Master's Flame (15 page)

Michel steeled himself, drilling into her pussy without a care for her pleasure or her completion. Tonight, that was unimportant. Tonight was about showing her who was on top. He pulled out of her pussy and set about working the toy out of her ass. She was tight and small as hell and he had to go slowly. Once he had it halfway out, he started to piston it in and out of her sphincter. “Do you like that?”

She shuddered on her knees. “Not really.”

“
No, Master
will do just fine.”

“No, Master,” she whimpered.

“I don’t care whether you like it or not, as you know. But I am heartened to hear that you don’t, since I enjoy testing your submission.” He teased her with the plug a full minute longer, asking her at the end, “Who do you serve?”

And she answered in that avid, sweet voice, laced with tears: “I serve you, Master.”

He set the toy aside and moved closer to her, fisting his cock, pressing it against her asshole. He knew she didn’t like this either but it was important for her to understand she was going to endure it anyway. It was important for her to fear him and the things he might do to her.

When he couldn’t ease the head inside, she made a sound of dismay. “Hush,” he told her. “Open yourself up to me.”

He put a hand across the backs of her shoulders, pressing her down. With his other hand, he continued to probe the head of his dick into her hole. Her whines were turning into frightened cries.

“Damn it,” he said. “Why must this be so difficult?”

“Please, Master. I’m trying. Please try again.”

She slaughtered him, the way she never, ever gave up. “I’ve already tried,” he said, leaning back. “You’re too small and too tight. You won’t relax.”

She stayed still, a hunched up, reddened, shivering, slavey mess on the floor. “I want to serve you. Please, Master. Please just put it in me. I’ll bear it.”

Mon Dieu
, she would bear it too, the little idiot. He gave her a sharp slap to the ass and stood to get more lube. “I’m not going to rip you. I’m not going to force it in when it doesn’t fit. You need to open to me.” He knelt behind her and slathered more lube on her hole, and then onto the condom. “You’re going to undergo anal training, do you understand? Until you can take my cock in your ass whenever I want it. We’re not going to have these struggles.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.” She was sobbing now, so anxious to submit to anything he asked. He believed she would push an icepick a little farther into her forehead every day if he asked her to, until she’d succeeded in giving herself a lobotomy. He wanted to be annoyed about it, but as he finally eased the head of his cock into her ass, he felt a certain tenderness, a pang of admiration wrested from the pit of his black, cold heart. She drew up beneath him, her sobs turning to moans as he pushed deeper.

“You’re a pathetic little slave,” he murmured as he fucked her. “There is so much you need to learn. But I’ll teach you.” He held the tail of his shirt out of the way, watching her tiny asshole stretch to accommodate him. His earlier conflicts were forgotten, washed away by her tearful submission, by the change he saw in her already. She was under his power, at least for the moment. Thirty days. Twenty-nine, now. She’d survive.

“Don’t come,” he said as he got close. “You are not allowed to come tonight because you’re pathetic and untrained, and because you’re too small to take Master’s cock in your asshole. I could barely fit in your mouth.”

He taunted her because she needed to hear it and because it was the only way to keep her from reaching climax. As for him, he binged on pleasure like it was Christmas Day. When his orgasm roared up from his thighs and his balls, he shuddered from the agony of the long-awaited release. He had intended to withdraw and mark her with his cum, puddles of it all over her slender back, but in the end he came inside her conquered body, thrusting deep. He collapsed against her back, spent, and felt her give a little sigh.

Poor unsatisfied slave girl. But now she knew. He was cruel and heartless. He rejoiced in her frustration and basked in her cries of pain. “Stay there.” He pulled away, discarded the condom and took his time readjusting his clothing. When he finally went to stand back over her, he was dressed and deliciously satisfied. She was naked, wet-cheeked, and covered in red from his hands and the crop. “Do you see now?” he asked very, very gently. “It is not fun. Being my slave is not unbounded happiness and pleasure. It is
tres difficile, non
?”

She looked at him through tears and said, without the least hesitation, “I serve you, Master.”

Very well
, he thought to himself.
We are back on track.
“Get in the shower and clean up,” he said aloud. “Dinner is at eight o’clock.”

Michel didn’t take wine at dinner, nor did he give her any. The sex and her submission had intoxicated him enough, and there was wine in Galvin’s exemplary sauce. Lemon chicken with capers and roasted asparagus, and a naked, freshly-fucked slave at his right hand. Pure bliss.

The crop kisses on her front had already faded. The crop was a handy tool when marks might be an issue...the stinging attack of the tip felt much more damaging than it actually was. But now, he wished she were marked a little, with
his
marks, not the ones from the club. He would have enjoyed looking over to see her welted and punished like a proper slave. When those cuts on her back were healed, he’d bring out harsher implements, straps and paddles, tawses, canes, whips, floggers. He would be judicious in his use of them, as always. His slaves were all performers too, and he needed them whole. He only ever imparted surface damage to their bodies, although he was skilled at making it feel like he was punishing them a lot harder.

Lovely Valentina. What a miracle she’d be when he was done with her. All her headstrong angst, transformed into beautiful, obedient serenity. He was capable, she was capable. He could make this happen.

She was
his
.

Only for thirty days, he reminded himself. No, twenty-nine. Would he count down each day as it came, dreading her eventual release? Or would he say goodbye with a sigh of relief? He imagined the latter more possible. Either way, his time was limited, which was why he’d come on so strong, moving her into his house so he could control every aspect of her existence.

You’ve never had a slave move in before.

Well, there was a first time for everything. And it wasn’t so different from having slaves spend the weekend, or a week here and there. He told himself that, but some vague, niggling warning still pinged in his brain, some realization that Valentina was different from the others. It was her hair, probably. It wasn’t normal.

He reached over and traced a lock of it, absently, like an owner touching one of his things. She looked at him with so many questions in her gaze. She was still edgy from the tough scene he’d just led her through. He found her anxiety arousing.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are,” he said, and he meant it, because she really didn’t know. She didn’t understand the way he saw her. She didn’t realize how lovely she seemed to him, with her nervousness and the rigid way she held her body. He could tell he frightened her. She wanted to escape him but she couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. The truth was, he hadn’t locked her in with anything other than her mind. She could walk out anytime she wanted...although the thought of that made him very, very upset.

“How’s the food?” he asked. “Good?”

“Yes, Master. I’m glad you have a real cook and not a slave cook.”

“Slave cooks are the worst.”

“I’m glad you don’t have slave food either,” she added.

He halted with a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth. “What is slave food?”

“You know, slave food. Muesli and table scraps. The end part of celery that no one likes to eat.”

“
Mon Dieu
, Valentina.” He shook his head. “I’m a sadist. I enjoy being cruel, but the end part of celery?”

She gave a small strangled laugh, like she wasn’t sure it was allowed in his presence. He smiled to let her know it was, and she studied him as if he’d grown a second head. Did he smile so infrequently?

“You’ll find I do my own thing,” he said, sobering. “Perhaps you’ve read books or seen movies about how Masters and slaves are supposed to go on. They’re fine as entertainment but I do things my own way.”

“Are you going to give me a slave number?”

“No.”

“A brand?”

He rolled his eyes.

“A collar? All slaves wear collars.”

He reached over and wrapped a hand around her neck. “Here’s your collar. It’s called my will.” He gave her a little squeeze and released her. “I don’t put my slaves in collars. They can be lovely, but collars suggest permanency.”

She gave him another of those studious looks. “You don’t have permanent slaves?”

“No. I do not make promises of happily ever after.” He shrugged, taking a sip of water. “It always ends in broken hearts.”

“It’s not such a great thing to survive a broken heart. My heart has been broken dozens of times, and you see I survived.”

“Dozens of times? How indiscriminating you must be.”

She toyed with a stalk of asparagus. “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s only that I see so many things to admire in so many people.”

“Do you see things to admire in me?” As soon as he said it, he wished he could unsay it.

She looked up at him in surprise. “Of course I do, Master. There is your power. Your strength and directness. Your intelligence. Your creativity and...” Her eyes swept down his bespoke shirt and four-hundred-dollar pants. “The fine way you dress, and the careless shadow of your beard when it’s late and you haven’t shaved. Your elegant fingers and fingernails, the way they touch and move things.”

He looked down at his hands, but she wasn’t finished yet.

“And your eyes, they’re light and beautiful. When they fix on me I feel frightened and warmed at once.” She paused. “I loved the way you took your tie off by the door. Not because it made you seem more human, but because you seemed as godlike as ever, doing casual everyday things.”

Ah, but he’d forgotten that she was an artist, with an artist’s whimsy. “Godlike, Valentina?” he echoed, bemused.

“Yes. And there are many more things I admire in you, too many to name. I suppose that’s why I’m here.”

“Very flattering words. You’re wonderful company to have around. I look forward with great pleasure to the remainder of our—”
Experiment.
He almost said experiment for some reason, then he caught himself and substituted “engagement.” He smiled at her but she didn’t smile back.

“Will I get any breaks?” she asked, twirling her last stalk of asparagus on her fork.

He glared at her hand until she stopped. “No, you’re my slave. You don’t get breaks. And you’ll use proper table manners or you’ll eat from a dog dish on the floor. Sit up straight and stop playing with your food.”

She picked up her knife and started slicing what was left on her plate into numerous tiny pieces. So, so tempting to go for the dog dish.

“Can I earn a break with good behavior?” she asked when her chicken and asparagus were diced and sorted into separate piles.

He took her plate and removed it to the other side of the table. “No. But these silly questions have just earned you another assfucking against the contract wall. Eventually this will sink in. You are my slave. You belong to me from now until February 14th.” Valentine’s Day. He’d only just thought about that now. “Do you have any other questions?”

She stared across the table at her plate. He wouldn’t have taken it if he didn’t believe she’d eaten enough. Well, perhaps he would have.

“No, Master,” she said in a defeated voice. “I don’t have any more questions.”

She looked down at the mahogany table top while he finished eating. Poor, sad slave. “Sit up straight,” he murmured when she started to sag. “It’s only twenty-nine more days.”

She glanced sideways at him. He watched her throat work, heard the faint sniffles she tried to hide. He knew she was given to theatrics, but he didn’t think these were theatrics.

“It’s not as fun as you thought, is it?” He reached out and touched her hand where it rested in her lap. “Perhaps some nipple clamps would make it more fun?”

She looked up at him with such dread, such agony that he felt sorry for a moment.

Only a moment.

“Take a deep breath, Valentina, and stop crying. I can’t eat while you’re crying.”

She blinked through tears. “I thought you enjoyed making your slaves cry.”

“I do.” He took her hand and placed it over his hardening cock. “That’s exactly my point. If you don’t stop crying, I’ll have to carry you off and fuck you, and I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

She lifted the napkin out of her lap and mopped it over her face in a breach of etiquette that normally would have resulted in some scolding words. Well, it was day two. There was such a thing as pushing too far.

“I think you can go back to work on Wednesday,” he said once she’d composed herself. “You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?”

“Yes, Master. I don’t want to fall out of shape.”

“Oh, you’re getting exercise. Just not the usual muscles.”

Galvin entered and poured coffee for both of them. “Go ahead,” he said when she looked to him for permission. “If you think it won’t keep you awake later.”

Valentina took little sips of the rich brew, gazing at him over the rim of her cup. He wondered when she’d last sat so still and quiet for so long, and the caffeine on top of it.

As for him, he felt a great sense of relaxation. Still and quiet suited him perfectly, perhaps because of his loud and hectic childhood, or perhaps because of his natural tendencies. He’d been half hard all the way through dinner, an enduring, pleasant feeling of arousal he didn’t need to fight. He was going to have her again, directly after the coffee, and then clean her up and store her neatly away in her cage.

Calm. Clean. Controlled. Did she realize how euphoric it made him feel?

“Come,” he finally said. “Let’s go back to your room.”