Cries of Penance

Cries of Penance

Roxy Harte

The Chronicles of Surrender Book 5

Cries of Penance

978-1-61650-187-7

Copyright © 2010, Roxy Harte

Edited by Pamela Tyner

Book design by Pamela Tyner and Renee Rocco Cover Art by Renee Rocco

First Lyrical Press, Inc. electronic publication: September, 2010

Lyrical Press, Incorporated

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PUBLISHER'S NOTE:

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Published in the United States of America by Lyrical Press, Incorporated Back Cover Copy

Can love survive anything?

Thomas is torn between saving a past love and protecting the woman in his present. Traveling to Africa to save his wife’s life, he leaves his ménage unprotected against political forces that wil stop at nothing to destroy the black ops organization he works for—even if it means attacking women and children.

On the day she thought her greatest chal enge was going to be interviewing nannies, Celia finds herself chased by thugs. In order to survive she must evolve from Kitten to Tigress to protect not only her unborn, but also Thomas’s four young children.

On the run and without either Master or Lord Fyre to protect her, the question is where Celia’s journey wil end.

Content Warning: BDSM during pregnancy, lactation play, MMF

Highlight

A plastic banner ripples in the cool night air: LEWD LARRY’S SLAVE

AUCTION TONIGHT. It’s the seventh annual charity event that my Master, Garrett Lawrence, has orchestrated. Of course, he is dressed to the nines—tux, bow tie, white silk shirt—and dazzling. He turns every head as he makes his way past the line. I know it certainly isn’t the naked and painted feline, trailing on hands and knees at his heel that draws the attention, though I hear plenty of gasps as I make my way to the front doors.

“My God, she’s pregnant!”

“Do you think that’s why Lord Fyre went away?”

Lord Fyre, Lord Fyre, Lord Fyre. God, I miss him . A foghorn rises above the night sounds, traffic, people, and a sad saxophone, and I am comforted by its sound, remembering another evening I heard it, the night I was purchased by the boss and made headlines.

“See! She’s stil wearing both Master’s col ars.”

“You didn’t see the blonde he was here with. Oo-la-la. Hot does not begin to describe that one.”

I want to yel and scream and shout it to the rooftops that my other Master did not leave me for another woman.

My beautiful black cat walked into my life fifteen years ago, no bigger than the palm of my hand…and while I was editing this book he walked away.

Always independent.

I wil never forget our late night walks.

I wil miss you.

Cries of Penance – Roxy Harte

“Faith is the strength by which a shattered world shal emerge into the light.”

Helen Kel er

San Francisco

The air is warm and seems to shimmer with expectancy as Master climbs from the limo. I fol ow, exiting graceful y, wel -practiced, hands first, long stretch onto the pavement, stepping, hand, hand, knee, knee, making sure that each long-armed stretch is provocative, each knee forward wiggles my ass just so.

A plastic banner ripples in the cool night air: LEWD LARRY’S SLAVE

AUCTION TONIGHT. It’s the seventh annual charity event that my Master, Garrett Lawrence, has orchestrated. Of course, he is dressed to the nines—tux, bow tie, white silk shirt—and dazzling. He turns every head as he makes his way past the line, which wraps around the block. I know it certainly isn’t the naked and painted feline, trailing on hands and knees at his heel that draws the attention, though I hear plenty of gasps as I make my way to the front doors.

“My God, she’s pregnant!”

“Do you think that’s why Lord Fyre went away?”

Lord Fyre, Lord Fyre, Lord Fyre. God, I miss him . A foghorn rises above the night sounds, traffic, people, and a sad saxophone, and I am comforted by its sound, remembering another evening I heard it, the night I was purchased by the boss and made headlines. That night I’d felt alone on this sidewalk, the only person in the world to ever stand in my shoes, making a commitment to be auctioned. Boy, was I wrong!

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Cries of Penance – Roxy Harte

Lewd Larry’s Slave Auction is a big deal, then and now. Slaves from a dozen different states, not just the smal burg of San Francisco, are here to be auctioned. As far as the BDSM world goes, this is the event of the year.

I shouldn’t admit that I’d have rather stayed home tonight…especial y after Master tried so hard to make this a special night. I wanted to camouflage the fact I’m expecting, but there’s no hope in that. Pregnant with twins, it seems my girth gets greater by the minute. I wanted to be sexy, but I suppose there’s no hope in that either.

It took hours for the body paint artist to work his magic, painting me from head to toe to resemble a calico cat, complete with long, graceful y soft whiskers shooting out from my upper lip.

“See! She’s stil wearing both Master’s col ars. I’m tel ing you, Lord Fyre wil be back.”

“You didn’t see the blonde he was here with. Oo-la-la. Hot does not begin to describe that one.”

He is not with Eva!

I want to yel and scream and shout it to the rooftops that my other Master did not leave me for another woman. He’s coming back. I know he is. I just can’t tel anyone anything about what is going on because the truth could get him kil ed.

No one needs to know that he is a secret agent. No one needs to know that he’s on assignment. As long as I know the truth, that’s al that matters—right?

I focus on my crawl. Hand, hand, knee, knee. Master holds open the door for me and it’s better when we get inside. Not because it’s quieter, just the opposite.

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Cries of Penance – Roxy Harte

The music is eardrum shattering loud. Perfect. I can’t hear what anyone is saying as I crawl the long length of the dance club to the glass elevator in the back.

We ride to the third floor, leaving the noise behind the closed doors. Our gazes meet in the intimate enclosure. Master asks, “Are you okay?”

“Meow-meow.” Yes.

“I know this is hard on you. Every night. I hear them too, Kitten. I don’t want you to think I don’t. But we know the truth. It’s going to be okay, we’re going to be okay until he returns to us.”

I nod, fighting back tears. I try to be strong in front of Master. I don’t ever want him to think he’s not Master enough for me, but that doesn’t mean I miss my other Master less.

As the elevator opens onto The Oasis, our member’s only level, I am relieved.

I’m home. My kitty pil ow is here and my bowl and my litter box. Here I can be myself more than anywhere else in the world. This is my domain. This is where Kitten belongs.

“Wil you be al right alone?” Master asks.

“Meow-meow.” I don’t know why he’s so worried. I only know it’s a relief when he descends again, back to the public arena, leaving me alone. I crawl—hand, hand, knee, knee—to my cushion, placed front row and center to the stage below for tonight’s event.

As the soundproof glass slides back to open up The Oasis to the ful sensory overload of the lower level, the sounds of an impatient crowd floods our normal y serene room. The music is too loud and the crowd rampant. Stomping, clapping, chanting, “Lewd Larry, Lewd Larry, Lewd Larry!”

9

Cries of Penance – Roxy Harte

It is obvious when they have him in their sight. The magnitude of sound doubles. They are screaming for my Master. Male and female alike squeal, because gender isn’t an issue. It only matters that he is beloved by the masses, the most notorious Dominant west of the Mississippi. My Master.

With theatrical flare, the lights dim suddenly and a spotlight points center stage. Master strides into view, his broad smile and easygoing nature drawing the crowd closer. Hoots and hol ers fol ow his every move.

I don’t yel or shriek. He’s mine. I get to go home with him, and that truth makes me lift my chin a little smugly. Whereas the crowd can only imagine if the bulge in his tightly tailored slacks is al man or a wad of socks, I know for a fact he is wel -endowed. And yes, the muscles in his thighs and ass real y are al that.

“Wel , aren’t you just looking like the pussy who licked up al the cream?”

I smile broadly, turning to face Master’s best friend, Jackie, the one and only person on the planet who gets to cal me pussy. I bounce excitedly, looking up at her. It’s a long way up. She is wel over six-and-a-half feet tal , probably closer to seven feet in her platform stilettos, and it’s fairly obvious by her overal size that once upon a time she was a man. She has very real cleavage now, though. It puts me to shame at any rate. Although with my pregnancy, for the first time in my life I can actual y say I have boobs.

I’m not nearly as excited about that fact as I thought I’d be.

Probably because of the job breasts perform: nursing infants. I know that Master and Jackie, and the support group I have at the Primal Birth Center, are trying to be helpful, reassuring even, but their thoughts and feelings and suggested reading material about breast feeding is not appreciated. I’m real y not 10

Cries of Penance – Roxy Harte

interested in nursing my babies…and that makes me feel guilty. I guess I was hoping my breasts wouldn’t grow, wouldn’t work, and then I wouldn’t have to consider doing it.

Jackie pats her knees for me to climb into her lap.

“Meow.” No, as in this is such a bad idea. I point at the paint covering my body.

“I don’t think it wil rub off, child, and so what if it does? You climb up here and give Jackie some pregnant kitty love.”

I smile, unable to help myself. Jackie is more excited about these babies than anyone.

She helps me to get comfortable, and we both watch transfixed as Master takes charge of the auction. This is a big deal. Men and women are auctioned at this annual event that is attended by the wealthy and famous. The event supports many charities near and dear to the hearts of Hol ywood’s biggest and brightest, lending to rock-concert level pandemonium and paparazzi everywhere.

The large stage is brightly lit and a theater-size screen behind televises in close-up every reaction larger than life, every smile, every frown, every tear magnified so that the crowd doesn’t miss a thing. The slaves come from every walk of life, some experienced, some with no experience at al . On the big screen the personalities are the focal point whether shy or outgoing, embarrassed or proud. And their physical attributes…some a little sexier because of the wide-angled close-ups and some…not so pretty.

They al get bought, and not for spare change. Thousands of dol ars. Tens of thousands of dol ars. No one has ever sold for more than my purchase price 11

Cries of Penance – Roxy Harte

though—a quarter of a mil ion dol ars—unheard of before or since. Sitting here, watching, is a different perspective for me and one that never gets boring. From my position I can see the bidding as it happens. I have seen sheiks, celebrities, and politicians place bids. I have also seen some fairly average Joe’s walk out with beautiful property. I always worry a little when the bidder is overly old and the slave bid on overly young. Something inside me shrieks a little, I couldn’t imagine going home with someone’s grandfather…or great-grandfather. I feel a little guilty, knowing I got the cream of the crop. I got Master.