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He thought of her hands on him the other night. This wasn't quite as good as that, but it was close. He tried to drop his head again, responding to the massage, and was thwarted by the straps pulling against his mouth. Murmuring a reassurance, she released those lines and rubbed his shoulders where they fed into his tense neck muscles.
Threading her fingers through the mane on the back of the mask, she tugged, then found the point of hair at his nape beneath it and caressed that.
After she worked him over with the rubber grooming tool, she started using her hands, coated with a liniment that smelled of eucalyptus. As she kneaded him with bare palms, he couldn't bite back a noise of bliss. Under her touch, the knots he seemed to carry more often than not started to loosen.
When she worked on his shoulders, she pressed his head down and held it there with a grip on his forelock and the decorative brow band. The position let him feel the full effect of her touch through his shoulders and neck. Then she brought his head back up. For a pleasurable moment, he was staring right at her breasts, soft round temptations under straining cotton. Moving toward his legs, she worked down his side and along his abdomen.
When she was done, his whole body felt better, while everything inside was tied in knots, though it wasn't without effort. His insides wanted to become just as malleable under her hands as his outside was. He forced himself to resist that urge, but when her eyes met his in the mirror,
the shuttered finality he saw there speared him through his soul.
They were done for tonight. She'd give him nothing further in this session. Could he blame her?
He hated that part the worst of all, the emotions that surged up in him at the end of a session, even the fun fucks. She hadn't allowed him to turn this into that, and that only seemed to make his descent into a dark well of emotions all the more inevitable.
As he stared at her, he thought of what he'd do if he was free. Maybe he'd reach out and touch her chin, run his fingers along the creases the mask had left on her cheeks. His questing fingers would trace her collar bone. "You're so beautiful," he would whisper, before he knew he'd said it.
He'd just come; she'd just come. So why did he hurt and yearn? Fuck, he didn't let himself feel that kind of hunger outside the fighting ring. He certainly didn't allow those feelings to slip into a session with a Mistress. His time with a Domme was supposed to be about getting her off. He hoped Regina would agree to that next time so he could fuck her and be done with this.
He hoped for that almost as much as he wanted her to never give in to him. But they always did. Or they broke. He was the child that always broke his toys before he could figure out how to play with them.
Sometimes he preferred not to come when he was in a session, letting all the orgasms happen to her. Not just because it kept power on his side, but he'd discovered unreleased passion had weight, something that could fill him and disguise what was empty.
Maybe there'd be no next time. Even if there was, this tug of war couldn't go on forever. She'd be done with him before long. He wasn't worth a lot of effort, and those that tried too hard just earned his contempt, while contributing to his well of self-loathing, freak that he was.
Shut the fuck up. Was there a lobotomy to remove one's inner voice?
She unhooked the cross ties, which allowed him to turn his head to see her. With the mask on he still had tunnel vision, but now he could turn that limited view on her wherever she moved, as long as she wasn't directly behind him. She moved to the sink wearing only the hoof boots, though she unzipped and stepped out of them, so she was entirely naked.
Most women, even the most formidable Mistress, looked more vulnerable that way, devoid of any trappings to enhance their power or allure, all imperfections visible to all. She moved the way a woman moved who had never viewed clothes as a shield. If she was walking down a busy city street right now, he expected she'd have the same sensual confidence and indifferent awareness. He'd never really understood why there were two terms for being clothes-less; nude and naked. But seeing her, he realized they weren't the same word. Naked was about vulnerability, imperfection. Nude was this is what I am, and it's so damn awesome I don't even think about it.
A lifetime ago, in his sixth-grade class, they'd visited a bakery on a field trip to a local museum. The baker set out hot cinnamon rolls. Marius remembered having his nose pressed to the glass shield over the baker's work area. The cinnamon, sugar and butter had mixed together in the spiral crevices to form a rich, dark syrup. That was the color of Regina's skin, such a close match that if he closed his eyes and inhaled, he thought he could bring back the scent of the bakery. But he didn't want to close his eyes.
He'd worship the line of her back alone. Smooth and long, a graceful curve that disappeared into the crease at the top of her buttocks. And her ass...he wanted to kiss, squeeze and bite his way over every inch of it. Tease her rim and make those long, strong legs tremble, her round ass push urgently against his face. She'd turn, swinging one of her smoothly muscled legs over his head and bring him to her breasts, letting him suck and bite there...
She hadn't spoken, and with him still gagged, he had no chance to affect the mood or break up the intensity that still vibrated in the air. Or maybe he was the only one still feeling it. She looked relaxed. He stared at every part of her he could, but he couldn't get enough.
Putting on her panties and matching bra, red cotton with a trim of lace, she shrugged back into the tank and pulled on her jeans. Staying barefoot, she tied her locs back into a tail before she approached the dais again.
She released all the ties holding his legs, then moved forward to remove the mask. As she pulled it off his head, it was weird to see his human face in the mirror but the same eyes staring at him. Regina removed the bit and head straps, setting them aside before she combed his hair back with her fingers. He expected she did it to get rid of that hat hair feeling that came with wearing the tack and mask. It felt good, but before he could stiffen up against that vulnerability, she took the touch away. It had been an automatic, functional gesture, no time to reject or take advantage of it.
"You can use your teeth to pull off the straps holding the hooves in place," she said, pointing to them. "Wipe down the platform with the sterile wipes under the sink. There are detailed instructions there for cleaning the other tack. Be sure and use the proper cleaning agents with those instructions. Put everything back where it belongs, and then get dressed and leave. You have forty-five minutes to do all that and drive out the gate before I set the alarm."
"I--"
She shook her head. "No. You don't get to talk. Just nod if you'll obey, or leave. Before you think about being a smartass, remember the lesson I taught you when you were taking off your clothes. I have no interest in game playing. So nod if you'll do as you're told."
He could cheerfully tell her to fuck off, that all of it was game playing and who the hell was she to act as if he couldn't do exactly what the hell he wanted? But in a weird way, him acting out right now would mean she had won. She'd pulled something over on him. He just couldn't figure out exactly how she'd done it and he needed to think it through. He could exercise control. Even if he thought she smelled like cinnamon rolls.
"Are you..." He shut his mouth. She cocked her head.
"I'll allow one question. Am I what?"
"Are you wearing cinnamon?"
"I have a skin dust flavored with cinnamon. Yes. Is your real name Duncan?"
Duncan Marius Walczak.
