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“Every lash on that pretty bottom, every cut of the crop across your pussy, every forced or gentle entry.”
Tessa shuddered thinking back. “I didn’t see you,” she said.
“And you shouldn’t have, your mind should have been elsewhere.”
Tessa knew it hadn’t been. Despite the pain and constant torture, there was always a prominent corner of her mind focused on Miles. “I did see you that first time when I was on the pedestal.”
“That was a mistake,” Miles admitted, pointing a lighthearted accusing finger at her. “And you peeked.”
“There was no rule to close my eyes,” Tessa reminded him with a dash of irritation.
He observed her for some moments. “You know, you’re not likely to change, Miss Feisty.”
“What does that mean?” Tessa asked.
“You performed well for twenty-four hours, in fact, you were nearly flawless, but you don’t really want to surrender, you fight it.”
She looked crestfallen.
He chuckled darkly. “But then… staying away from your submissive desires is like staying away from chocolate candy. You can’t do it.”
“You’re unhappy with me,” Tessa said, feeling herself jolted from the halcyon bliss, to cruel reality.
“No, I’m not at all unhappy with you. My only consideration, Tessa, is not can you be the perfect trinket for Damien’s Ball, but can you satisfy me?”
“What more would I have to do?” she asked.
Miles viewed the voluptuous curves of Tessa’s torso, her breasts and nipples bulging against the thin fabric of the sheer, silky turtleneck. Her golden hair was shining, falling softly past her shoulders. He saw her as he saw her in the club that first night: bright, fresh and willing to be molded. She hadn’t changed much, except that she was less flighty, less drawn to men with half her depth, more willing to acknowledge her more flagrant, abusive desires. She was more confident, he thought, more earthbound goddess than airy sprite.
“Let’s find out tonight what you have to do,” he finally said, pushing away from the table and rising to his feet. A hand dropped down to caress her shoulder. Then, he leaned down and kissed her on the mouth, his tongue reaching in to penetrate her deeper than the surface of her lips.
“Tonight . . .” he said as he turned away letting the word drop like some magical mantra into the magical air of morning.
She waited for him, curling up in an overstuffed chair, her feet tucked under her, her three-inch patent pumps remaining on the floor. She was in one of a half-dozen places she could have chosen in the ridiculously monstrous house. She wondered as she roamed though it, why he bothered with the massive stone fortress, living alone the way he did. Maybe it was a family home, maybe it was the eccentric artist that demanded this space to create. Then again, he created most of his work in the garret, or so she thought.
Tessa had dressed two hours before, and waiting was a miserable business. If only he’d told her when he’d be home; but he omitted a lot of details when he spoke with her at breakfast. She had to improvise. The turtleneck and tiny skirt he’d left for her in her room weren’t right by evening; so she took liberties, thumbing through the closet in her room for something that reflected the way she felt about the approaching night with Miles.
She was looking for elegance, finding a black cotton sheath, cut low in the back and front. Made of a stretchy Lycra fabric, it clung like second skin to artful curves of her body.
She paraded around the house in the dress, matching pumps, and make-up that she discovered in the bathroom. Between one and five, she must have changed her look ten times, experimenting like a teenager with the dazzling colors on her cheeks and eyes. A dozen faces from Damien’s Ball returned to her memory. Leather bitches, soft submissives . . . androgynous, sexual, animal-like faces of some Master’s sexual vision.
Still, she didn’t know what Miles’ vision for her was, and what he wanted that night.
Finally deciding on the black sheath, and the usual “Tessa Cotille” make-up, she then threw her hair into flouncy pile atop her head, and descended the staircase to wait for her master.
“You seem to be sleeping now, most anytime I find you.”
“What?” She pulled up inside the enormous chair, unaware of how utterly seductive she looked to him.
“Come here,” he said, holding out his hand and drawing her into his arms. “Lick my lips,” he said.
Her tongue obeyed, making excursions about his lips and mouth, tasting his flesh, smelling the earthy aroma of his body.
“Let me see you.” He pushed her further from him, and waited. “Raise your skirt.”
With inchworm tugs, she raised the sheath, higher, and higher still on her thighs, until it was pleated at her hips, the skin of her cunt peeking from below.
He licked his middle finger and held it for her to see, then stepped forward and poked it between her cunt lips, straight as an arrow into her vagina. She jerked against him, issuing a soft moan. He pumped her for several seconds, then withdrew the finger.
