Roxy Harte (14 page)

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right moment to give to her. It is an extravagance, a solid metal butt plug, the handle shaped like a bird’s head, the beak holding a diamond setting. I hold it down for her to see. “I bought this for you.”

I tilt my head down to see her better, seeing her eyes glow. “Before you ask, yes, it’s a real diamond.” I smile at her. “Always play with men of means, if you can, it’s so much more fun than getting shagged by a man who shoves a ninety-nine-cent fingernail polish bottle up your butt and calls it plugged.”

She giggles and the sound is music to my ears. “It sounds like you may have some experience in that department, as well, Lord Fyre?”

I wink. “None I’m willing to admit to.” I stay kneeling, letting her see me play with the smooth edges of the plug. It will be the largest I’ve ever used on her. It will be a heavy mass inside her, stretching and filling her, but the best surprise will be the weight.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.

“Yes, beautiful women deserve beautiful, expensive toys.”

Standing, I rub her ass, stroking over the dark purple circles very softly, fanning out my fingers to caress every bit of her bright pink skin. I smack her lightly with my bare hand, smacking as I slide the plug through her vaginal wetness, slicking it, then pushing quick and hard to insert the butt-plug into her anus.

It is large and she grunts, but lifts her ass to take it. God, she pleases me.

“Wiggle your ass, sweetheart.” I want to see the diamond sparkle in the candlelight.

She wiggles and it is a glorious sight. I am deeply affected by her erotically, the sight of her, doing the things she does…so sensual…so feral, and yet I think over and again that she is unaware of her affect on me—on him. I do not want to let her go. I know I promised Garrett, but the fact remains, I want her. As much as I know he wants her back, I want to keep her.

I close my eyes against the sight of her, almost wishing I wasn’t taping this night together. It is so hard to steel my emotions against the thought of walking away from her and what we’ve shared here. “Are you ready for me to hurt you some more?” I pray she doesn’t hear the cracking in my voice, forcing myself to focus so that I can complete this
scene
.

“Yes, Lord Fyre.”

“You want me to hurt you while you hold your new pricey toy inside of you?”

“Yes,” she sobs, closing her eyes.

“Squeeze it with your muscles.”

The metal plug bobs, evidence that she does what she is told. “Keep squeezing it until you can’t squeeze any longer. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Open your eyes.” She does, her toy still bobbing in her ass.

I pick up the riding crop with my right hand, the flogger in my left. I hold them in her line of vision, so that
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she will see what’s coming. I think it is so much more exciting when the anticipation is allowed to build. I rub them both up her leg, one at a time, tapping her lightly with each, and then stroking again. “Are you ready for this, love?”

Her brow furrows, showing her worry. “Yes, Lord Fyre.”

“Stay relaxed,” I warn her, stripping off my shirt, folding it over the chair. More focused than before I am ready to enjoy myself with her, not having allowed myself this particular pleasure until now. I will mark her, leaving behind a web of stripes and welts for her to carry for weeks to come as her trophy of our time together.

I start on her ass and the backs of her legs with the flogger, warming her up, light and medium thuds, quick, rhythmic. I set the pace so that I will be able to last a long time, knowing that she will outlast me.

We have three hours.

I make her rosy and pink, getting her to the point where she is floating on endorphins, only then increasing the tempo, punching up the pain level.

I slap her with the flogger then, lifting the whip, I add its sting, alternating,
sting, thud, sting, thud.
Even floating on endorphins, I have her undivided attention as I combine flogger with single tail, covering her back, buttocks, and thighs.

Sting, thud, sting, thud.

“Oh God, oh God,” she pants and I know she isn’t praying for pain relief. I sting her good, once, twice, leaving a welt, then tease with the flogger,
thud, thud, thud
.

“Oh God, Lord Fyre, please, please, please.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“I need to come,” she grits out.

“How?” I ask, near to losing my own resolve to finish this
scene
. God, I want her badly. “How do you want me to bring you?”

“Mouth,” she pants. “Fingers, vibrator, I don’t care, just please, please.”

“Beg me, slave.”

“Oh God, please, please, please, Lord Fyre, please let me come!”

I drop to my knees and touch my tongue against her clit. Her taste is a mingling of salty and sweet and her dampness quickly covers my beard. I inhale deeply of her, enjoying the sigh that comes to her lips when I do so. She is soaking wet as I slide in a finger, two fingers, working her gently, and then withdrawing them, taking away the sensation, returning my tongue to barely lick her clit. I hear her gasp. I lick harder, alternating softer, setting up a rhythm I know her body won’t deny and, just as I feel her tension building, I tug the butt-plug from her hole, sending her over the edge. I hold her legs tightly as she bucks and writhes, not letting go with my mouth, licking her, sucking her, making her scream into the night.

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She trembles, shaking and writhing in her bonds, senseless in the time it takes her to absorb all the pleasure. With my arms still wrapped around her legs, I rest my head on her thighs. As I wait for her to come back to earth, I am filled with gratitude so great my head swims and my heart pounds. There are many women I’ve given up, many more I’ve walked away from. Some, like Latisha, who have chosen to walk away from me, and none have affected me by half as this woman.

Dear God, thank you for the moment in time I’ve shared with this woman. She is the light that
casts my shadow. Only in the depth of her darkness have I found my own light. How am I to ever
let her go?

Pulling her collar chain, I drag her lips closer, until they are pressed between the rungs of the safety railing she is bound to. Holding the chain tight, I capture her mouth, kissing her, licking, her, raping her mouth. This is as close to fucking her as I will ever come and I want her to remember my taste, mingled with hers, bruised into her mouth.

Kissing her, hard, harder, I shove my fingers into her again, driving them deep, finger-fucking her pussy while I rape her mouth with my tongue. I bring her hard and fast, just because I can, just because it gives me pleasure to do so.

* * * *

She opens one eye lazily, hoping I am teasing, and seeing the cane in my hand, she knows I’m not. She closes the one eye, and I think for a moment that she will cry, her face screwing into a devastated mask that she hides behind her hand. I let her hide, watching her regain her composure.

It is a moment before she can speak, a moment before she can surrender to this pain; but she does surrender, saying, “I am ready, Lord Fyre.”

“Turn over, love. I’m going to mark your front side now.”

She gasps then settles for holding her breath before finally blowing out her resolve in a loud huff, and rolling over. She squeaks in pain, the endorphins calming enough for her to feel the welts along her backside scraped by the bedspread.

I do not drag out her agony, catching her quick on top of her thighs with two quick flicks of the birch, again, quick, two more flicks on top of her thighs. The welts spring up angry and red immediately. After the second set of flicks, she grabs her thighs with her hands, hiding them from me. I know that she hurts like hell and her covering herself is more reflex than conscious action. I flick the birch against her stomach and her hands move to cover her middle.

I flick the inside of her right thigh hard, the birch marks her wide and deep, the welt an ugly purple, but not breaking the skin.

The pain brings her off the bed. I grab her shoulders and pull her into me. “I’m done. We're done,” I promise. It takes a moment for my words to sink in and then she understands.
We’re done.

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The words reduce her to hysterical sobs. I hold her, letting her sob until she sleeps, and even in sleep, she cries.

“…I am running away from something dreadful and cannot escape it. I am always with myself, and it is I who am my tormentor … it is myself I am weary of and find intolerable and a torment. I want to fall asleep and forget myself and cannot, I cannot get away from myself.”

-Alexei Tolstoy

Kitten

I awake to find him gone. It is early, very early. I slept, not meaning to and now he is gone. I close my eyes, remembering…

I end up screaming at an empty room and the walls echo back to me as I slam into the cold, tiled bathroom. “I will not cry for you, Lord Fyre. Damn it. I do not love you. I love Garrett. I belong to him and today I will go back to him.”

I hit the light switch hard, turning on the light, liking the pain of hitting the light switch hard. Seeing myself in his mirrors, seeing each bruise, each mark, I am flooded by the memory of last night. I sobbed and he held me. It was too much knowing that we were finished, knowing that our time together was over. He held me and kissed me, saying things he shouldn’t have ever said to me.

“Thank you for sharing your darkness with me, sweetheart.”

I cried harder.

“I love you,” he’d said…oh my God, he did say it. Why? Of all the things to say, why did he say that to me? Only my mother ever said I love you, no one else, not until the moment in the hospital when Garrett said it. It was just three words strung together with the promise to be waiting for me. But Garrett does love me, doesn’t he? Or he wouldn’t be waiting, would he?

I wish Garrett had said I love you like Lord Fyre said I love you. I love you with so much pain in his heart that he sounded like it hurt to say it. I love you like I may never see you again and I don’t want that to be truth.
I love you, I love you, I love you.

I see myself in the mirror and trace each mark. “I will not love you!” I scream, punching the wall, punching again and again and again, the tiles unyielding and cool. I throw my body into the cool tile wall, screaming, “I will not love you, do you hear me?”

Sliding down the wall onto the tile floor, I fold into a ball, sobbing. “Go to your wife. I have Garrett!

Damn it! I have Garrett! I will not love you!”

I am still lying in a curled ball when the doorbell sounds. “Go away,” I sob, not loud enough for anyone to hear. “Go away, go away, go away!” It never occurs to me who it is. All I know is that I am alone. I am alone.

I do not move, not even when I hear padded footsteps on the stairs.

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I close my eyes, not caring who is here.

I feel a warm touch on my shoulder, but still I do not move. I squeeze my eyes tighter, not wanting to know who is in the room with me, not caring.

I hear footsteps and the turn of the shower handle, water spray pounding the tile, and then I am being lifted and carried, carried into the warm spray of the water. I wrap my arms around the neck of my rescuer, feeling the starched collar of his dress shirt, his shirt soaking through with the water, the blast of the shower spray, soaking us both. I open one eye to see the curved jaw of a freshly shaved face.

Inhaling, I smell his scent, fresh and breezy, citrusy.

“Your shirt is getting wet,” I say. Meeting his eyes, my face crumbles and I can’t stop it from doing so. I release a sob. “It hurts.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

I never knew I could miss someone so much.

I wrap my arms tighter around Garrett’s neck, sobbing, realizing suddenly how much I’d missed him, crying, “I missed you,” and meaning it, knowing that the pain in my guts is just the beginning of how badly I will miss Lord Fyre. Having Garrett back in my arms makes the pain of waking without Lord Fyre beside me so much worse; because though there was always the promise of Garrett’s return, there is no such promise from Lord Fyre.

“I missed you.” I say again, hurting so badly, wanting so badly.

I miss you, Lord Fyre.

I try to say good-bye in my mind, try to release the need, but trying to let go hurts so much more, and so I hug the pain to me, holding it tight, remembering each look, each touch, each caress of the whip and cane that was Lord Fyre’s good-bye. I sob until I can’t breathe, sobbing until my thoughts no longer make sense. Garrett’s kiss brings me back to the shower, to the wetness, to the soggy cloth of Garrett’s shirt pressed between us. I look into his eyes, finding worry, but then looking deeper I see the desire, trapped, held in check.

Holding his gaze, I unbutton the first button of his shirt. He doesn’t stop me, so I unbutton the next button.

“What are you doing, Kitten?” he asks, his voice raspy.

“Your clothes are wet,” I answer, unbuttoning another button. His face drops nearer and I move nearer, waiting for him to close the distance. He doesn’t. The temptation to kiss so strong but he doesn’t kiss me and I don’t kiss him, so we hover just near kissing but not, erotic energy building between us. Desire rips through me with lightning speed and I press my face up. He draws back, keeping the distance between our mouths equal, almost touching but not. I growl, trying to close my mouth over his, but his fingers woven through my hair hold me away, keeping the distance perfectly agonizing between our lips.