Page List


Font:  

She wondered how he knew that.

She had no doubt he'd brought her here purposely. The speculative way he stood back and observed her told her that. Well, what did he expect her to do? Start taking water samples? Search for evidence of animal activity? Map the varieties of marine life? The creek had a good amount of minnows in it, which told her a lot about the health of the local environment. She hated that she analyzed it as she stood there. She used to wade these types of creeks in vinyl thigh boots on misty mornings, in sweaters and jeans just like the ones she had on. She used to measure amoebic activity and chemical levels. Used to. Used to.

The breeze rustled the trees, a sound that had always seemed to her to convey the power of the earth. The trees were budding, tender new shoots with the advent of spring. She used to know all this, love all this. All this used to rule her world. Until Master.

When the tears blurring her eyes finally started to roll down her cheeks, Mephisto took her home.

* * * * *

It was only a weak moment, she told herself. The beautiful day. The ice cream. The people in the park, carefree and laughing. She loved her life with Master, much more than she loved her old work or her old life. Much more. Still, she felt unsettled. Had Mephisto taken her there to hurt her? The silence that seemed to suit them before now seemed sinister. She wanted to ask him to explain his purpose, his motives, but enforced silence was a wall between them.

For his part, he was thoughtful and close-lipped on the ride home and through the afternoon. He kept her busy cleaning the play space and doing other mindless household tasks. When she finished them, he set her up in the kitchen with an ironing board and a pile of clothes. Molly wasn't great at ironing. In fact, she was terrible. She always seemed to create more wrinkles than she smoothed out. Back when she bought her own clothes—back when she wore clothes—she always bought the wrinkle-free kind. At Master's home, Mrs. Jernigan took care of the ironing. More things she'd taken for granted. As much as it had challenged her, she knew this time with Mephisto had been invaluable in opening her eyes.

She did her best with the shirts and pants, wrangling with the collars and plackets. She eyed the starch and decided to take her chances without it. Mephisto was sitting out at his desk-table right next door. Perhaps she ought to just break her speech restriction and tell him she didn't know how to iron. But then she'd see that awful derision. Pleasure slave. Not very useful, are you? But if she ruined his clothes... Another slave conundrum.

She was still arguing with herself, pulling at the iron cord and trying to flatten down a collar, when she yelped at a searing, burning pain. She'd brushed the inside of her forearm against the iron. It was already going numb and tingling. Some instinctive part of her brain thought of cold water. She flew to the sink, fumbling with the faucet handle and thrusting her arm under the soothing stream.

"What happened?"

Mephisto was beside her, no doubt alerted by her screech of pain. He grabbed her arm, staring down at the skin that was already puckering into blisters. "Fuck!" He put it back under the water. "Fuck!" he shouted again so she flinched. His dark eyes bored into her, frightening her. "Did you do this on purpose?" He shook her arm as he yelled at her. "Did you?"

She made a negative jerk of her head, his question confusing her. Burn herself on purpose?

"Talk to me, damn it!"

"You put me on speech restriction," she pointed out, pulling her arm away from his rough grasp.

He gave her a quick, sharp slap across the cheek. She didn't know if he was slapping her for burning herself or slapping her for pulling away from him, but he seemed to get a handle on himself after that. His lips twisted into a frown and he glared at her.

"Forget the speech restriction. How the fuck did this happen?"

"It was an accident. I'm sorry!"

"I promised your Master no permanent damage," he said. "No scars!"

Again she stared in miserable, tongue-tied helplessness. He unplugged the iron with a jerky movement and steered her into the bedroom. He ran her arm under the water some more and then got a towel and dried her burn with a gentleness belied by his anger. It stood out now in red stark relief against the pale skin of her forearm, but it was only a couple inches long. "Jesus Christ," he yelled again as he wrapped the burn in a loose gauze bandage. "He's going to kill me."

"But it was my fault, Master," she said, more out of desperation to soothe him than contradict him. Still, she braced for another slap. It didn't come. He ran his hands through his locks of hair and then pulled her back out to his work table.

"Sit here. Just sit here and don't move."

She heard him on the phone in the bedroom. Talking to her Master? She couldn't make out any of what he said. She ran her fingers over the gauze on her arm. The pain wasn't even that bad anymore. She laid her head on the smooth wood surface of the table and listened to the faint clicking sound of his laptop at the other end. Even after he stopped talking on the phone, he didn't come out of his room for a while. She sat still and silent, feeling like a boat set adrift. Long minutes ticked by.

When he finally returned, he had that familiar but unfathomable expression on his face. She looked up at him and thought, he really is so handsome. It's really a sin, how handsome he is. But he still looked deeply unhappy.

"Master," she said. "It—it already feels better."

The stare went on. The weighing, the consideration. Finally he spoke in a soft but authoritative voice. "I need to see you in the bedroom."

She followed, not sure what awaited her. It could be punishment, but she hoped not. As soon as he turned to her inside the door, she knew it wasn't. He stood close to her and ran his fingers through her hair. He lifted her injured arm and kissed her wrist, just above the loosely wrapped bandage.

"Your Master misses you," he said quietly.

"Oh. You talked to him?"

"Yes."

Yes, of course he had. Why was she asking stupid questions? Perhaps because she’d finally been released from speech restriction. Perhaps because of the way he was running his fingers down over her breasts, across her belly. Perhaps it was that look in his eyes just before he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her. Perhaps it was the sight of him stripping off his shirt and dropping his jeans to the floor. Perhaps it was his golden-bronze body, or the magnificence of his cock steadily rising before her. She swallowed, her mouth beginning to water. She started to drop to her knees but he stopped her.

"No."

He nudged her towards the bed, bending her over, tracing the welts that still decorated her ass. He kissed her from the base of her spine up to her nape. She felt his cock bump against the back of her thighs. He pulled away with a curse, going for a condom. She stood still, her pussy throbbing, aching for his penetration. But when he returned, when he started to enter her, he did so only shallowly.

"Molly..." Her name was a low, resonating note in the silence. She froze, startled to even hear it on his lips. He moved deeper, and she moaned, her skin singing for his touch. He reached beneath her and slid sure fingers between her pussy lips, finding her swollen clit. He pressed it, tapping it in a teasing motion. She arched back against him, hating this pleasure and yet unable to steel herself against it. He played her like an instrument, drawing the notes from her whether she wished it or not. She had her voice now...she might plead and beg for climax if she wanted to. But she didn't want to.

She squeezed around his cock, wanting to be used, wanting to be taken. Wanting to serve.

"Master," she whispered. "I'm yours."

His teeth closed on her neck, biting and then gentling into a nibble. He slid deep in her, pressing her forward onto the bed. Her legs failed and she fell onto her arms. She hissed softly as her burn slid across the sheets. He lifted her, turning her over, and then he came over her like an angel. Like a demon. "Hold onto me," he rasped. "Let me hold you."

He slid over her and she arched beneath him, wrapping her legs around his hips. She grasped his neck with her arms. She twisted fingers in his coarse dreadlocks and pulled, not caring if she hurt him, not caring if he hurt her. He was rough but he was gentle, a revelation of sensual opposites. For a moment she imagined he was not her Master at all, but something even more elemental. Her soul, her spirit. The other half of what she was. A perfect fit, like some universal puzzle piece. His cock was the key that opened her. She fell completely open to him, whispering words she couldn't remember that she wasn't even sure made sense.

He pulled her closer, one hand splayed across her back, pressing her against the twist and clench of his abs. All the built-up, denied desire swirled and built inside her. She was that little airplane, twisting, turning. He was the rubber band, wrapped tighter and tighter around her. Slowly, she came to realize that the dynamic between them was different, transformed. Her gaze flew to his and she saw expectant encouragement there. Her heart gave a throb, and her pelvis lurched forward against him. Nerves and synapses snapped to life, and she understood that she didn’t need to push down the arousal this time. Didn’t have to ignore it, hate it. He was giving her pleasure and urging her on.

"Fly for me, Molly," he growled against her ear.

She scratched his back trying to hold on, to make the magic of the long-awaited moment last. In the end she couldn't do it. The orgasm ripped though her, overwhelming her body, her mind, her heart. Her pussy contracted in endless waves of satisfaction. She gasped, the world a swirling vortex, and clung to him in the wonder of it. After all that twisting and stretching in his hands, she flew and flew and flew.

The Seventh Day

She woke the next morning exhausted and satisfied, still tangled in his arms. His head was thrown back in sleep, his scruffy dreadlocks strewn across his pillow. She was curled up against his shoulder. A small stretch awakened aching muscles, and blush-inducing memories. When she stirred he stirred too, running a hand across her stomach and beneath her hip. A moment later, after fumbling with necessities, he was pressing inside her yet another time.


Tags: Annabel Joseph Club Mephisto Erotic