Chapter 56 Grace
Adull, throbbing ache is the first thing I become aware of. It’s a symphony of pain, a deep-set soreness in muscles I didn’t even know I possessed.
My wrists, my shoulders, the small of my back, each one chimes in with its own particular complaint as consciousness slowly, reluctantly, returns to me.
My eyelids are heavy, gummed together with sleep and the residue of…
of what? I force them open, blinking against the soft, grey light filtering into the still unfamiliar room.
This place is vast, the ceiling a distant expanse of ornate plasterwork.
The air smells of lemon polish and something else; something dark, masculine, and foreign.
Confusion wraps around me, thick as the duvet I’m tangled in. Silk. The sheets are black silk, cool and sinfully smooth against my bare skin.
Bare.
I was stripped bare. Stripped on a stage and trussed up like a piece of meat.
The realization is a cold splash of water. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as my heart begins a frantic, panicked rhythm against my ribs.
I push myself up on trembling arms, the movement sending a fresh wave of soreness through my body. The room spins for a moment, a carousel of opulent nightmare. Dark wood, a huge fireplace, an oil painting of some storm-tossed sea in a heavy gilded frame.
And then, it hits me. Not a full memory, but a flash. A shard of something terrible and bright.
The bass of the music vibrating through the floor and up into my bones. Men’s laughter, low and hungry. Silken ties biting into my wrists as my arms are pulled taut and tied to something that leaves me hanging, suspended.
I am exposed.
A specimen. An offering.
I try to focus on a fixed point, anything to anchor myself in this humiliating storm. My eyes find him.
His dark eyes are unreadable, absorbing every detail.
My fear, my shame, the terrified hitch of my breath.
The way my body trembles as one man after another has their way with me, as they fuck me, as they force their cocks in me and he in turn forces my body to come over and over like I really am just a mindless whore…
My face ignites, a scalding wave of heat that spreads from my cheeks down my neck and across my chest.
The memory is so visceral, so sharp that I can almost smell the cigar smoke and cheap perfume again. A dual torrent of emotion floods me; a shame so profound it makes me nauseous, and a humiliation that feels like a brand on my very soul.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images are burned onto the backs of my eyelids. A low, pathetic whimper escapes my lips. What have I done? What kind of person have I become, has he turned me into?
Desperate for a distraction, for any anchor in this spiralling panic, I turn over. The other side of the massive bed is empty. A confusing mix of relief and acute loneliness washes over me.
And then I see it. A single, heavy piece of cream paper, folded neatly and leaning against a crystal lamp on the nightstand. My name is written on it in a bold, slashing script.
With fingers that feel numb and clumsy, I reach for it. The paper is thick, expensive.
‘You were sleeping so beautifully I didn’t want to wake you. Come find me when you are ready.
Antonio’
The words are almost tender, but they feel like a collar. He watched me sleep, after everything he put me through yesterday. The intimacy of it is more violating than if he’d simply shaken me awake. He had full access, uninterrupted, to my most vulnerable state, just as he had last night.
I gulp, the sound loud in the silent room. My throat is parched. Come find me. The instruction is clear. This is part of it, this is my purpose; I am here to be available to him. I am his obedient pet.
Moving mechanically, I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
The polished floor is ice-cold under my feet.
My body protests every movement, each ache a fresh reminder of the previous night.
A black, silk robe is draped over a chaise lounge.
His, by the size of it. I slip my arms into it, and the sleeves swallow my hands.
I belt it tightly around my waist, enveloping myself in his scent; that same hit of sandalwood and power.
It’s like being wrapped in him, and I hate that a part of me is already so used to this that it feels normal.
Barefoot, I pad to the bedroom door and open it. The hallway outside is a cavernous expanse of more dark wood, more sombre artwork, more polished floors. The mansion is a maze, silent and imposing. I have no idea where to go. Come find me. I suppose I’m just meant to wander until I do.
I start walking, the cold floor seeping into my soles. I turn a corner into a grander hallway, and I stop dead.
They are everywhere. Men in dark, tactical clothing.
Armed. Their postures are relaxed but alert, their eyes constantly scanning.
They stand at intervals along the hall, by doorways, at the top of a sweeping staircase.
As I walk, they don’t move, but their eyes track me.
Every single one of them. Silent. Assessing.
Do they report to Antonio, or the Grand Master?
My skin crawls as I contemplate which of those scenarios is worse. Were they there last night? Did they watch me being carried back in? Do they know what happened at that club? The heat returns to my face. I feel like an exhibit, a strange, fragile creature let loose in a fortress of predators.
I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, on the endless Persian runner stretching down the hall. I can feel their gazes like physical touches, and I pull the robe tighter around me.
I pass a set of double doors that are slightly ajar. Inside, I see a room dominated by a massive desk and walls lined with books. It feels like the heart of this place, and exactly where my Master is sure to be.
I push one door open and step inside.
Antonio is there behind the desk, his head bent over a spread of documents, a sleek laptop open beside him.
He looks every bit the powerful Kingmaker dressed in a tailored navy shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing the tanned, corded strength of his forearms. The morning light from a tall window highlights the sharp planes of his face, the slight frown of concentration.
He hasn’t noticed me yet. I stand there, frozen in the doorway, my hand still on the cool brass doorknob.
My body moves without consulting my brain. My knees bend. The plush rug muffles the sound as I sink onto it. I lower my head, my gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the carpet, my hands resting on my thighs. I am on my knees before him.
The scratching of his pen stops. I feel his attention shift, the weight of it settling on me. I don’t dare look up. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. I can hear the steady, slow tick of a grand old grandfather clock in the corner.
Then, I hear it. A low, soft chuckle. It’s not unkind. It’s pleased.
I risk a glance upward. He is leaning back in his leather chair, his pen discarded. He’s looking at me with an expression that makes my stomach clench. It’s a look of pure, unadulterated pride. The way a Master would look at a well-trained pet that has performed a particularly clever trick.
“Good morning, Pet,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the space between us. “How are you feeling?”
The question is so mundane, so utterly at odds with everything that has happened that my mind goes completely blank. How am I feeling? Sore. Used. Terrified. Ashamed. Humbled. Filled with a confusing, traitorous thrill at the approval in his eyes.
My cheeks flame for what feels like the hundredth time this morning.
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. I just stare at him, a blush burning its way across my face and down my neck.
He chuckles again, a rich, warm sound that seems to imply my flustered silence is the most delightful joke.
“Come, Dumpling.” He gestures with his hand toward a large, deep burgundy leather couch positioned against the far wall.
“Go and sit. You quite exhausted yourself last night., you need to rest.”
The words are casually thrown, but they land like stones.
Exhausted yourself. The flashbacks threaten to surge again, a tidal wave of fragmented sensation.
I quickly push myself to my feet, my legs unsteady, and make my way to the couch.
It’s buttery soft and so deep I feel like I’m being swallowed by it.
“I’m fine,” I murmur, the words automatic, a pathetic attempt to reclaim some shred of autonomy in all this craziness.
He doesn’t even acknowledge the lie. He picks up a phone on his desk, presses a button, and speaks quietly into it.
Within two minutes a silent, severe-looking woman in a maid’s uniform enters carrying a large silver tray.
She doesn’t look at me once. She sets the tray on the low table in front of the couch and leaves as quietly as she came.
On the tray is a pot of tea, a glass of orange juice, and a plate heaped with food. Eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, pancake potatoes. It’s a mammoth portion, enough for two people if not more.
‘…have you considered upping her diet, I think she’d look marvellous with a few more rolls around her belly…’
I hear the words like a whisper. Is that what this is, then? He’s fattening me up more?
“Eat,” Antonio says. It’s not a suggestion. He has already returned his attention to his documents.
I’m not hungry. The thought of food suddenly makes my stomach turn but I pour myself a cup of tea, my hands shaking slightly, the china cup clattering against the saucer. The hot, fragrant liquid helps soothe my sore throat, helps soothe my shattered nerves.
I take a sip, then another, trying to calm myself more.
I pick at a piece of toast, nibbling on the corner. I can feel his presence across the room even though he’s not looking at me. After a few minutes, his voice cuts through the silence without him glancing up.
“All of it, Pet.”
A jolt goes through me.
He is watching. But of course he’s watching.
He doesn’t miss a thing. I pick up my fork and force myself to eat a bite of eggs.
They taste so good it feels sinful. I methodically work my way through the food, my jaw aching with the effort.
He is fattening me up, he is turning me into his plump little dumpling.
The humiliation of it is a bitter seasoning on every mouthful.
I eat until the plate is clean, until I feel uncomfortably, painfully full.
When I finally set the fork down, he speaks again. “I have work to do. You must sit quietly now and not disturb me.”
It’s clear the rules are set. I am to be a silent, decorative object in his study. A possession on display. I pull my legs up onto the couch, tucking the oversized robe around my bare feet, and try to make myself small and still.
For a while there is only the sound of his pen, the soft tap of his fingers on the keyboard, the rustle of paper.
I stare at the spines of the books on the wall, trying to read the gold-embossed titles, trying to think of anything else.
Would he be angry if I got up and pulled one off?
Would he permit me the luxury of reading?
I remember the book of poems he gave me when I was locked in that white room.
I wonder what happened to them; were they thrown out?
Was my plant thrown out too now that it no longer served a purpose, or did someone claim them?
I try not to sniff, try not to breathe, try to sit in the silence and not think on anything. But my mind keeps going back to last night like it’s a bad movie, a horror movie that I keep replaying over and over.
A man’s hand, rough and calloused, skates up my thigh. I flinch but the silk holding me has no give, and the sound of laughter fills my ears.
The heat of the spotlight on my skin. The feeling of sweat trickling down my spine. The taste of fear, metallic and sharp, on my tongue. My eyes, desperately seeking his in the shadows as someone, some stranger shoves their cock into me.
His gaze holding mine, pinning me in place more effectively than the bindings ever could.
The sound of my own ragged breathing, too loud in a sudden silence.
The feel of a man’s tongue as he licks and licks and swirls around my brutalised pussy, removing the remnants of what has leaked out of me, and then that resurgence of pleasure, that awful thrill as my Master demands another punishing orgasm.
I squeeze my eyes shut while an involuntary tremor runs through me as I press my lips together to stop a sound from escaping.
Do not disturb him. The command is a leash but I am unravelling thread by thread, memory by searing memory and I must do it in perfect, absolute silence.
On the outside, I am still. I am quiet. I am obeying.
On the inside, I am screaming.