Chapter 5
Chapter Five
I’m well aware that I’ve completely lost my bloody mind, but what of it, eh? I’m in too deep to do anything else but pursue this line of absolute fucking madness.
I run up to the study to dial Robert—this is not a conversation I can have with anyone else.
“Yes, Master Gilby?” he answers.
I’m grateful for his stiff formality now, no matter how many times I’ve given him shit for it.
“Robert, I’m going to do something that’s a bit…unusual. Outside of our general format. And I’ll need your help, and maybe Nola’s, when she gets back.”
There’s only the slightest pause on his end, and I find myself having to fill even that moment of silence. “Don’t judge me, Robert.”
“I would never judge, Sir. I was about to say that thinking outside the box seems to be the theme in this House.”
I bark out a laugh. “Ha! So it is.”
“Tell me what you need from me,” he says calmly.
“I need some time with Giselle. Alone. Time to focus only on her. But I don’t want to shirk my duties to the other slaves. Can we send Mistress Clara’s two over to Mistress Alexa for a bit? A few days, a week at most.”
“Ah, Mistress Alexa is at the Primal Ranch in Carmel, Sir. Might I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“What about Madame Gemma? She’s currently in town and always happy to accommodate. And Mistress Clara has lent her slaves to the Madame before.”
“That would be perfect. Thank you, Robert. Let me know her answer.”
“If you like, I’ll make the arrangements and won’t bother you unless there’s a complication. I can also arrange their transportation—Jasper or Curtis can take them in the van. Will that do, Master Gilby?”
“You really are one of a kind, Robert.”
Never one to take a compliment, he says simply, “Enjoy your time. Sir. Oh, and shall I have the other Girl worked? Nola and I can take care of that, if you like.”
“Yes, but not until tomorrow.”
I pause, thinking. If I keep Giselle in my apartment it will feel to her—and to me—as it always has, on the rare occasions I’ve had her to myself, without her sister. Oh, I’ve worked them in the kitchen, the garage, in the study. But I’ve never had either of them in the Master’s quarters.
I know what I have to do.
“Robert, I’m going to take Damon up on his offer and use the Master’s rooms.”
“Of course, Sir,” he answers, his tone of utter respect telling me he accepts my current position in the House and wants me to know it. “I’ve had clean sheets put on the bed and fresh towels in the bathroom. Please ring if you need food or drink, or any equipment not already in the quarters.”
“Thank you, Robert.”
I hang up and glance longingly at the bar, but I need to keep a clear head.
I’m not even certain what I’m going to do—all I know is something unconventional is about to happen.
It’ll either heal me or break the fuck out of me—and her, too—and I’m goddamn giddy and frankly terrified, which is something I ain’t used to—not one bit.
I make my way back to my own rooms and find her sitting in the same exact spot as when I left. She really is an excellent slave.
She doesn’t turn to look at me when I enter, even though she is currently not in her role as House slave here. Too many years of habit, and it’ll be hard to break, I’m sure.
“Come, we’re going.”
She stands, then pauses. “Where?”
“Don’t you worry about that. Here, let’s get you prepared to walk the halls.”
Immediately her head bows and she clasps her hands behind her back, ever the good Girl.
She flinches a little as I slide my robe from her shoulders, and I think again how strange it must feel to her, wearing clothing of any kind after going naked for six long years.
When I slide the brown leather collar around her neck once more she’s perfectly still, head held high as I move her heavy curtain of brown hair aside, and I can barely stand to touch the delicate skin of her throat.
Makes me want to kiss it, to sink my teeth in until I can taste her warm, sweet blood in my mouth. To choke her out as I fuck her.
To tell her I love her.
Jesus fucking Christ. I am a sick, sick man.
None of these things seemed odd at all until I admitted to myself that I’m love with the Girl.
Alright then, get it together.
A very American bit of slang, but it fits perfectly. I feel like my mind is a puzzle scattered on the floor, and I’m grasping desperately onto a few pieces that won’t quite fit together.
Stop the goddamn musing.
I give the leash a tug and lead her into the hallway, up the narrow stairs to the main floor, past the kitchen and down another hallway, then to the main stairs. I’m certain she knows where I’m taking her, and I’m not opposed to the idea that it might be causing her some mind-fuck.
When we reach the double doors to the Master’s suite—my suite for the time being—I open them slowly.
I’ve been in here before, of course, but the rooms have never been mine to explore.
Luxurious as hell, which I expected, but I’d forgotten how damn expensive it smells in here.
Like leather and tobacco, even though no one smokes in this House, with the scents of good scotch and gin.
And sex. This room always smells a little like come, or maybe that’s just my perverted brain. Who knows. But it’s hot as fuck.
I lead her into the main room, which is a small living area, I suppose, with the big desk on one side. I won’t be needing it, but it makes me feel a certain way—it’s a weird awareness that I’ve come up in the world. I could use it.
Maybe.
I shake my head a little and turn to her, to Giselle. And my fucking God, but she’s beautiful, with the noon-time light coming in through the parting in the heavy black velvet drapes. It lights up her hair, tipping the ends in gold.
And I’m turning into some fairytale fucking prince, am I?
She watches me as I step closer, as I turn her around to unbuckle the collar once more, then move her again until she’s facing me. She’s perfectly silent, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, her elegant neck.
I step closer.
“Tell me what you need, Giselle.”
“What I need? I hardly know how to answer such a question. You put me in your robe and removed my collar, then put the collar back on, led me naked through the House, and here we are and I am collarless again, yet still naked. I don’t know what to think, what my headspace is supposed to be.”
“Yeah, I know. I know.”
I’m flying by the seat of my pants here, but I can’t tell her that. She needs to feel safe with me, and all she’s known for years is control. Command.
I move in even closer and wrap my hand around the back of her neck. She goes a little loose all over, and I can hear her long, exhaled breath.
Yeah, there it is.
“You need me to treat you like a slave, to get you back into yourself, is that it?”
“It’s always been it,” she answers, her voice barely a whisper.
Without pausing I dig my fingers into her scalp and shove her down onto her knees on the fancy dark-red-and-gold carpet. She goes down so easily, with the grace she’s known for, and it’s a fucking beautiful thing to watch.
Yeah, get her in the right head space, and myself, too. It’s what we need, people like us.
Her hands go behind her back, but I grab one wrist and force her hands apart.
“On your back.”
She slides onto the rug, her lovely body so pale against the deep colors of the rug. But I don’t hesitate long. No, it’s important that we both feel like ourselves. That we connect on this level before any other. I realize that now.
“Arms out to the side,” I tell her, and she complies.
I place my heavy booted foot between her tits. Glancing at her face, I see her lowered lids, the gleam of her eyes from under those long lashes, her pink lips full and gone a bit slack. Yeah, she’s right there, heading into subspace. Slavespace. I know exactly what she needs.
Putting half my weight onto that foot on her chest, I bend down and slap her face, once, twice, her cheeks pinking up nicely.
And she’s quiet, breathing it in. I can tell from every taut line in her body, from the softness of her features and the glittering eyes, that she’s converting the pain, sinking into it.
My dick is hard, as it often is, but I do my best to ignore it. I have a responsibility here.
I lean in to slap her breasts, first one, then the other, harder and harder. No implements, just my big hands, slapping, pinching the taut flesh around her steel piercings, letting my nails bite into the flesh. Warmup. Yeah.
I reach down and grab a fistful of hair, pulling her to her feet and shoving her through another set of doors and into the bedroom.
There I push her onto her back on a long velvet-covered bench and kick her legs apart.
Her toes barely reach the floor, but it’s good to keep a slave off balance—physically, mentally.
I place my booted foot between her pretty thighs, the rough sole pressing against her pussy, and she spreads even wider without being asked.
Not a single bloody sound out of her. And suddenly I want nothing more than to make her scream.
To force her back out of herself. Or maybe more deeply into herself.
No telling which way it could go at this point, after all I’ve put her through already, making her fucking talk to me. Forcing her into being a person again.
But something holds me back.
Instead, I slap her thighs, her calves, then move my way back up her body, smacking and pinching her sides, her stomach, her hard nipples. When I get to her face there are tears in her eyes, and it stops me fucking cold.
“What? What is it? Speak.”
“I… Please. I need more. I need you to really work me. So I’ll feel like myself. So I can feel…safe.”
This is child’s play for a slave trained as she is, and I know it, but I need to build up slowly now. Not for her, but for me. Because my head is still unbalanced, wobbling between my fucking needs and the strict outline of my responsibilities.
Fuck you. Do it for her.