Authors: Sacred Revelations
Roxy Harte (16 page)
She lies upstairs in the bed she shared with him, devastated, broken into a million fragmented pieces, pieces of self. It is my job to put her back together.
How in the hell
and
where do I start
arguments wage war in my mind.
Getting us the fuck out of Lord Fyre’s beach house is a beginning, but where do I go from there?
* * * *
“Ju hate PVC, boss,” Enrique argues over the phone, his accent heavy. After seven years in this country, one would think his accent would start to fade.
“Call Morgana, she’ll have it ready,” I demand, hanging up. He hates it when I hang up on him. I hate it when he argues with me, even when he is right. I am not a lover of PVC fetish wear, but I cannot take Kitten to the penthouse yet. I’m not ready for that. Which leaves the club, and I will not allow her to be seen like this, not covered in Lord Fyre’s marks. I am not certain which would be worse, knowing that there were those who would guess I did not make the marks or knowing that some would think I actually did.
I should be with her.
I sit down on the couch that faces the fireplace, leaving her alone while I wait for Enrique. I stare at a photograph of Kitten, life-size and framed in a black leather frame, a monumental piece of art, commanding center-stage, impossible not to stare at. I am torn between wanting to throw it from the balcony onto the rocks she posed on and stealing it to put over my own mantle. But no, it is Lord Fyre’s trophy. It will be interesting to see what Latisha has to say about it being in her house. Although she shares him, she doesn’t share well. When it comes to matters of Latisha and Lord Fyre’s other women, the phrase
plays well with others
does not apply—not even in the remotest sense.
* * * *
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him. He is a pleaser—the only reason I hired him and kept him as long as I have.
“I know you’re not asleep, you may as well come out.”
I hang the tux in Thomas’ closet and carry the catsuit over to her. The bed creaks as I sit down and touch the curve of her hip through the sheets, thinking for only a moment that perhaps she does sleep.
Feeling her tremble, I know that she’s awake.
“Do you fear me?” I ask.
“No,” she answers, making me remember when she did fear me.
I jerk the sheet and blanket covering her completely from the bed, throwing it to the ground, staring down at her naked, covered in a hundred welts and bruises, body. I don’t bother counting to ten. I bend over her, nose to nose, whispering, “You should.”
Standing, I toss the PVC catsuit at her. “Hurry up and put this on. There’s baby powder in the bathroom, it will make your skin smoother so it’s easier to pull the suit on.”
She lifts the heavy suit and looks at it. I wonder if she thinks it is beautiful or ugly.
“It’s white,” she whispers.
“So?”
“You hate white—on your dominants and on your submissives. You told me that.”
I look from her to the suit. “Today, my likes and dislikes don’t seem to matter. I also like my submissives to be mark-free, and because you are not, I will hide the marks.”
She rubs her hand over the slick material, saying quite matter of factly, “You’re ashamed of me.”
“Not ashamed, Kitten.”
“Then what?” she challenges sarcastically, flipping the dangling sleeve of the catsuit so hard with her hand that it flies up and smacks me in the face.
I snap, “When I figure that out, I’ll make sure you’re the second to know.”
Grabbing her by the back of her neck, I pull her up from the bed and push her toward the bathroom, growling, “Hurry up!” Even marked with his mark, I want her. Even defiant and challenging, I want her…maybe even more than when she is sweetly submissive. I want her. Desperately. Maybe because of his mark I want her even more urgently. I want to rub out his marks with my body, erase his memory from her mind. I want her to scream my name loud enough to chase the sound of her screaming his name from my imagination, replacing it with something real.
“You’re hurting me!” she squeals, as I press her through the doorway.
I jerk her up short, with a tight pull on the back of her neck. With more anger than intended, I demand,
“I’m hurting you? Did you whine for Lord Fyre? Or did you take it? I know him and he wouldn’t put up with pathetic. Why do you think you can play pathetic with me?” I jerk her when she doesn’t answer.
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“Why, Kitten?”
“You’ve changed,” she accuses, ripping herself from my grasp, huddling in a corner of the bathroom.
She holds the PVC suit in front of her like a shield.
“No, Kitten. I haven’t changed. I did what you needed me to do, I reawakened Lord Ice. I am ready to give you what you need.”
“I don’t need you to be mean!” she spits, throwing the PVC suit at me. Holding out her arms, she twirls in a complete circle, giving me the whole show. “Do you think that this was done with meanness? Do you think that Lord Fyre was spiteful with his whip, with his cane?”
She waits for an answer, arms still outstretched. I can’t speak.
“I will not be abused by you!” she seethes. “Love me as he did, or release me forever. Do you understand?”
“It is in the uncompromisingness with which dogma is held and not in the dogma or want of dogma that the danger lies.”
-Samuel Butler, The Way of All Flesh
Kitten
Towel dried, hair blown dry, I watch him standing outside. The wind off the ocean whips his dark, curly hair around his face. It is slightly longer than when I first met him, the curl more evident. I like it. If anything, our time apart has made him even more handsome to me. I try to not compare the two men, Lord Fyre who just left me, and Garrett Lawrence who returned to claim me. I can’t not compare them.
So alike, so opposite. Lord Fyre, so dark and brooding, his rare smiles take my breath away. Garrett, so filled with mesmerizing brilliance, he shines, lighting an entire room with his personality. Both men tall, Lord Fyre taller; both men lithe and muscular, but Lord Fyre more solidly bulked with muscles seeming on top of muscles. They both make me feel safe, happy, wanted—needed. Or did, once. I wonder if Garrett will ever feel that need for me like he once did. Or have I ruined it entirely?
His hands wrap around the rail I was bound to last night.
Dressed up in Garrett’s PVC catsuit, all traces of my play with Lord Fyre hidden away, I know the marks are there. With intimate detail I see the leather cuffs, the collar, the chains of last night attached to the rail Garrett touches in this moment. My mind recalls the crack of his paddle on my ass and the spot flames anew, reminding me of the bruise hidden under my clothing.
I look down at my shiny new PVC jumpsuit. It is bright white, detailed in blue and red piping. The fabric is suppler than I would have thought. Warming against my skin, it conforms to every curve, leaving nothing to the imagination; especially in light of the fact that there are cutouts for my breasts. A thin strap crosses over them to hide only my nipples, leaving the rest of my breast exposed. I have such small breasts, embarrassingly small, and he chooses to highlight them with this outfit. I would accuse him of meanness again save for a conversation I had with him when I was new to him. He said, “I love your breasts.” I believed him.
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The rest of my skin is covered, my bruises and welts hidden from view. The marks left by Lord Fyre are a slap in Garrett’s face…I understand that but it doesn’t mean that I regret any of this. I cherish each mark left on me by Lord Fyre.
I cherish them.
Enrique was summoned with a change of clothing for Garrett. I didn’t see him, but I heard their voices.
“Is the library ready?” Garrett asks.
“Everything you asked for, si.”
My mind dances with images of what those two sentences mean.
Most sadists keep a dungeon. Garrett Lawrence keeps a library well stocked for pleasure and pain, and although he promised to not touch me until Lord Fyre’s marks were gone, I anticipate the
play
. Yet, with the thought of play, I realize my body needs time to recover before I even consider it.
Still, tonight, if he asked, I would play. I would let him do to me whatever he wanted…anything to make things right between us. I worry that things may never be right.
A tux jacket hangs on a hanger, a fresh, starched white dress shirt lays draped over a chair next to the double doors. He took the time to pull on his pants, socks, and shoes before stepping outside. I walk to the threshold, not wanting to disturb him, but wanting any distraction to take my mind off my worries.
Can Garrett and I ever go back to having what we once shared?
Are Garrett’s friends mad at me?
Where is Lord Fyre right now?
I know, I know, I have to stop thinking about Fyre, but it’s impossible. How long does it take to fly toCairo ? Is he safe? Is his wife and baby all right? Why I’m suddenly worried about his wife and baby is beyond me, but I am. Maybe because it’s Lord Fyre’s baby. I at least care that nothing happens to the flesh of his flesh. And really, I do not begrudge him going to his wife, I just feel like we should have had more time together.
I feel cheated, though would more time have made me feel better or worse? I will never know the answer to that question. He goes to his wife. I return to Garrett. It is time to get on with it.
Outside, Garrett’s attention is on the waves, inside, I slip on my four-inch black-patent stilettos. He pretends to be immersed. Pretends, because he, like I, am trying so hard to be nonchalant, but my blood is boiling, and so is his, I have not a doubt. I call out to him, “I’m ready,” but he has already turned to face me. We look at each other, him outside, me inside, and we both sigh heavily because we are both committed to this path and leaving Lord Fyre’s house together is the next step. I guess the question remains, then what?
* * * *
New to him, new to slave play, my imagination made me jump at every shadow. He’d pushed down the
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hood of the velvet cloak he’d wrapped me in, exposing my neck, before he lifted the circlet from the box and placed it carefully around my neck. It was a shock to feel the coolness of the metal resting on my collarbone and scary when I heard the metal mechanism click in my ear, signaling that my slave collar was locked. That night alarm bells sounded, I wanted to run screaming into the dark of the night and hide.
Opening the lid, I realize that this collar is the ticket to my internal darkness. I shiver, remembering what he promised in the shower.
I will bring your darkness.
I look over at him, expectantly. Seated behind the wheel of his Porsche, dressed in his tux, every hair in place, it is almost impossible to imagine him bringing my darkness as he promised. I pray he can.
He doesn’t move and I realize that he is waiting for me to do the deed. He collared me once, I asked him to remove it. I must be the one to replace it.
My hands tremble as I lift the cool, metal circlet from its velvet-lined bed. The large ruby charm swings, dangling and sparkling in the brightness of midday. I hold it up to my neck, clicking it in place, noticing only after that the small lock that hooks through the back is still lying in the box, alongside the small key.
I smile slightly, knowing he wants me to know that everything must be a conscious choice today. Nice.
That alone makes my pulse quicken, my breath catch. I’d forgotten that Garrett Lawrence does dominance very, very well. He is a Master, but more, he is a teacher of Masters. Every action, every word, is calculated, weighing and measuring the reaction he hopes to get far in advance of the actual deed.
I lift the small key from the box and hand it to Garrett. “This belongs to you,” I say before taking the small padlock in hand. It too I hand to Garrett, pivoting in my seat to expose the back of the collar. I sit patiently, waiting for him to lock it. The engine starts and the lock is not in place at the back of the collar.
He pulls out of Lord Fyre’s driveway without putting the lock in place. I turn back to face him, but he is hidden behind the shield of dark designer sunglasses. The key and lock are tossed carelessly into the change tray of his between-seat console. Purposefully. Does he expect a reaction? My mouth opens and shuts, but I don’t ask, feeling more inclined to sit and pout, pouting so much more preferable to crying, especially when he promises, “You will beg, Kitten.”
* * * *
Garrett leads me by the hand and we dodge and weave past a dozen assistant chefs and servers as they hurry about their tasks. The heat of the kitchen is insane and just the few minutes we walk through is too much time, I feel overheated, dizzy, but sneaking a peek at Garrett, I realize it isn’t just the heat of the kitchen messing with my body, my mind. I remember the first time I saw him onstage, so charismatic, his blue eyes seeming to see into my soul. Even scared as hell, I felt safe with him, all because of the way he looked at me. Even before I belonged to him, it seemed I belonged with him. His promise to make me beg brings the scared as hell feeling back. His Master voice, so filled with the promise of seduction and darkness, makes my blood race. Why do I fear this man’s seduction so?
