Chapter 54 Grace #2
I know there’s something in this. I know it’s not just whiskey now, but I can’t refuse him.
I can already see the look in his eyes, the way his hand is moving to his pocket.
Will he shock me here? Will he hurt me so publicly?
Of course he will. Antonio is the master of the universe.
He can do what he likes, wherever he likes, without consequences.
He presses the glass harder against my lips, and I know I don’t have a choice. I never fucking did. I gulp the contents down, cursing his name, cursing them all.
A slow, devastating smile spreads across his mutilated face. It’s a smile of pure, unadulterated possession. A smile I’ve seen too many times already, it’s the smile that tells me he’s going to do awful things to me.
His hands go to the thin straps of my dress.
“You have a body made for worship, Pet. A body that should be seen, not hidden behind a wisp of fabric. You saw how Jareth wanted to devour you just then. Every curve, every line of you is a masterpiece. And everyone here,” he says, his gaze sweeping the room, “is a connoisseur. They want to see it; they want to see you. Let them.”
My heart hammers as he hooks his fingers under the straps and tears the delicate chiffon off my body. It whispers over my skin as it gives way like a final sigh of modesty.
I stand there in the middle of the club, wearing only my impossibly high heels and the tiny nude coloured lace panties. The air feels shockingly cool on my naked skin. I try to cover my breasts but Antonio catches my wrists, his grip firm.
“No,” he says softly, his eyes holding mine.
He gently prises my arms away, forcing me to stand open and exposed.
“Look.” He orders. “See how everyone here wants you.”
I force myself to look up, to meet the gazes of the people around us, and I see it. Raw hunger in so many of their eyes. A man across the bar raises his glass to me in a silent toast. A woman nearby gives me a slow, approving smile.
A fierce, hot blush spreads across my chest and up my neck but it’s mixed with a dizzying, potent thrill.
He was right. They want to see, and I love being seen.
No. No, that’s not right. I don’t know where that thought comes from.
I don’t…he steps closer, his body heat enveloping me. With deliberate, ritualistic slowness, he fingers the collar around my throat. The leather is cool and smooth against my skin.
I hear the click of something, the sound of the clasp engaging echoing in my hyper-aware state.
The world narrows to his gaze.
The hum of the club fades.
There is only him. The weight of my collar, the cool air on my bare skin and the undeniable, unimaginable fire in my blood.
He gives the lead a hard, unmistakable tug downwards.
“Now,” he says, his voice dropping into a register of pure command that terrifies one part of me, and yet liquefies my bones. “Get on all fours. Like the good little dog you are for me.”
This is the game.
Our game.
Mine and Antonio’s. I’m his perfect pet, his perfect little dog.
No. No. No – I’m not a dog. I’m not a thing, I’m a human being, Grace Ratcliffe … but I am not her.
I am Antonio’s. I am his pet, his dog.
I sink to the floor, my body moving as though I have no control over anything anymore.
The polished concrete is cool beneath my knees and palms. My naked breasts sway and I know my position offers anyone who looks a perfect, unobstructed view of my most intimate self.
I look up at him, my Master.
His expression is one of approval. “Perfect. So perfect for me.”
He gives the lead a little flick, and I understand. I follow as he begins to walk, moving on my hands and knees beside him. Crawling like the dog he has made of me. The perspective is dizzying. I see legs and shoes, the undersides of chairs, the swirling patterns in the polished floor.
I am owned.
I am his pretty little pet on display for everyone to see.
Every glance from the people we pass; curious, admiring, envious even, feels like a tribute to his ownership of me.
But he doesn’t lead me to a chair. He leads me directly to the stage. The performers have finished, leaving the frame empty. A hush falls over the immediate vicinity as Antonio, with me crawling behind him, ascends the few steps onto the platform. The golden spotlight shifts, centering on us.
My heart slams against my ribs. Some sort of reason comes back to me, and I’m more than aware that the entire club can see us now.
“Stand, Dog,” Antonio commands softly.
I don’t want to. I don’t want to do this. I want to curl up, to hide, to be anywhere but where I am right now.
But I rise on trembling legs, supremely conscious of my near-nudity under the blazing light.
“Arms out to your sides.”
No. No.
I obey, spreading my arms like a crucifix.
From his pocket he produces a length of deep crimson silk rope, the same colour as the velvet chairs.
His movements are not rushed; they are ritualistic, an artist preparing his canvas for the entire world to see.
He begins at my left wrist, looping the rope in a complex, beautiful knot that is firm but not cutting.
He attaches it to a hook on the overhead frame.
He does the same with my right wrist, pulling my arms taut so I am stretched open, utterly vulnerable.
The silk is surprisingly soft against my skin.
He moves down, tying a harness around my torso.
The ropes cinch beneath my breasts, pushing them up and out, making them appear even fuller.
Each loop, each pull of the rope is a deliberate caress.
His fingers brush my pierced nipples, my stomach, the sensitive skin of my inner arms, leaving trails of fire that have me quivering.
It shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t be like this. Why am I just standing here, letting this happen?
He kneels, tying each of my ankles to the base of the frame, spreading my legs apart as he exposes the lace of my panties to the silent, watching room.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, feeling the tremors that run through me. “Breathe. Feel the ropes. They are your Master’s embrace, they are holding you safe. They are showing everyone how beautiful you are.” His hand slides between my thighs, pressing against the lace. “How perfect my pet is.”
His touch combined with the restraint and the blinding exposure is a potent cocktail. The fear is still there, a bright, sharp edge but it’s being steadily overwhelmed by a deep, throbbing arousal I can’t deny.
I am a spectacle.
My Master is right; the gazes I meet in the crowd are not mocking. They are hungry, appreciative. They are admiring his handiwork.
“Look at them, Pet.” he whispers, his mouth close to my ear as his fingers continue to trace patterns on my bound skin.
“Look at them all admiring you. Do you know who they are? Do you see? That man there with the silver hair? He’s the CEO of a global bank.
The one beside him, trying to hide his glee?
He’s a senator who chairs the finance committee.
And him,” Antonio says, his voice dropping even lower, his finger subtly indicating a heavyset man near the front, his eyes glued to my spread legs, “that’s Robert Pembroke.
He was your father’s business partner for twenty years. ”
The name hits me like a kick to my stomach. Robert Pembroke. Uncle Bobby. The man who gave me a pony. He is here, he is seeing this. He is seeing the ropes, the collar, the desperate arousal that I know is soaking my panties even if I don’t want it to.
A wave of shame tries to crest but Antonio’s hand on my breast, his thumb circling my nipple stops it. Robert Pembroke knows Titus Ratcliffe’s daughter, and he is seeing what she has truly become. What the Brethren and Antonio Macrae have made of her.
The humiliation is a knife slicing right through the belly of my soul.
“Are you thrilled, my pet?” Antonio purrs. “Knowing they can see you? Seeing what I have made of you? My beautiful, bound whore.”
I gasp, my head falling back against the frame. “Please…” I beg. I don’t want this. I don’t… the shock is so sudden I scream. My body jerks in the restraints, and I feel the way the ribbon turns from something soft to something biting.
“Pet.” Antonio says in a voice that is no longer laced with honey. “You know what I expect of you. You know how you are meant to behave.”
“But I don’t…” I shut my eyes, my tears falling and for a second I think he might just undo these ropes, might say this is all a mistake, that he loves me enough to protect me here.
Only, he doesn’t.
I scream again, I writhe as the collar sends a white-hot blast of pain down my spine.
“You will obey.” Antonio says. “You will do as you’re told, and you will perform.”
Perform he says, but it’s not a performance he wants from me. This is not an act. This is an annihilation. This man is tearing out my soul, destroying the last pieces of my sanity, and he wants me to smile and cheer while he does it.
He shocks me again, one more awful hit that has me trembling so badly I think I might just shit myself.
He doesn’t give me time to recover, doesn’t give me a second to breathe. He turns his head slightly towards the crowd, and he crooks a finger. “Robert. Join us.”
My breath catches. No. No. I want this to stop. I want this all to just stop.
Uncle Bobby doesn’t hesitate. He moves with a kind of grim eagerness, climbing onto the stage, his eyes never leaving my body.
He smells of cigar smoke and expensive cologne, a scent from my past that now feels profane.
“Antonio,” he says, his voice exactly how I remember it.
“What do you think of my new pet?” Antonio asks, his hand still possessively on my breast.
Uncle Bobby’s gaze rakes over me, from my collared throat to my rope-bound ankles as a slow, lecherous smile spreads across his face. A laugh, low and harsh, escapes him. “I never imagined that fat little Grace would turn into such a delicacy.”