Mariane walked back into the hotel room, bypassing Gatz and Billman without a glance. She sat back down and faced the glaring red light of the video camera. The faces of Chloe and Ramirez loomed in her mind. Maybe this would make them go away once and for all.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”
Chapter 27
November 28, 2011
Abigail’s half-nude body filled Demetrius’ flat screen as she stood in a Detroit hotel room. Her favourite, much improved from the last time Demetrius had seen him, stood behind her, lacing her into a leather corset. She stood in front of a long mirror, fussing with her patent leather boots and her blonde hair as if her conversation with Demetrius was the last thing on her mind. He knew better, of course; all of this was a show for him, as if he were some fantasy-ridden buyer dazzled by her body and her command over her slave. It was pure vanity and he was in no mood to indulge her.
“When will you be down?” he asked, leaning against his bed. “Everything here is set.”
Abigail gave him a sideways glance. “My boys will need rest after the show tonight.”
“I don’t know why you insist on going there every year,” Demetrius snarled, not caring if his tone betrayed his mood. “You have no clients in Detroit.”
Abigail brushed her hair over her shoulder and gave Demetrius her full attention, putting a hand on her hip. “Temper, temper. You have your little nightclub incorporated in your training regimen, and I have the Fetish Ball in mine. I’ve already taken Ash to a few back home, and look how much he’s improved.” She reached up behind her and stroked her slave’s muscled torso as he finished lacing her corset. His task complete, he knelt on the floor, head bowed, waiting for his Mistress’s next command.
“Oh, yes,” Demetrius growled. “Now he’s where he was supposed to be a month ago.”
Abigail’s eyes hardened, but she pursed her lips into a theatrical pout. “You always get this way before the dinner party. Everything’s going to be fine, D. It always is. The boys already have their satyr horns. All we need to do when we get there is to dress them up in that latex paint of yours.”
“We’re just using body paint this year,” he muttered. “The attendants complained about the metallic latex being too hard to scrub off last year.”
Abigail tossed her shoulders and adjusted her plump breasts in her corset. Demetrius rose. He was restless. Konri was settled in his usual room at the Manor, the slaves’ pictures had been taken for the buyers’ catalogues, and the dining room had been decorated for the ridiculous Roman theme Abigail had insisted upon. Yet something still felt unfinished about it, imperfect, and he couldn’t shake that feeling.
“Body paint’s going to make a mess when the games start,” Abigail muttered. “But you’re the boss, D.” She stepped around her kneeling slave and sat on the bed, opening her legs just enough to show Demetrius that she wore no panties beneath her leather mini skirt before demurely crossing one ankle over the other.
“I am,” Demetrius said, letting his voice drop to a low hum. “And you’ve become very rich by following my lead, Abigail. Don’t let yourself slip so far into self-indulgence that you become a useless caricature of a true Mistress.”
Ash flinched ever so slightly on the floor, telling Demetrius that the slave knew of her short fuse all too well.
“Now, when will you be here tomorrow?” Demetrius said slowly. He smirked at the sight of Abigail’s mouth tightening.
“No later than nine, my dear boss man.”
The venom in her voice made him grin outright.
“Eight thirty,” he said before cutting off the feed to the flat screen.
Demetrius rose from the bed, his mood lifted just a bit. He knew the source of his unease; the sweet little deviation from his usual pattern. But Twenty-One had broken marvelously, and Konri seemed to have accepted the idea of a Model Slave. He made a point not to mention Twenty-One to Abigail. She had grown too comfortable with their successful business in the past years. She needed to be kept in line. Still, he would need Abigail to accept the Model Slave as well, and though she was going through training in record time, Twenty-One was not ready for the dinner party. Her uncertainty during the wax game proved that. He had been too selfish with her, and he needed to get her comfortable performing for others.
Demetrius reached over and pushed the intercom button on the wall beside his bed.
“Yes?” came the voice of one of the twins on the other end. He could never tell which was speaking on the intercom.
“Bring Twenty-One to the upstairs suite,” he said. “It’s time to play a game.”
Chapter 28
November 28, 2011
Twenty-One cried out. She couldn’t help it. The strain was too much. The champagne flutes shivered on the silver trays balanced on her palms. If one flute fell, she knew she would be punished. The thick, dull sting of the large leather floggers on her back and buttocks was already6 punishment enough.
“Slave,” came Demetrius’ warning. “Keep quiet.”
Twenty-One gritted her teeth and fought to keep a proper position. Her legs were spread wide, her back arched, as if she were At Attention, but she held two silver platters with five or six crystal champagne flutes in her hands with her arms stretched out to either side. Demetrius had praised her for being able to hold the position so well…but then he ordered the twins to use the floggers. They felt different from the sharp sting of the rubber flogger Demetrius had used on her so long ago. Their strikes were heavier, the sting more of an afterthought. At first the impact was almost soothing in a strange way, like a rough massage. But soon her skin grew tender and ached more with each strike. Her arms began to grow heavy, the champagne flutes trembled, the trays felt like weights on her open palms. And the smooth, methodical strikes of the floggers took their toll. Twenty-One took deep breaths through her nose to remain calm and steady, her eyes on the floor.
“Good girl.” Twenty-One’s heart swelled despite the cold edge in Demetrius’ voice. She longed to look up at her Master, sitting on the suite bed only a few feet away, to take him in and let him fill her attention. She knew that his command to look at him would not come. How many times had he scolded her to remain in the moment instead of distract herself from the task at hand? She knew he would sense her drifting, so she tried to focus on the pain in her shaking arms, to feel the welts rising on her buttocks as the twins struck her.
“Faith,” said Demetrius. “Go to the next step.”
One flogger disappeared from Twenty-One’s back. She tried not to tense when the sound of stilettos clicked on the hardwood floor. Faith sidestepped one of the trays and stood in front of Twenty-One, so close that each blow from Charity’s flogger caused the slave’s breasts to brush against the young Mistress. Twenty-One fought to keep her breath steady, her eyes on Faith’s pleated skirt and the thin strip of bare flesh below her cropped blouse. Faith ran her nails up Twenty-One’s thighs, a delicate touch that sent shivers through the slave. Twenty-One trembled. Faith’s fingers traveled along Twenty-One’s hips, her belly, and finally over the mounds of her breasts. She pinched Twenty-One’s nipples, teased them until they hardened. The slave’s breath caught in her throat. Charity’s blows persisted, but their sting had given way to the hot tingling sensation of Faith rolling her nipples between her fingers. Her sex throbbed with each tug, the flogger strikes urging her breasts into Faith’s hot hands. Twenty-One moaned through closed lips and struggled to keep her gaze lowered.
“Twenty-One,” Demetrius’ voice cut through the storm of sensations. “Keep your position.”
Tears pooled in Twenty-One’s eyes. Her arms had begun to sink. She lifted them higher, but she felt like weights were tied to her wrists, urging them lower and lower. All the while, Faith played with her, her hands traveling from her breasts back along her stomach, sliding lower.
‘Oh, please, don’t,’ Twenty-One begged silently, but she knew what was coming. Faith’s fingers glided along the slick fold
s of her sex, filling her and leaving her and filling her again, as slow and methodical as the delicious blows from her sister. Twenty-One’s eyes closed against her will. Her arms dipped. The champagne flutes shook.
“Raviens-moi, ma chère,” said her Master. “Come back to me.”
Twenty-One forced her eyes open. She looked up before she could help it, stealing a glance of Demetrius over Faith’s purple hair. Meeting his gaze jolted her heart. She knew she should look down, but she drank him in, regaining strength from the heat in his eyes. She raised her arms, though every inch was agony.
“Eyes down,” Demetrius ordered.
She obeyed, clinging to the image of him reclining on the bed, shirtless as he so often was, his hair and his mask seeming to melt into the shiny blackness of the satin sheets. The twins continued to work her, but she held fast, until finally he spoke once more.
“Good, good girl,” he purred. “Set the trays down and come to me.”
Faith and Charity stepped back. Twenty-One brought the trays to the floor as carefully and gracefully as her shuddering limbs would allow. The moment she bent her knees, she knew she would not be able to stand again without great effort, so she fell to all fours and crawled to the bed, kneeling beside Demetrius’ studded boots. Her chest heaved with each breath, but her exhaustion was met with a burst of satisfaction. She had succeeded. She had pleased him.
His hand was cool as he smoothed back her sweat-drenched hair, a quenching chill against the sticky heat of her skin. She savoured it, the first time he had touched her since that strange day when she had heard his voice without the mask on, the day he had tasted her. Her sex ached with the memory of lips and tongue and the bite of his nails on her skin. How long ago had that been? Two days? And then she’d been taken down to the basement and he hadn’t touched her at all. She’d watched him interact with the other slaves during the shoot, but he hadn’t touched her. She had become smaller that day, and realized how insignificant she was to this dark man that had become her world. She may be a Model Slave, something new and important to her Master’s business, but he touched the others the same way he touched her. They coaxed out of him the same lascivious growls she did when he used her. His words echoed in her head: “This is not a relationship, ma bichette. I am not your boyfriend. Any pleasure of yours is a privilege from me.” The word boyfriend had never crossed her mind. It was laughable, in fact. But it wasn’t until she had seen his hands on another slave that she realized her own feeling of possessiveness for her Master. Twenty-One felt her cheeks flush with shame. She had come so far, but she was still so selfish. The mantra returned to her. I will obey. I will be used. I will not question. I will please my Master. She formed the words silently with her lips in prayer. Some day she would truly embody the mantra. Someday she would embody the title of Model Slave. The perfect Model Slave.
Demetrius lifted her chin and parted her lips with a metal basin full of water. Twenty-One drank greedily, her eyes down. For a moment she thought she could catch Demetrius’ reflection in the water if she sipped more slowly, steal another glimpse of him. But this, too, would be selfish. She would look at him when he wished her to look.
“She’s wonderful,” came Charity’s voice, closer than Twenty-One had thought she was. “I can’t believe she’s the same girl we first saw up here.”
Twenty-One felt a small hand in her hair, stroking her like a cat.
“She still hasn’t played with the other slaves,” said Faith. “Will she be ready for the games at the dinner party?”
Demetrius pulled the basin away from Twenty-One. His boots slid a few inches away from her.
“She’s not for sale this season,” he said, “so she won’t be participating at the party. Abigail may use the games as entertainment, but they’re also training tools. No, no, you mustn’t forget that. They’re tests for our slaves. Twenty-One doesn’t need to play with other slaves until next year. But she does need to learn to obey other superiors. Have you hidden everything, Charity?”
“Of course.”
Twenty-One tried to ignore her heart thudding in her throat. Charity curled a finger into the D-ring of Twenty-One’s collar and pulled her up. The slave rose, her legs still trembling slightly.
“Look at me, pretty one,” said Charity.
Twenty-One obeyed, meeting the liquid black eyes beneath green bangs. Charity’s small plump lips curved into a smile.
“Faith is going to tie your hands behind your back,” she said, “and when I say go, you’re going to search this room for a rose to bring to me. But when you find anything else, you have to bring that to me, too. You can only use your mouth to carry them. Understand?”
“Yes, Mistress,” Twenty-One whispered. She felt Faith slipping tight leather bindings over her arms, pressing her elbows close behind her back. She fought not to look at Demetrius, who had risen from the bed and stood at the edge of her peripheral vision.
“Good girl.” Charity sat down on the bed where Demetrius had been, crossing her slender legs. “Lay what you find at my feet.”
Faith stepped back. Twenty-One’s arms were bound together from the elbow in stiff leather, her hands clasped, her spine forced into an arch. Her gaze flicked to Demetrius. She couldn’t help herself. He stood near the bathroom door, his arms folded over his bare chest, staring at her.
The thick thud of a leather flogger cut across her buttocks. She cried out.
“Don’t look to Demetrius.” Venom had seeped into Charity’s voice, as quick and angry as Faith’s blow had been. “We’re in charge of you now. You’re playing this game for us.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Twenty-One whimpered, dropping her gaze to the floor, her cheeks flaming with shame.
“What was that?” Faith sounded as angry as her sister. Another blow came. Twenty-One yelped.
“Yes, Mistress!” she cried.
“Good,” said Charity. “Now go find me a toy.”
“Twenty-One turned and scampered off in a random direction, her buttocks burning, her breath shallow. She stared at the room she knew so well. There were few hiding places. The dresser, the nightstand near the bed, the dreaded cage. She headed toward the cage when a glint of metal caught her eye in the far corner of the room, where the walls met the sleek hardwood floor. She changed direction, stumbling, her balance off from the strange location of her arms. She went to her knees and peered closer. There was a thin chain of some sort tucked in the wall’s crease. She paused. Was this something they’d hidden? She heard Faith walking up behind her and braced herself for the flogger’s strike across her shoulder blades.
“Pick it up!” Faith ordered. “Move!”
Twenty-One leaned forward, catching the chains with her tongue and clenching her lips around them. They came up with a gentle tug; three long, slender strips. Faith struck her across the back of her thigh to get her up and moving. Twenty-One trotted toward Charity, knelt in front of the bed, and dropped the chains at the young Mistress’s feet. She stayed there for a moment as Charity picked up the chains, catching her breath. Her heart already raced, yet her mind was blank. She stayed, waiting for a command.
Charity held up the chains. They were light and delicate like jewelry, linked in a Y shape. Twenty-One caught sight of two clamps attached to the chain’s ends. She couldn’t imagine what the strange chains were for.
“At Attention, slave,” said Charity in low tones.
Twenty-One rose, spreading her feet into a wide stance, her chin up, her eyes lowered. She wasn’t able to clasp her hands at her neck with her arms bound, so she hoped her stance was satisfactory. If Charity was not pleased with her posture, she gave no indication. She approached Twenty-One, opened those little metal clamps, and captured her nipples between their teeth.
The pinching was an odd sensation, pressure with an edge of pain. Her nipples stiffened and she felt the clamps press harder against the erect tissue. Twenty-One shivered but remained still as Charity handed the final end of the chain to her sister. Cha
rity reached up and stroked the side of Twenty-One’s face. Her hand was soft and small, so unlike Demetrius’ firm strength, but the slave’s skin burned where she touched. She leaned into her Mistress’s hand.
“Such a sweet one,” Charity murmured.
She pressed her lips against Twenty-One’s, and the feeling of a hot mouth on her made Twenty-One shiver. Kissing. Whatever the reason for her Master’s mask, its presence had prevented such contact, save for that one time in the storm. The absence of kissing had somehow elevated the simple act to exotic heights. Twenty-One nearly moaned against Charity’s mouth, her sex instantly wet. She nearly followed Charity’s lips as she pulled away, not ready for the kiss to end.
“Now, find me that rose,” Charity ordered.
Before Twenty-One could take a step, Faith tugged on her end of the chain attached to the slave. It was a gentle movement, but the chain went taught and the clamps twitched and that strange tickling in Twenty-One’s nipples burst into full blown pain. Twenty-One gasped, nearly tripping over her own feet to follow Faith and create slack in the chain. Faith and Charity’s laughter was dark and breathy, like their voices. The slave searched with Faith at her side, standing just far enough away for the clamps to twitch with every movement. Twenty-One had never been so aware of her breasts. She felt every sway in the chain, every small movement of Faith’s hand that wielded the bizarre leash. She headed to her cage this time, searching the well-known space for anything new and strange. She dropped to her knees and tried to ignore the maddening tug of the clamps. It felt odd to be back in the cage, though she had only been gone from it for a week. She did not miss having to curl up in order to fit inside of it, unable to stretch her legs. Her new bed in the basement was equally confining, but straps around her wrists were far more comfortable than the steel bars of this dreaded box.
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