Authors: Joey W. Hill
“I’m waiting for an answer to my question, Marguerite,” he said against her skin.
“Because…” She swallowed, closing her eyes, wishing his tongue wasn’t so warm and clever, able to make her heart pound beneath it. His chin rubbed the top of her breast, an innocent touch. “What…why are you doing that?”
“Because a Master is able to enjoy the gifts of his slave at any time he chooses.
Answer the question. Or am I making it too difficult for you to think?” The teasing, the arrogant implication, stiffened her resolve as she was sure he’d intended. However, she was learning that being able to identify the strategy did not make her any more immune to it.
A Mistress of incomparable experience and yet his lightest touch was making her react like an innocent, unused to sensual pleasures. Tyler wondered what she would think if she knew how powerfully that unexpected discovery affected him.
Her voice came out strained, her brow furrowed like a student puzzling out a difficult math problem. He smiled against her skin.
“A slave who doesn’t have to make…conversation will focus on…things.”
“Feel the Will of her Master far more keenly, physically and emotionally.” He raised his head, making sure his approval was evident in his eyes. “Similar to what’s implied by ‘God is in the silence’. Many enlightening lessons are to be found in quiet.” A flush spread through her cheeks and drew his attention to the delicacy of her eyelashes, as fine and pale as her silken hair.
“Come with me. We’ll come back here, don’t worry.” Rising, he easily plucked her out of the slats and set her back on her feet, guiding her forward again with a hand on her lower back, his fingers lingering on the beginning swell of her buttocks.
He took her across the catwalk and down the rear staircase, to an oak door carved with a pastoral scene. While sheep lay placidly in a meadow, a shepherd serenaded a reclining shepherdess with his pipe. Marguerite reached out to touch the fine detail as he turned the skeleton key in the lock, the key also serving as a doorknob to pull the door open.
It was an atrium, a large chamber with a domed ceiling which had been painted with a simple scene of clouds and pale blue sky. Only… Her eyes narrowed. On closer inspection, she saw wispy outlines of angels floating in those clouds, elegant fingers extended toward the feathers of swans backing against the wind, soaring. It was a study of whites, the shadowing giving the features of clouds, birds or angels.
“It’s called ‘Living a Child’s Summer Day’,” he explained. “Inspired obviously by the way children lie on their backs and look into the sky. The artist told me that there 68
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are over two hundred and twelve images in it. I haven’t found them all myself yet.
Sometimes I think magic has touched it and the images actually change from day to day.”
She managed to tear her gaze from it to see that the chamber was a gallery. The walls were hung with original paintings. Sculptures had been placed on pedestals strategically scattered across the room, such that one could either wander among them or stay in one space and simply turn in a circle. And as she had that thought, her eyes came to rest on two cushioned straight-back chairs positioned in the center of the atrium, back to back. There was an ice bucket next to them.
“I’d like you to sit here.” He guided her into one of the chairs as she eyed him, distrustful. “And while we’re in here, you may speak freely, whatever comes to your mind.”
Kneeling by her, he took one ankle in his hand. There was a muted ripping noise as he loosened a Velcro strap she hadn’t noticed at the base of her chair and wrapped it around her ankle over the thin dress sock she’d worn with the loafers. “A simple lesson in restraints,” he explained. “Nothing too fast or aggressive, just easing you into it.” She peered down the other side, noted there was a matching one there. Her heart started pounding up into her throat again.
“Would you ease a sub into it? I don’t want to be treated differently.” Tyler took the other ankle in hand, fastened it to the opposite chair leg so her legs were spread, restricted. “Handling subs doesn’t come with an Equal Opportunity Employer policy, Marguerite. Every one is different. If she was new to it, uncertain of what her feelings meant, yes, I would take my time. To rush it would be selfish, but even more than that I’d be depriving myself of a great pleasure. To watch the minute signs of nervousness, the moistening of the lips…” He raised his head, passed his finger over her mouth. “The quick darts of the eye, the pulse riding high in the throat…” He stroked there and she shuddered. “The trembling, the knowledge that this is something the body and soul are begging for, even as the mind and its fear and its inhibitions try to interfere, to slow a process that’s inevitable… It’s one of the sweetest aphrodisiacs I know.”
“I’ve never broken in a virgin sub.”
“You’ve denied yourself a real emotional pleasure then, for both of you. I can’t imagine any sub not wanting to be under your command for his first time. Now the hands.”
He stood up behind her, his hands coming down on her shoulders, molding over her biceps, moving to her elbows. Tugging gently, he eased her arms behind her, around the back of the chair. It flattened her against the upper part of the chair, straightening and arching her. Tyler could tell it startled her when he secured each of her wrists not in Velcro straps but in the handcuffs he picked up off the seat of the chair behind hers and ran through the slat of her chair back. He was still learning the 69
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territory, working on picking up the minute nuances of her expressions, body language and voice, but it was hard to focus when she was now all his, restrained and open.
Bending to her ear, he ran his hands up her upper arms again then rested them there, his grip light, easy. “Are you wet, Marguerite? Wet from me restraining you, holding you open to me like this so I could fondle your breasts or your pussy whenever I wish?”
“I’m…I’m wet. I think.”
She had no flirtatiousness or artifice to her. From her sudden stiffening, he knew she’d realized that her words could easily be construed as an invitation, not as honest uncertainty. It made Tyler curse the obvious need to exercise restraint, not to take undue advantage.
Weren’t you the one who just expostulated on the benefits of patience? Idiot.
He went back in front of her, dropped to one knee, laying either hand on her spread thighs clad in the mannish trousers. Leaning forward, he felt her tense, quiver, as he brought his face down between them, his nose and mouth so close, so temptingly close…
He inhaled, closing his eyes, felt his cock harden even further than he’d thought possible. “You are wet,” he agreed, his thumbs caressing her inner thighs. “And I’m going to make you much wetter.”
Marguerite wanted to spit at him when he rose without doing anything else, almost as much as she wanted to rail at her traitorous body for wanting him to do more.
Surprisingly, he took a seat in the chair just behind her so they were back to back. There was that rattling of handcuffs. She was astounded when she turned her head enough to see him fit one of his wrists in a second pair, work the slack between the slats of his chair. He clicked the other one in place, locking his arms behind his back in much the same manner. They were close enough that he was able to lace the fingers of his right hand with that of her left. Reaching out with his foot, he tumbled the ice bucket over on its side, so that two ice cubes rolled out. Marguerite noticed that there appeared to be something gray in the center of the cubes.
“Those are the keys to the cuffs. When it melts down, we’ll be able to free ourselves.”
“And exactly how is either one of us going to reach down to pick up the keys?” He twisted his head, looked at her blankly a moment, then the meaning of her words apparently sank in. “Oh, Christ. Didn’t think of that.” At her alarmed look, his grin broke through. “Just kidding, angel.” He caught her fingers in his, tugged them so they were feeling the slat of the chair through which his cuffs had been threaded. “The slat of this chair is in slots, see? I just remove the slat, pull the cuffs free. Then I can pull my legs through the cuffs and pick up the keys.”
“You…” She shook her head, resisting the urge to throttle him as he chuckled. He settled his back to her, both of them bound by the handcuffs, hands intertwined in a lovers’ clasp.
“Tyler, why are we doing this?”
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“It’s a way to see if you can follow direction. And remember, one of the requirements was the restraints, the physical vulnerability.”
“But why are you participating?”
“Maybe to remind you that we’re in this together. You’re not all by yourself.” He caressed her open palm as she moved restlessly, clacking the cuffs against the wood of the chair.
And there was another point as well, though Tyler chose not to share it. He wanted to coax forth the Marguerite he’d seen in brief flashes at the tearoom, with her appreciation of aesthetics. He wanted the real woman when he roused her passions, not the prisoner fighting involuntary response every step of the way.
“Trust me, Marguerite. Look at the artwork on display before you.” Marguerite closed her eyes, wondering if she should count to ten as a method of regaining her composure. She thought that a multiple of ten might not be enough. So she resigned herself for the moment to following his direction.
She found herself auditing an eclectic assortment of erotic art. The one directly before her chair was a photograph blown up to life-size and framed in black. A woman was folded over the soft high back of a couch. Taken from a rear angle, the photo focused on her from waist to feet, showing her wearing frilly high-cut panties, garters, stockings and heels. Her calves had been crossed and tied, her arms bound behind her.
Her face was in shadow, the whole photo artistically done in black and white, every detail of her submission starkly outlined except for one tiny touch of pink. The line of ruffles that went across the widest portion of her backside.
Cry Mercy
was the name of the photo.
Not a cry for mercy
from
punishment Marguerite knew.
For
the punishment, for the release that came with it.
The piece to the left was a photograph focusing on a man’s erect cock. With his body displayed only from mid-thigh to well-defined abdomen, the man rested his hand on the base of the cock, a loose curl, his fingers massaging his testicles. It was easy to imagine him caught in a frozen moment of stroking himself for an avidly watching lover. She was absorbed by the hand, the long fingers, and made herself pull her attention from it.
Next came something familiar, the fresco of the three Graces, the Hellenic Period rendering, the two outside Graces facing forward, the middle one with her back to the viewer. The smooth bodies, small perfect breasts and heart-shaped buttocks, the partial torsos linked by their arms in sensual innocence, simply what they were.
“Describe what you’re seeing to me as if I’ve never seen it. Tell me what you think about it.”
She cleared her throat as her gaze shifted again. “It’s a pen and ink drawing, in color. In the forest. It looks like a David Delamare. A man has been attacked by a woman with…wings and fangs. Like a harpy, only beautiful, with raven dark hair falling over her shoulders. She’s crouched over his groin, her wings folded back, teeth 71
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bared. You can see where she’s scratched his chest with her talons. He’s bleeding.
Naked, his garments and armor stripped…as if he’s a knight…scattered in piles in the clearing where she’s torn it haphazardly all off him. She’s just started to lower herself onto his erection and though you can tell she’s forced him to this moment, something has happened. He’s gotten one hand loose to reach up to her face.”
“Even though she could tear him to shreds, he now desires her more than fears her,” Tyler suggested.
“Yes. But it’s more than the fact he desires her. The way he’s touching her face…he’s offering…more.”
“And what’s she doing?”
“She’s…looking down at him. You can tell it’s…she’s not sure. She didn’t expect her savagery to be met with desire. With love. You can’t tell if the next moment is going to be one of blood or passion.”
“The interesting thing is that’s an adaptation from a medieval religious engraving.
It was intended as a rendering of an agent of the Devil trying to tempt and destroy the soul of a poor sinner but the artist took it and provided a different interpretation. Do you like it?”
“Yes,” she said after a moment. “What are you looking at?”
You
, he wanted to tell her. There were two angled mirrors that allowed him a clear view of her profile without her being able to see him. Her shifts in gaze, her expression as she studied the artwork, intrigued him. He wished he’d thought to open her blouse before he’d restrained her so he could see the small curves rising up over the top of her bra and know if her nipples were puckering into hard points. Her fingers were twitching against his, suggesting agitation, possible arousal. Or just the fact she didn’t like his proximity, he reflected wryly.
“First, tell me if you like the one of the man’s cock. And why or why not.”
“I like it. The detail. The stillness. A moment of reality you don’t usually get to study at your leisure before the view changes.”
“Well, unless you have Viagra.”
“That’s not what I meant.” There was a smile in her voice, though. It pleased him to know he could touch her sense of humor. “The hairs on his legs, the line of muscle in his thighs, the curve of ass, the planes of his abdomen. His hands…”
“You like his hands.” He caught the slight inflection and pounced on it.
Her fingers flexed in his and he heard a quiet swallow. Testing, he began to move his index finger on a slow glide up the center of her palm. “Why?”
“Tyler.” She stilled further at the caressing touch. “Are you… It feels like you’re seducing me. Trying to seduce me,” she amended.
“Does it? You sound surprised.”
“It doesn’t seem necessary.”