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I felt Heather’s little body tremble at my touch with what I knew represented both her irresistible submissive need and her deep inner conflict at feeling it. The quiver in her limbs had felt the same that first time, as Heather had seemed to fight the influence of the magic device provided by the shadowy dealer in high-end concubines.
It can’t make her do anything she doesn’t really at some level want to do, he had told me over the phone as I had taken it curiously out of the package that had arrived alongside Heather herself.
She knew it too. Just before I had turned her around and bent her over, that first night, with the wand on her back and her sweet little bottom so prettily presented, I had gotten a glimpse of the look in her eyes. I had seen the terrible conflict raging inside her and I had felt my heart go out to her as it never had to another girl.
Heather
I let out a little sob of shame as I bent over to show Ivan my punished backside. No matter how many times he did this, inspecting my private places before he used me, or after he punished me, or when I had returned from some degrading service he had sent me to perform elsewhere, I always recalled my arrival in his palace. It always renewed the roiling emotions of that first night, and my knowledge, even then, that my already daunting mission would prove much more complicated than my trainer had made me think.
“They shaved your cunt, I see,” Ivan said. “Or did you shave it yourself, girl?”
“I did, sir,” I whispered. I had my eyes at his feet. I saw his hands move, in my peripheral vision, to unfasten the knot in the belt of the striking red dressing gown.
“Look at me,” he instructed. For the first time since he had opened the shipping crate in which I had been delivered to his home, with only a few breathing holes to keep me alive, I saw my new master’s face. I felt my features twist in distress at the sheer handsomeness of Ivan Antonov: the golden hair that framed a face that I couldn’t help thinking of immediately as ‘noble.’
My trainer had responded to my pleas for more information about Ivan—just to see an image of him, or to read a bio—with stony refusal. My ignorance of the man to whom I had been sold had to remain intact. I didn’t know if the Guard would be happy if they knew just how strongly the sight of him affected me, despite their always seeming to have the perfect analytic answer to everything about me, my emotions, and my shameful sexual needs.
When he spoke next, the words were so degrading that they made me bite my lip and whimper from my throat. But at the very same time I felt the terrible tug of my unwelcome arousal at that abject debasement, I saw in the eyes of the man I would have to call my master or receive agonizing bare-bottom discipline something different from the brutal sense of his command: the inescapable impression of my value in his eyes, and the idea that Ivan Antonov cherished the things he valued, even if he enjoyed degrading them to demonstrate his power.
“You’ll shave it every day. I like a fuck toy’s cunt smooth and dainty.”
My lips parted but no sound emerged. Had I only imagined it? That flash of… not merely value, I thought suddenly, but something more… the slight narrowing of the eyes and upward curving of the lips that meant… affection?
Had I seen it on Ivan’s face, as he gave me the humiliating order, or had I put it there to make some little thing about this dark moment bearable? I had never gotten to see even the eyes of my hooded trainer… did my troubling thoughts about Ivan Antonov simply come from the newness of being able to see my master’s face, when he told me to look at him?
“Well?” he said, the lilt of his accent striking my ears anew and sending another wave of heat to my face as I couldn’t help liking it, and the deep voice in which my owner spoke his degrading words. “Did they not teach you to acknowledge your master’s orders, in that brokerage?”
“No, Master,” I said, my heart beating faster. “I mean… yes, Master.” My brow furrowed and I looked down at his feet, clad in leather moccasins that showed the abundant golden fur there and up his naked calves. I shuddered, close to panic and was sure he would whip me.
“I told you to look at me,” he said, his voice so cold that I shivered as if with a blast of icy air.
When I raised my eyes, though, expecting to find cruelty looking out from Ivan’s suitably ice-blue gaze, I saw, alongside his intelligent, analytic mastery of the frightening little scene, the same sense of value… of care. My new owner wanted me to look at him because he found me precious and worth cherishing—caring for… nurturing even.
