Chapter 3 #2
I wait as long as I can stand it before I head upstairs and enter the study.
It’s a bit formal for me, but then, I suppose I’ll have to get used to it if I’m to run the House for a time.
And I want her to walk in without knowing she’s specifically being brought to me.
I’m not certain the House slaves even know yet that Damon is gone, and if so, if they’re aware of who’s been left in charge.
Of course, DeLayne knows from my exchange with Cook in the kitchen, and I told Sandrine, but would she say anything to her sister?
No idea how the two of them communicate—or don’t.
I suppose I could ask Robert, who hears everything that goes on in the House, but it doesn’t matter much. Does it?
Any of the slaves would know that whoever is in the House study is Master or Mistress. She’ll know right away what my role here is if Robert brings her to me in this room, whereas if I’d had him bring her to my rooms...
And damn it, I’m overthinking the fuck out of things, ain’t I?
I move to one of the tall windows, pull the curtain aside and gaze out over the street below.
The House is on a corner lot at the very top of a hill in Pacific Heights, and through these windows are the posh facades of other grand homes.
Would we even know if one of them was also a House?
We are nothing if not discreet, we kinky folk.
The home directly across the street is a bit of a monolith, one of the Mediterranean Revival-style places that are fairly common in San Francisco, with its smooth white walls and red clay tiled roof.
It has enormous arched windows and little wrought iron balconies.
Thick walls, those places have. If someone was screaming inside, no one would ever know.
My hand tightens on the heavy drapery. There’s something about the idea of making a slave scream—something that rarely happens at this level of elite kink—that delights the fuck out of me. Oh, I’m all about eliciting the most extreme response. Screaming. Blood, Tears.
Tears.
Christ, I love to make a slave cry. What do they call that fetish? Dacryphilia. Yeah, that’s the one. Cry me a river…
I find myself grinning, momentarily distracted from the waiting.
Giselle.
This could go very fucking badly.
The door opens behind me, and it’s her.
She’s naked, of course, her arms clasped behind her back, her posture gorgeously perfect.
A bit taller than her sister, she has the same luscious curves, the same long, wavy brown hair that curls in loose ringlets around her hips.
Her breasts are two perfect globes of lovely flesh, the left one imprinted with the House insignia branded into that tender skin, the dusky red nipples pierced.
I was there for the piercing and remember it well—how stoic she was through the pain.
But she’s always been stoic, this one. It’s one of the things I admire about her.
She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever known, which some might argue with, given that she’s signed herself over to a lifetime slave contract.
People don’t have any fucking idea the strength it takes to do that.
But I know.
I want to look into her hazel eyes, to look deep and see her in there. But I don’t do it. I don’t dare. I have to go about this in a way she’ll understand.
I beckon with a flippant hand for her to come closer, and she does, if a bit tentatively, and I know her mind is working out the fact that it’s me in this study. She glances up at me for a quick second as she approaches, and I see in that small flash that she understands the situation.
Smart Girl.
It’s been a long while since I’ve worked her, maybe even as long as a year.
Damon hasn’t sent her to me, and I realize he likely has at least some understanding of my feelings toward her.
Of course, he knows nearly the whole story of how I came to bring the sisters here, but I never told him all of it.
What I’ve admitted to Robert is more than I’ve ever said aloud to anyone.
But a good Master’s job is to be the ultimate observer, and Damon is damn good at his job, and Christopher is even more intuitive—with the advantage of having also been a slave in this House many times before he and Damon worked out their dynamic.
Is it my own stupid-arsed denial that’s kept me from considering they might know?
But back to the business at hand.
I motion to her to follow me as I cross the room and sit in one of the big chairs.
“Kneel at my feet, Girl,” I tell her.
It’s a beautiful thing, the way she goes down so easily, with such fucking grace.
She sinks to her knees without ever shifting the position of her clasped arms, keeping her eyes on the rug.
Such total submission is an incredible thing.
This Girl has the true mind of a slave, which is valuable beyond any price in this realm.
Don’t go down that road.
No, if I think on it too much, I’ll begin to doubt myself again, and that I can’t afford to do.
What I can do is indulge myself a little while giving her exactly what I’ve always known she needs. Pain. Objectification. Being under another’s total command.
I cross one heavily booted foot over a knee.
“Kiss it,” I tell her.
Is that a small hint of a smile I see under her fluttering lashes?
She leans forward and places the sweetest kiss on the toe of my raised boot, and my dick goes hard at the press of her pink lips on the leather.
“Worship it, Girl,” I growl, unable to keep the lust out of my voice.
I can see the silent sigh that runs through her, her shoulders loosening as she releases her arms in order to cup my boot in her pretty little hands, almost as if it’s the chalice in church holding the sacramental wine.
But that’s what boot worship is to her. To many of the slaves.
She strokes with her fingertips, and my God, if this were my dick I’d be coming already.
Instead, I watch with some fascination and a lot of lust burning through my soul as she caresses the leather before leaning in to place the sweetest, almost chaste kiss upon the toe once more.
She pauses, taking in a breath, then blowing it out before her pink tongue slowly licks from the tip of the boot to the laces.
It’s as if she’s teasing my boot, for fuck’s sake, and I can barely take it.
Memories flash through my brain: fucking her on a high iron bed in Paris, my hips driving into hers as my dick sinks into her sweet cunt.
Her screams as I bite into her flesh, leaving marks that would last for weeks.
Having her kneel on rice on my tiny kitchen floor as punishment for having screamed, head bent as if in prayer and hands clasped behind her back, while I watch from the doorway.
Oh, she’s too fucking good.
With a grunt, I heave myself from the chair, bowling her over onto her back in the process, then I’m on my knees between her thighs.
I have my hands around her throat, just holding her, fighting with myself not to choke her out.
Instead I drag my hands down her body, digging my nails in, leaving long, angry welts on her skin.
I glance at her face, and she wears no expression.
No, that’s not entirely true; it’s all in her eyes, like it’s always been.
They’re her tell, her eyes are. The pupils are huge, and she’s blinking hard.
And when I rake my nails over one stiff, red nipple, her eyes go wide for a second before she composes herself.
I begin to work both nipples with rough fingers, pinching, tugging, digging my nails in until the first drop of blood appears.
Then I have to bend down and suck it into my mouth—can’t fucking help it.
She makes the tiniest wriggling movement, and I know her, I know what that means.
And reaching down, I plunge two fingers right into her sweet cunt, finding it soaking wet, as I knew it would be.
God, she feels like fucking velvet inside, and I add another finger and begin to fuck her with my hand.
“Spread,” I demand.
She does, her thighs parting and falling wide apart. I add one more finger, all but my thumb deep inside her. When I angle it to press on her clit, her eyes go wide and a small puff of air escapes her lips.
I know she didn’t expect this. Hell, neither did I. I have to make the Girl come, but I’ll edge her a bit first. It’s as much for me as for her.
Her sweet cunt clenches around my hand, and I fuck her hard and fast, making it hurt, which I know she needs, all the time circling her hard clit with my thumb. Too soon I can tell she’s going to climax.
“No, Girl. You hold your come for me.”
She squeezes her eyes shut for several seconds, and I can feel her lungs fill with air as she draws a long breath, then releases it. And inside, her body relaxes. Ah, fuck, but she’s good, this one. Not a fucking sound from her, even at the precipice of orgasm.
I lean down and graze her stomach with my lips, then bite, sinking my teeth in deep.
Her breathing falters, then I can feel her giving herself over, converting the pain.
I bite again, deeper this time, quickly moving to another spot and sinking my teeth in so she doesn’t have time to process between bites.
Over and over again I sink my teeth into her gorgeous flesh, harder and harder, until drops of blood appear all over her stomach, her hip bones, the tender flesh where her waist curves.
I go back and lick at the blood, so sweet on my tongue, before returning to my task, which is to overload the fuck out of her.
Pleasure and pain. Pain and pleasure. And the spectacular mind-fuck that always goes along with our torture of the slaves.
Robert was right about the mind-fuck part.
Her whole pelvis goes tight, and I growl at her. “No. You hold your come, Girl.”