which he needed her, without having to touch her sex or those tempting little nipples. He took them between his fingers and gave them a hard, fast pinch. Twenty-One gasped and released a little cry, her arms jerking against her bonds, but he had gone back to stroking her skin, and she lapsed back into pleasure almost immediately. Excellent. She had grown wetter, as he figured she would. It was much easier to eroticize pain in a slave who already had masochistic tendencies, no matter how subconscious they were. He continued the pattern, caressing her to the perfect point of arousal and pinching her or raking his nails across her skin without warning. Oh, she liked that pain outright, arching her back as he slowly scratched streaks across her ribs, up her thighs, down her chest. The red marks marring that pale flesh made him hard again, painfully hard. He stopped before the temptation to draw blood became too great, reaching instead for the crop.

  Twenty-One froze the moment he brushed her skin with the crop’s tongue. So here was her wall. She feared the crop as she had feared the flogger he had used on her first training day, and the whip he had threatened her with. It was a common wall he met in training. Most slaves he had dealt with feared a tool that did far less damage than what they endured by bare hands. It was an amusing psychological quirk. Demetrius ran the crop softly along her skin as he had done with his fingers, but her limbs were tense, her fists clenched, her jaw locked, waiting for a blow.

  “Détends-toi, Twenty-One,” he murmured. “Relax.”

  But he knew his command alone would not do it. He brushed his free hand up her thigh and gently parted her sex with his fingers. Her entire body seemed to hesitate. He stroked up her midline with the crop and stroked the length of her sex with a finger.

  That did it. Her mouth opened in a silent cry, her knees struggling but unable to bend. She grew hotter beneath his touch, and as he stroked, she ground her sex into his fingers, the crop all but forgotten. He chuckled under
his breath, brushing the crop tongue over her nipple as he worked her over. When she had gotten to the point of writhing against her bonds, he raised the crop and slapped it against the swell of her right breast.

  Twenty-One gasped, her head flinging back so violently he feared she had shaken the blindfold loose. His fingers were slick with her wetness, so very wet. He struck her again with the crop, sooner and harder than he should have at this stage in her training, but though her cry was more of pain, her hips twitched to meet his touch. He took a breath to control himself, circled her apex with the pad of his thumb and struck her again, more gently, over the nipple.

  “Master!” she gasped. “It hurts!”

  Demetrius grinned outright at the ache in her voice. “But you’re enjoying it.”

  Twenty-One pressed her lips together, her cheeks flushed, her pulse pounding so hard he could feel it along her thigh.

  “Yes, Master,” she admitted finally.

  Demetrius’ grin widened. He slid a finger into her sex, open and ready.

  “Yes, what?” he growled. His own desire had reached a slow burn, but he would not take her again, not yet.

  “Yes, Master,” she murmured again, breathless.

  Demetrius looked down at the pink folds of her sex, and the image of Twenty-One’s face buried between Eleven’s legs. A strange combination of lust and anger flared. He shoved it aside.

  “Can you see?”

  “No, Master.”

  He cupped his mask, anxiously fingering the smooth copper rivets.

  “Lying to your Master merits terrible punishment, Twenty-One,” he warned. Twenty-One writhed a little away from the direction of his voice.

  “I can’t see, Master,” her voice laced with an edge of fear. “I promise.”

  Demetrius let his silence agitate her a bit more, drawing strength from her fear of him. He took a long breath to calm himself, and slid the mask off his face to hang around his neck.

  The air that stuck his bare skin seemed so cold. He licked his lips, unable to set himself into motion for a moment. What was he doing? In six years, he had never taken off his mask in front of anyone. Mama Dede was the last person to see him without it. Her expression had bound the mask to him more than anything else; pity in the eyes of a woman who pitied no one. Yet twice he stood bare-faced before this slave. He recalled his savage impulse on the stormy day she had tried to escape him, a need so sudden and uncontrollable that he could scarcely remember ripping off the mask. But the kiss, oh, that sweet stolen kiss, he would never forget.