Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 05

“You cannot alter my touches, Erica. Accept that."

She shuddered, pushing her pelvis toward his finger. “Harder, please, Andrew,” she gasped.

He removed the finger and cupped her whole sex, one finger parting and nestling into the slippery heat between her labia.

“Accept what I offer, respond to my touches, and relax into your bondage, Erica. Feel what I want you to feel.”

She whimpered wordlessly as his finger slid deeply into her body, then out, then in again, in a rhythm as old as time. Her body clenched tightly and she panted, “Yesssss…oh yes, more, please, Andrew, more.”

He added another finger and she whimpered at the intrusion, absorbing the additional sensation.

“Relax,” he whispered, his lips on her mouth as his fingers continued their unabated movement. “Open yourself to my touch, however it comes. Feel what I want you to feel. Respond. Reflect. Obey.”

She was gasping and her body was undulating obscenely but she couldn’t control it, didn’t want to control it. The cuffs were tight on her wrists and ankles and the chains pulled her widely open but she craved the tight embrace of the cuffs and didn’t want to be able to close her legs.

“Let go,” he ordered her after another drugging kiss, his fingers moving restlessly. “Feel my fingers, my mouth. Know that you can’t change what you feel. I give and I take away. Let go, Erica. Give yourself to me.”

Her continuous moans rose to a scream as she began to peak. Her emotions, her body, were entirely under his control. “Now please now,” she pleaded, aching for the tiny bit of sensation she needed to fall over the edge. “Please, please, please,” she moaned almost incoherently.

He flowed up her body then, the heat of his skin singeing hers, and bracketed her face between his hands. His eyes bore down into hers as she ground herself up against him, gasping, imploring.

“I am your Master, Erica.” He pushed against her, the engorged length of his cock almost entering her. “Say it.”

She bucked up against him and shrieked, intensity and pounding need slashing into the sound.

“Say it.” His words were an order and tore response from her.

“You are my Master,” she panted raggedly, dazedly. “Fuck me.” Her hips bucked up under his.

He pulled back a little. “Again.”

“Master. You’re my Master.” She screamed the words, her body trembling violently as she lay beneath him. “Please, now, now, now.”

Bracing himself, he slipped into her tight heat and watched her go still but for the tremors that raced through her body.

“Again.”

She thrust up against him, wild need pushing into her mind. “Please. Please, more. Please, Master,” she rasped. “More. Now. Please, Master. Now.”

“I control the sex, darlin’, and your response,” he panted, his words ragged.

He pulled out of her then, and she wailed, a high thin sound of shocked frustration. “No!”

He laughed, and the sound had an edged violence to it in the tensely sexual atmosphere of the warm cedar closet.

“Yes, Erica. You asked for more and I will give you more. But I’ll do it the way I want to do it.” He leaned over and kissed one of her nipples and she jerked at the touch of his tongue. “Accept, Erica. Respond. Reflect. It’s mine to give, or not.”

Reaching into a small jewelry drawer, he dangled a chained something above her. “Clamps, Erica. Nipple clamps. Shall we see how well you walk the edge of the pain-pleasure fence?”

“Oh God, Master, please touch me!” She was panting, her pupils dilated and her body glistening with heated need. “I’m so close, so very close. Please! Please touch me!”

He slipped the first clamp over her nipple and closed it, the rubber tips pinching firmly her tender flesh. She quieted and stilled, shocked. He touched between her legs, his fingertips stroking her open and rubbing small circles against her slippery clit. She shuddered and her panting breaths resumed.

“Tell me how it feels, Erica. Use words. Tell me now.”

He slipped the second clamp over the tip of her other nipple. Again, she stilled, just a delicate moan issuing from her throat.

“Tell me.”

“I’m afraid,” she whispered. “It feels hard and…and…and hard and it hurts but not really…“

He tightened the second clamp and she shrieked.

“Tell me.”

“It hurts! God! It hurts. Too tight. Crushing.”

Again his hand whispered down her body to stroke circles into her clit, this time with more pressure.

She screamed. “Yessss, God, yes! Master, yes!”

He removed his hand and she lay panting, moaning, shaking, her body covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He moved to cover her body with his and entered her smoothly, in one flowing motion, rocking swiftly into and out of her several times.

She cried out again, her limbs held tightly open, metal jaws tightly embracing her nipples, and thrust up to meet him.

He stopped, trembling, his heart racing, and looked down at her. “Pain and pleasure are the same, darlin’. They’re both just heightened sensation.” His words were a low growl.

He leaned down to tug on one of the clamps with his teeth and she hissed and thrashed against him. Swiftly, he forced a deep kiss into her mouth, his cock plunging into and out of her pussy over and over, fast and hard.

She panted harshly and thrust back against him.

“Pain and pleasure. Pleasure and pain.” He pressed his chest against her clamped breasts and she screamed sharply, her pussy thrusting up against him, wordlessly begging for more.

He lifted off her breasts, his cock plunging as deeply into her body as he could go. Stilling, he looked down at her, at them, joined so closely. His arms were trembling and his words were thick and had weight against her eardrums. “Pain and pleasure. Pleasure and pain. Obedience. Response. You are mine.”

She gasped, shaking. “Yes, yes, yes,” she promised recklessly. “Master, yes. I am yours.”

Shouting triumphant pleasure, he thrust wildly into her again and again, his movements faster and harder as her wild pleadings urged him into the insanity of sensory overload. Losing himself in her body, he gave them both what they so badly needed as they spiraled into panting, begging, hoarsely screaming orgasm.

Later, after they’d both calmed, he released her and gently massaged her wrists and ankles. She was still while his hands rubbed circulation and feeling back into her limbs, and his quietly spoken words of desire and approval lit a hot determination within her to please him.

He pulled her to her feet, holding her close until her legs were strong again, and then lifted her into his arms and carried her from the closet like a precious child.

She nuzzled into his neck. “Master?”

He deposited her on his bed and sat down next to her, stroking through her sex-mussed hair and then along the skin that edged her collar. “What, darlin’?”

“That was wonderful.” Her words were shy and she pinked saying them.

“I think so, too.” He leaned down to kiss a blushing cheek.

She started to speak but he pressed a long forefinger across her lips. “Quiet now,” he told her, withdrawing the finger. “Don’t speak until I say you can. Understand?”

She parted her lips but he shook his head. A smile lit her face and she looked into his eyes, nodding.

“Good,” he whispered as his hand slid down to circle one of her nipples. Her areola crinkled, her nipple rose to meet his fingers, and she moaned.

He stood then, and returned to the closet. The vibrant, husky strains of a cello filled the air.Bach, she thought distractedly, as the sound kissed her skin. A few moments later, he carried a few small items back to the bed. He looked down at her lying on his bed and smiled. She saw heat in the smile, and a glittering, predatory sexuality in his eyes. “Don’t move,” he said, and went out the bedroom door, then came back in, coffee cup in hand.

“Sit up, Erica,” he ordered. She did, and he fastened a blindfold around her eyes. After he ascertained that she couldn’t see, he began touching her. He used his fingers at first, laying her out flat on the bed, face to the ceiling, and touched her from the bare pink of her sensitive toes to the shining crown of her long hair. He talked constantly, telling her the names of the places he touched and how good she looked or smelled or tasted there.

Enjoying his touches, she purred like a petted cat but startled and shrieked when something cold dripped into her navel. Again, he laid a cautionary finger across her lips.

“It’s just water,” he told her, removing the finger as the drops continued up onto her breasts and centered on her nipples. She shivered. “Ice water.” His long fingers dipped a piece of ice from the cup and circled her rigid nipple. She moaned and shrank back.

“You may speak, Erica. Is it hot or cold?”

“Cold,” she answered immediately, shivering. His fingers dragged the tiny bit of ice down her body and pressed it against her throbbing clit, letting it melt into water as he pressed it there, circling the erect bit of tissue. “No,” she moaned, “it’s hot. It’s hot.”

He fished another piece of ice from the cup and slid it around and around each breast, passing over each nipple in turn.

“Cold or hot?”

Without giving her time to answer, he pushed the melting ice cube into her pussy and up inside her body as far as it would go. His hot mouth latched onto one nipple.

“Cold or hot?” he demanded, his teeth pinching the tip of her tightly erect nipple, his long fingers thrusting in and out of her body. He sucked hard on her nipple, biting and pulling it in time with the movement of his fingers.

She pressed toward him and then pulled away as her body writhed under his touch. Her hand came up to push at his, the one that held the melting ice cube to her skin.

“Keep your hands at your sides,” he growled, transferring the ice from her nipple into her pussy and thrusting, in and out, fast, with his fingers.

She whimpered and moaned, jerking to meet his fingers’ thrusts, her hands forming fists at her sides as she struggled to obey.

He moved away suddenly and she lay trembling, panting, bathed in a light film of water and sweat. He returned and dragged something smooth and soft over her forehead, then held it beneath her nose.

“What is this?”

She breathed in deeply, trembling at the strength of her desire to please him. “A rose,” she whispered.

He slid it over her body, his other hand wiping her skin dry with a soft towel. “Concentrate on how it feels as it touches you.”

The softly cool petals dipped between her legs and she widened them reflexively and then relaxed into the touch of the rose. Heat rode along its trail and steady arousal tumbled along in the wake of its passing. She heard him breathing next to her, smelled him, and ached toward him as he continued to stroke her, rose in hand.

He leaned down and fastened his lips over hers, and she felt the sharp prick of many small thorns pressing into the place below her breast. He levered her mouth open with his tongue and plunged into a deep kiss, the thorns rolling from the skin below one breast to the same place on the other.

She moaned into his mouth, his deep kiss inciting her response, the pricking thorns lighting her desire.

Over and over he kissed her, the rose orchestrating her response. Its thorns scratched lightly or dug deeply. In between kisses, its petals caressed her skin like eyelashes, like butterfly wings. She writhed and moaned and kept her hands at her sides.

He mounted her finally, thrusting swiftly, sheathing his engorged and twitching cock in her slippery heat in one violent movement. She screamed, “Master, oh God, yes,” and thrust back. The union was fast, furious, and wildly pleasurable despite the multitude of small bleeding scratches on her body.

Afterward, he removed the blindfold and then stripped the petals from the rose, dropping them one by one over her naked body.

“This is an Autumn Damask rose,” he told her, the petals like fragrant pink snow on her pale skin. “It’s an ancient rose and the one from which most modern roses were bred. This rose still knows the old ways, though. It still smells like a rose and it’s gorgeous, though not in the showy artificial way of modern roses.” He kissed her and added in a whisper, his lips still touching her, “It only blooms once a year, Erica, for just a few short weeks, and only for a select audience.”

She felt tears prick into her eyes. She was like his prized Autumn Damask roses. She was blooming under his guidance and care, but only for a short time, and only for him.

He retrieved several roses from his desk and dropped those, petal by petal, over her body, murmuring his admiration for her. When she was covered with rose petals, he made love to her tenderly, the petals cushioning the place between them and scenting their lovemaking with its unforgettable aroma.

~~~

And so Erica learned beginning steps in the intricate dance of sexual trust. She learned about the interrelationship of pain and pleasure, and how each is simply and only heightened sensation when applied within an erotic context. She learned how to yield her sexuality into the hands of one who could use it for the benefit of both.

Eleven days later a phone call came summoning her home. Immediately. After acquiescing to the travel plans arranged for her, she wept in his arms.

He held her, saying nothing. There was nothing to say. Honor demanded she go.

They stood together the next day, his arm over her shoulder and hers around his waist, watching the porters load her luggage into the train. The platform was almost empty; there weren’t many travelers from this place and those who were going were already boarded.

“And Albert will be fine?” she asked quietly, her voice shaking a little.

“He’ll be fine. Doc Denney says he’ll outlive us all.” He turned her to face him and leaned in, kissing her deeply, committing her taste to memory.

She returned the kiss with desperate abandon, clinging to him, keening quietly in the back of her throat.

“I’m afraid,” she confessed when he broke the kiss. She pressed her face into his shirt and whispered, “I’m afraid to leave. Don’t make me go, Master. Let me stay. Please. I love you.”

“You’ll always live in my heart, darlin’,” he told her, his words stumbling a little. “I’ll love you forever.” He pulled her back so that she could see into his eyes, into his heart. “Maybe we’ll have time together some day that belongs to us, Erica. Time that isn’t stolen from other people.”

“No one will ever love me the way you do,” she whispered.

“No,” he agreed, smiling sadly. “No one will ever love you as I do. But it doesn’t mean that no one will ever love you. You know that.”

The train horn sounded, a long low mournful wail.

He reached out and unclasped the velvet collar, pulling it from her throat almost violently. “I release you, Erica,” he whispered raggedly, crushing the collar into his fist. Kneeling, he scooped up a big bouquet of Damask roses and pressed them into her hands. “Now go, darlin’. Go.”

Stumbling backwards, her eyes holding on to his as tightly as her hands held the roses, she boarded the train. Her tears ran unchecked down her cheeks and were swallowed by the deep black velvet night of her mourning dress.

~~~

Erica felt the warm morning breeze brush over the moistness on her cheeks and slowly opened her eyes. She was sitting on her front step, her bottom resting on the delicately erotic carvings of the tiles that surfaced the entry to her villa. She shivered, her whole body shaking violently, the way a dog does to rid itself of water. During the overwhelming immediacy of her memories of Andrew, she must have moved out here.

Andrew. The name was an ache of longing in her heart, in her mind, even after all these years. Gathering herself, she drifted back into her study, one hand holding the letter, the other lightly stroking over her T-shirt-covered breast.

She settled into her place at her desk again, her eyes drawn to the Damask roses in their perfect cut glass bowl.

She looked at the return address and touched his name with the tip of a finger. Slipping a sheet of creamy embossed stationary from its box, she took up her black fountain pen.

Dear Andrew, she wrote, determined not to allow the wild beating of her heart to spoil her penmanship,

Do the roses still bloom as vibrantly for you as they do for me?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My thanks to BrainyBeauty, CreamyLady, Ray Dario, and Ulyssa for reading through this story while it was in appallingly rough form and offering valuable suggestions toward its eventual betterment. Additionally, I deeply appreciate Lit Volunteer Editor Extraordinaire Weird Harold for the application of his editing skills to this story. His time and efforts on my behalf far exceeded the call of duty. Anything wrong with this story is entirely, of course, my fault.