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But why did it bug him? He'd been blindfolded before. Hell, full head mask, gagged, hog-tied and immobilized. That didn't put him out of control. He still knew how to work a Mistress, even when it seemed all senses were hampered. Body language was almost impossible to completely silence and Mistresses looked for the responses they wanted to see. He could give her a good time. Why wouldn't she give him the freedom to do that?
Why was he having a fucking two-way argument with himself that was threatening to burn out the hamsters turning the wheels of his brain?
"I don't want a blindfold. I want to see you in my shirt." Longer. More. He never wanted her to wear anything else.
He'd said it like a demand and knew it. Wouldn't apologize for it.
"There'll be time for that. You're a little too bossy right now. Let's take care of that." Her fingers were at his mouth, easing in a ball gag. He locked his jaw, but she merely slid her finger into the hinge and wrenched it open the way she had with the bit, strapping it in before he could force it loose. It had a handkerchief wrapped around it. When the scent hit his nostrils, it stilled him.
"I rubbed that between my legs," she said. "I want you to know how much I liked thinking about doing this to you. And how much I liked that kiss at the Riverwalk." Her knuckles slid along his sides, to his hips, down over his upper thighs.
Her voice thickened, giving him an unexpected glimpse of emotion. She stayed in such control, was she playing him now? But her words hit him in a way that didn't leave room for him to analyze.
"I don't know if any sub can truly understand what it does to a Master or Mistress, seeing you helpless, surrendering your will to us. It takes the mind some interesting places."
She pressed against his back, her hands sliding along his bound arms. "You think you can scare me, big bad wolf? You don't know all the uncivilized things I want to do with you, here, trapped in my house, bound and helpless. It's you who should be worried."
He could get out by tearing the hook out of the ceiling. He knew it, she knew it. But the teasing caress of her breath on his neck had him quivering, his cock getting stiffer.
She'd moved away from him and was doing something, perhaps at the table he'd seen when he first came into the room, the one that had items concealed by a cloth on one end.
When she returned, the clatter of metal suggested she'd set a bucket next to him. Next, she ran her hand down his left leg. "Lift," she ordered. When he did, she slid a cushioned mat under one foot, then the other as he shifted.
"Some people use plastic, but I like to have my sub stand on something soft and warm. It has a rubber backing to absorb liquid, though. Remember the other night? You became a horse, and it was an amazing thing to watch. Tonight, we create something different."
He started as she smeared a handful of clay-like substance along one shoulder. It was crazy, how he was more skittish about the unknown things she might do than the harshest punishments he could see coming from the frustrated Mistresses at The Zone.
The clay was warm. As she packed it on, it stayed where she put it. It also seemed to be hardening fast, like wax. She applied it to his chest, back, abdomen, buttocks. It smelled like earth and cocoa butter. He'd used cocoa butter lotion on his tattoo to keep it supple while healing, per the artist's direction.
Regina had left that shoulder bare and was stroking the design. "This is a good symbol for you, Marius. I think you're the skin over the armor, being ripped away. Duncan is the armor and the man beneath."
He tensed. He didn't want her going down that road, but fortunately she returned to working with the clay. She spread it over his ass, tracing the seam between his cheeks, the sensitive lines where buttocks and thighs met. Her touch was meditative, like she was detached from his reaction as she savored her own.
"It's different for you, isn't it?" she mused. "Whether intentional or not, you
chose Mistresses who think the way women are expected to do. How is he doing? Is he engaged? Is he thinking about me? What is he feeling?"
She chuckled, a husky sound that stirred his nerves like a hot summer breeze. "I prefer to think about what I'm feeling and thinking. What I'm doing. Am I engaged? You can only touch my heart and mind if I allow it, and right now I'm busy pleasing and engaging myself. I've blindfolded and gagged you so I can watch your reactions and feed off the pleasure of those. No interruptions except those I want."
His breath had slowed while she spoke, but his heart had compensated threefold. Her fingertips glided over his upper thighs, back along his sides. His cock was throbbing, aching and stiff, and she was ignoring it. His hands were clenched in fists above his head.
"I told you my thoughts go to some interesting places when I do this. I think of a goddess, at the dawn of creation, sculpting life. I imagine this is the way she did it, spending days, maybe years, to create every curve, angle and feature of a male body like yours. She wants to know exactly what she'll have the joy of gazing upon when the babe grows to manhood."
A blade slid through the clay on his shoulder, a curved edge that scraped him as clean as a razor and left a tingling burn behind. Her voice was a sensual current, carrying him away from the shore he knew.
"When a baby is born, we think that's perfection. New, pure, unsullied. But a goddess looks into our future and uses our experiences to sculpt her vision of our adult selves. That's what makes the results interesting, how those experiences affect our bodies, our faces. Our soul and heart inside. The soul is as visible to her as our bodies."
A smile entered her voice. "Despite her interest in our souls, I imagine she'd linger over a body as fine as yours. I would if I were her. She'd also weep at some of the damage you've done to her work." The blade slid down his back, over the upper curve of his buttock, her fingers following and stroking, lingering over various scars. The chain clanked as he shifted. Her touch stilled, her voice dropping.
"And here's where I imagine myself stepping into that goddess's bare feet, for she never wears shoes. Perhaps on occasion there's a soul, a sculpture, so fascinating to her she decides to keep him for herself for a while. She hasn't yet given him eyes or a tongue, just a powerful, yearning, virile body, and what goddess wouldn't want to take full advantage of that? She wants to see if he can serve her as she desires."
She was doing it again, transforming him. Suddenly he was a faceless entity in a goddess's workshop, with no existence beyond the molding and sculpting of her hands, the direction of her voice.
The part of him that stayed in this reality became acutely aware of not being able to control any of this, not without destroying it. He stilled as she set the blade to the base of his cock, her thumb against the top of it to control the movement as she scraped a long smooth line along the turgid flesh. She hooked the curved edge under the glans and pressed metal against him. His thighs quivered.
If she'd left him unbound, merely ordered him to keep his hands curled around the chains, his eyes closed and mouth shut, would he have obeyed, simply to please her?
The thought startled him.
