Epilogue
I wake up to the rich scent of a good, strong espresso brewing and throw back the covers, pausing to draw on a pair of pajama pants before stalking to the kitchen to see what my girl is up to.
My sweet Giselle is there, moving around the sleek, elegant room in Mistress Clara’s Paris House, as graceful as a fucking swan, as always.
Clara sent her slaves DeLayne and Deitrich to run the House for us and keep us comfortable, but I’ve banished them to the slave quarters, for the most part.
I want my girl all to myself. And she looks as delicious as ever, wearing my golden collar and a green silk chemise as she reaches into a cupboard for the demitasse cups and saucers.
Or a cup and saucer for me, and a small, delicate white bowl edged in gold for herself. She knows exactly what I like.
I move past the two massive marble islands to slap her ass, and she turns to me, smiling, then casts her gaze down and gives a little curtsy. Fucking love it.
“Smells good,” I tell her. “Almost as good as you, my beautiful girl.”
I pull her into my arms and kiss her luscious mouth, and she opens for me right away, melting into my embrace. She tastes like toothpaste and sweetness. And sex. It’ll never not be sex with her, as my instantly hardening cock can testify.
“Your coffee is ready, Master Gilby.”
I release her and raise an eyebrow at her. “Ah, ‘Master’ this morning, is it?”
“Yes, Master,” she says more quietly, and I understand she has a need.
But coffee first.
“Pour,” I tell her.
She does it right away, setting my cup at my preferred seat at the breakfast table by the big window.
I sit and look out at the gardens below, waiting for my cup to cool a bit.
I can see Mistress Clara’s garden slaves working out there, naked but for their boots and a scarf around the neck of one of the Boys.
The lawns are a brilliant green, and her roses are gorgeous this time of year.
I have a quick flash of the single rose bush in our tiny garden growing up that my mum had planted, and after all this time it brings a small pang to the gut.
I pick up my coffee and sip, letting the heat soothe me.
But I know what will soothe me even more.
“On the floor,” I tell my lovely Girl.
She slips out of her chemise, hanging it on a hook by the French doors leading out to the kitchen garden before pouring her coffee into the bowl she had ready.
She places it on a placemat by my feet there for just this purpose, then gets down on her knees in classic slave pose: thighs spread, palms up on her thighs, shoulders back, head bent.
“Drink your coffee,” I tell her, and watch with some small amount of glee as she gets onto hands and knees and lowers her head to the china bowl to drink, lapping at her coffee like a cat.
Glee, fuck yeah. It gives me a little dopamine hit, I’ve realized of late, when she goes full slave Girl for me. If I think about it, it’s always been like this for me, whether with her or any slave. But with my Girl that hit is like a warm blow to the chest.
I drink my coffee, watching her, and when she’s done she goes back to her sitting position, waiting for me.
I toss back the rest of my cup like a shot, then get out of my chair and wrap a fist in her long, silky hair, pulling her to her feet.
She lets out a small gasp, and I’d bet my life that her cunt is soaking wet already.
I drag her over to the island and bend her over the cold marble.
“Spread.”
She complies, and as I press her down with a hand on the small of her back, her warmth seeps into my palm. And when I shove my fingers inside her, she’s as hot and wet as I knew she’d be.
Oh, yeah.
I lean over her and kiss my way up her spine, my fingers still buried inside her.
But it’s me, and soon the kisses turn into small bites: her shoulders, the back of her neck after I sweep her hair aside.
Then I bite my way down her spine, leaving deeper and deeper teeth marks.
When I finally bite hard enough to draw blood, her pussy gushes and clenches around my fingers.
I start a hard fucking, working her g-spot, and it swells, the fleshy spot growing full.
Yeah, gotta make her squirt.
But not here.
I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder, and she lets out a small giggle, to which I respond with a hard smack on her ass, but I fucking love it.
I move across the kitchen and through a pair of doors into the smallest of the three the dining rooms. This one has a heavy glass table on heavy brass legs, and I lay her on her back on it, pulling her almost to the edge.
“Legs up,” I command. She pulls her knees up to her shoulders and holds them there. “Yeah, that’s my good Girl. I’m gonna make you come. I’m gonna make you squirt all over the table. And we’re both going to love every fucking minute of it.”
I press one hand down on her abdomen and use the other to shove three fingers inside her, where she’s wet and velvety, and Jesus fuck, but she feels amazing. I angle my fingers and start a hard pumping, working that g-spot.
“You hold it back, Girl. You don’t come or squirt until I tell you to.”
“Yes, Master,” she murmurs.
I can see from her glazed eyes that she’s deep in slavespace, and her chest and cheeks are bright pink with pleasure. But I need more from her. Or for her.
I move my free hand to pinch her nipple, squeezing the metal piercing, watching her face as I tease her, pulling the tender flesh between hard fingers as I keep fucking her.
Her cheeks go even brighter, and I know she needs to come.
I still my hand inside her, continuing to pinch her nipple, then I lean in to take the other one in my mouth.
I suck, harder and harder, and she begins to make a soft mewling sound.
I move my mouth and bite into her tit, below the nipple, then around the side of the gorgeous, full mound, making her suck in a breath with every dig of my teeth. I move to the other side and sink my teeth in over and over as I start to fuck her again, working that swollen bit of flesh inside her.
She’s breathing hard. From the pain. From the need to come. And I take my free hand and twist one nipple between my fingers as I bite into that space between her tits, and shift to ram my whole fist inside her.
“Ohhh!”
“Hold it, Girl,” I demand, knowing full well she won’t be able to for long.
I bite into her skin again, deeper this time, until I taste her blood.
I lick it off, bite again, lick once more.
I can’t fucking help myself. No. This is our little ritual.
This is one of the things that binds us.
It’s become as much a fetish of mine as my billy clubs.
But it’s more important, ain’t it? Because this is just for us. For us.
Focus.
I twist my hand inside her sleek little cunt and fuck her hard and fast, and she’s mewling and writhing on the glass table. I bite into her once more, the underside of her tit this time, and lap the blood that rises to the surface, and as I pump into her, I pull back to tell her, “Now.”
The mewling turns into a throaty growl, then a scream as she gushes all over the glass, and I keep working her, working her, and she keeps squirting, until she’s lying in a pool of sweet liquid. But I don’t stop. She needs to come for me, too.
I pull my hand from her, then press two fingers back inside her and use my thumb to work her clit. She’s so worked up it doesn’t take much, and in moments she’s arching her hips against my hand, panting and growling as she clenches around my fingers.
“Yeah, my Girl. Come for your Master. Come hard, Girl.”
She shivers, her entire body arching up off the glass, then coming back down with a small splash.
Finally, her orgasm begins to calm, but I have to have more.
I straighten up to pull my rock-hard dick from my pajamas, then I yank her to the very edge of the table, spread her thighs wider, and shove into her.
“Ah, fuck…”
I pump into her, hard, then harder, and she’s sliding in the liquid dripping from the edge of the glass table so that I have to hold onto her hips to keep her from slipping right off. But none of it matters. What matters is her.
I grab her shoulders and pull her upright, so that she’s almost sitting on the edge of the table, and she wraps her legs around me as I fuck her. I can’t get close enough to her, this incredible Girl.
No. My girl.
“Giselle!” I gasp as my dick explodes with sensation, as I shoot my jizz deep inside her, owning her in yet another way.
I pull out and slip a few fingers inside her cunt, pull them out covered with my jizz, then shove them into her mouth to suck, and I fucking swear it feels as if she’s sucking my still-hard cock.
I look into her eyes. They’re gold and green with a little silver, and she’s still down in slavespace to some degree, but she’s also somehow right there with me. Present.
“Mine,” I growl as I pull my fingers from her mouth.
“Yours,” she murmurs.
I kiss her, needing to feel her soft lips on mine, tasting my own jizz on her warm, sweet tongue, like the goddamn milk of Paradise. And I’m a fucking poet again, but that’s what she does to me.
Giselle.
I lift her and carry her through the House, through our bedroom, and into the bathroom.
I set her on a white leather stool while I run the tub, adding some of the French bath oil we’ve both come to love during our three weeks in Paris.
Orange blossom, or some shit. When it’s full I help her in, then strip off my pajamas and get into the warm water with her.
I wash her carefully, every part of her body, then shampoo her hair and rinse it with the hand sprayer before washing myself.
She’s come back to earth by the time I’m done, and we sit facing each other.
Her eyes glow with love, and I can hardly believe my bloody luck.
How did a guy like me, a dirt-poor, good-for-nothing bastard from Shoreditch, end up with this beautiful creature to call my own?
Or almost all my own, but given the kind of life we lead, it’s more than enough. It’s fucking everything.
I reach out to stroke a damp strand of dark hair from her face.
“Mistress Clara is coming back on Thursday,” I tell her. “Her, and Mistress Alexa.”
“Yes,” she says. “I heard you on the phone with her last night, although I didn’t mean to listen in.”
“Nah, it’s alright. I would’ve taken the call in another room if I needed privacy. But you understand you can know everything about me now, eh? Everything I do, everywhere I go. Because you’ll be with me.”
“Non. Not all the time,” she says. Her French accent has become so much stronger since we’ve been in Paris, even though she speaks only to me, or sometimes to Delayne and Dietrich to relay my instructions to them.
“Mistress Clara returning home means we go back to San Francisco, to The Training House, yes? And I will have other responsibilities.”
“You will. But you’ll come back to me every night.” I study her face, on the watch for any signs of stress or sadness, but she looks fine. Fucking beautiful, my little goddess. “You okay with that?”
“I am. This has been…” She pauses to take a long breath.
“This has been beyond lovely, being here with you. But to be perfectly honest, I miss my old routine a bit, and my sister. I won’t mind being worked by whoever the Masters decide to hand me over to—it does make me happy.
You know that about me. But it’s knowing I will return to you each night that makes me the happiest.”
“Yeah, my sweet girl. That makes me the happiest, as well.” I feel my insides go soft, as if her eyes alone are melting me like a candle left in the sun. “You know how much I love you, don’t you?”
“More than even I had ever hoped for,” she says, her eyes shining. “I love you so much, my Master.”
She leans toward me, tilting her chin to be kissed, and I take her face in my hands to oblige. My heart feels like it might explode in my chest, shattering me into a thousand shards of happiness. A happiness I never expected, and that makes it even more valuable. Precious. The way she is to me.
My Giselle,” I murmur against her lips, and I feel her smile.
And I know, no matter what, we’re gonna be alright.