Chapter 55 Antonio #2
My hands grip her tighter, one arm banding across her torso, holding her locked against me as I piston into her. I am an animal atop its prize, blind to everything but the need to possess, to mark, to own.
The climax hits me like a seizure; a violent, unstoppable wave that crashes through me with the force of a freight train. A raw, guttural shout is ripped from my throat as I empty myself into her, my body convulsing, my fingers pressing bruises into her skin.
I collapse fully on top of her, my face buried in her hair, my harsh panting the only sound in the room. The scent of us-- of sex, sweat, and my own desperate possession fills my lungs.
I stay there for a long time, spent, listening to her steady, untroubled breathing. Slowly, reality seeps back in.
With a final deep breath, I push myself up. I slide out of her, and the loss of connection feels profound. I look down at her, at the new bruises already purpling on her hips, at the way my release leaks from her. The sight still stirs something primal in me but now, the duty returns.
I move to the adjoining bathroom, a cavernous space of black marble and polished nickel.
I turn on the taps, and steaming water begins to gush into the sunken tub.
I select some oils, lavender and chamomile, and pour them under the stream.
The air thickens with the scent, a clean, herbal fragrance that begins to erase the last vestiges of the club.
I return to her, lifting her again, and carry her to the bath. The water is the perfect temperature, clouded and fragrant. I lower her in one limb at a time, supporting her head until she is sufficiently submerged, cradled by the warm, scented water.
She lets out a tiny unconscious sigh, a sound of pure comfort that sends a jolt to my cock.
I start with her shoulders, running a sponge over the delicate slope of them. I wash away the sweat, the scent of other people’s gazes, the memory of their hands, where I allowed them to touch.
I’m methodical, reverent. I cleanse her arms, her hands, paying careful attention to each slender finger.
I trace the path of the sponge over the swell of her breasts, down the roundness of her stomach. I am an archaeologist cleansing a priceless artifact, revealing the pure form beneath the grime of the world.
There are faint marks on her skin, and a slight redness at her wrists where silken cords held her. Along with a bloom of bruises on her hip, a souvenir from where I held her. I press my lips to each one, a silent apology and a claim all at once.
Mine. I did this. I allowed this, and I will make it better.
Turning her gently I wash her back, the long, elegant line of her spine. She is so fragile, this beautiful pet of mine.
When her body is clean, I move to her hair.
It floats around her head like a golden halo.
I cup water in my hands, wetting her hair thoroughly, then pour a dollop of shampoo into my palm, working it into a lather against her scalp.
My fingers massage in slow, firm circles.
The knots from the evening’s activities are tangled there, and I painstakingly ease them out one by one, my fingers gentle and patient.
She murmurs something unintelligible, a sleepy sound of pleasure.
“That’s it, Dumpling,” I murmur, the words a constant, soothing rhythm.
“Let me take care of you. You deserve this. After how good you were for me, this is the very least you deserve. My perfect, beautiful pet. Everyone saw, everyone knows now. No one is going to rescue you now. The world knows what you are, what I have turned you into, that you are my greatest triumph.”
I rinse her hair, using a jug to pour clean water over her head, shielding her face with my hand.
When the water runs clear I pull the plug and stand, reaching for a large, warmed towel from the heated rack.
I lift her from the cooling water and she is a warm, limp weight in my arms, steam rising from her skin.
I wrap her in the plush Egyptian cotton, enveloping her completely, and carry her back to the bed.
I lay her on the fresh duvet and retrieve a bottle of lotion from the nightstand. Almond oil, rich and soothing. I pour some into my hands, warming it, and then I begin to anoint her. Starting with her feet I massage the lotion into her skin, working my thumbs into the arch of her foot.
She sighs again, a deeper, more contented sound.
I move up her calves, her thighs, her arms, marking her with this care, sealing my possession not with a brand, but with tenderness. Each stroke of my hands is a promise and a reaffirmation.
I own this body,
I cherish it.
I control its pleasure and its comfort as well as it’s pain.
When her skin is gleaming soft and fragrant in the lamplight, I pull the covers back and tuck her into bed. She looks like a sleeping beauty, waiting for no prince, but for her Master to claim his place beside her.
I move to my side of the room, undressing with quiet efficiency before sliding in beside her, the sheets cool against my skin. The bed dips with my weight, and she instinctively shifts toward the warmth I radiate.
I lie on my side, facing her, propped on one elbow, drinking in the sight of her: the dark fan of her lashes against her cheeks, the parted bow of her lips, the utterly surrendered peace on her face.
This is real power.
Having someone completely and utterly at your mercy, having their very life in your hands. If I wanted, I could curl my fingers around her throat. I could squeeze and squeeze, and she would be no more.
My hand finds her hip under the covers in a light, possessive touch. Then, I reach out and turn off the lamp.
Leaning over, I brush my lips against her forehead. The kiss is soft, lingering. A seal. “Goodnight, Pet,” I whisper into the quiet dark.