Sacred Revelations (20 page)

I glance away. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apology, Kitten.” He pulls the silk panties free in a single rip, throwing them to the side, leaving me bare bottomed. “I want your submission.”

“I know.” I drop my face farther, heart pounding, knees shaking, not understanding why I can’t do as he asks.

He lifts my skirt, exposing my ass to his view. “The marks are faded almost completely,” he says before dropping my skirt. It falls with a whoosh around my ankles, sending up an unfamiliar breeze to caress my bare thighs.

I stand shaking, knowing a sadist threat when I hear one. No, not a threat, a challenge left unspoken—

are you ready for me to leave my mark on you? Heaven help me, I don’t know.

“Bodice,” he says, holding out the heavily boned corset. I lift my arms and turn my back to him. He fits the stiff fabric around my ribcage just under my breasts and starts lacing the back. By the time he is finished, I am grunting, the garment so tight I can barely breathe. He turns me toward a mirror to look at myself. “Voilà, beautiful.”

I am Yours.

I am Fyre’s.

My mouth drops, my heart and lungs freeze in my chest, mid-beat, mid-breath, for a moment I believe I said it out loud; but Garrett turns to leave and I know that I didn’t say it. I grip the back of one of the tall-backed chairs, steadying myself. I have to be more careful. What am I doing? Fyre is with his wife. I am with Garrett. I shake myself.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine. It’s just the corset, it’s tight.”

“It is supposed to be tight but I can loosen it a little if you need me to?” he asks, concerned. I shake my head. Irritation fills his voice as he says, “Fine. Meet me in my office. Two ladies down, I get to dress me now.”

I turn back to the mirror, watching him leave in its reflection. Looking at myself, I realize why I don’t recognize myself. It’s not me in the mirror. She disgusts me. I lean in, pointing a finger at the girl in the mirror, growling at my reflection. “You are going to commit to him. Do you hear me? He’s a good man.

He wants you. Even after the stunt you pulled with Lord Fyre, he still wants you.”

Walking into Garrett’s office, I’m distracted by a loose string on the front of my corset, trying to decide to pull or not to pull. I decide to not pull, pulling seems like a very bad idea when beading is involved.

“Hey, do you have scissors?”

Looking up, I swallow the question behind a cough. Garrett is wearing skintight, navy blue velvet breeches tucked into over-the-knee leather boots with a turned-down cuff at the top of the boot. I think my head tilts, trying to take in the whole view and not able to process so much ooh-la-la at once. Oh my .

When I suggested a Marie Antoinette Masquerade Party, I was thinking about women’s hairstyles, flowing gowns, decadence, and frivolity. I wasn’t thinking, what would a man of the era be wearing.

Now, remembering history classes about Mozart and King Louis XVI, enlightenment dawns in the vision standing before me.

He is painted as white as I, face, neck, hands, his cheeks reddened, scarlet lipstick pouting, even eye shadow in blues and plums. If his face was beautiful before, he is sin itself painted, even the star-shaped beauty mark above his lip is decadently sinful in a kiss me here fashion. He wears a white wig with long curls. His white shirt is all ruffles and lace. His long-tailed silk-brocade jacket in sky-blue with ornate silver embroidery and beading matches his eyes, making us not matchy-matchy, but closely color coordinated enough to take one damn fine photograph…if anyone is so inclined. I do hope someone is so inclined. My God.

I take a step forward but hold myself in check, heart slamming through my chest, trying to escape the bonds of my too-tight corset for want of rushing to him and throwing myself at his feet.

“You’re wearing false eyelashes!” I accuse wickedly, smiling.

“So are you,” he accuses right back.

I flutter my long, silver stick-on lashes, thinking, oh yeah, I am .

“Do you have a sock stuck in those pants, mister?” I leer.

“I should say not, Madame ,” he replies aristocratically and with a seemingly well-practiced accent.

The game is on.

“Mademoiselle,” I correct with a curtsy, holding out my hand. Predictably, he hurries forward to lift and kiss. “Enchanté. ” He kisses the top of my hand, then rolls my wrist to inhale and kiss, palm, wrist, then higher.

I clear my throat when he reaches my inner elbow, asking with wide-eyed innocence, “Escortez-moi à la mascarade, mon seigneur?”

“Escortez-moi au sofa, mademoiselle?”

I am stunned by the request, forgetting French, not really believing that he wants me to do what I think he wants to do on his leather couch. “You’ll ruin your makeup,” I protest, but don’t put up a real struggle when he leads me there.

“Be careful and our makeup will survive.” He sits, opening the front of his pants, his very hard, very erect penis springing free. He quips, “See, no sock.”

He lifts my skirts, sliding his hand over my silk stockings. He snaps my garter against my bare thigh before pulling me onto my knees to straddle him. He slides just the tips of his fingers through my wetness.

“No sock,” I repeat breathlessly, holding my skirt out of the way while I fidget into position. Impatient, he grabs my waist and pushes me down, hard and fast, impaling me with that single thrust.

“Oh God,” I moan when he hits the wall of my insides and tries to go that bit deeper. “Mon dieu, mon

dieu, mon dieu. J’aime ça.”

“When you talk to me in French, it drives me crazy.” His lips close over my left nipple, not sucking, biting. I embrace the pain, trying not to scream out. Luxuriating in it. This is the first time he’s hurt me since my return. He bites harder, making my head swim. I scream out, riding him hard while he bites me even harder. My orgasm takes me by surprise, coming too quickly, embarrassingly swift; however, by his labored breathing I can tell he is with me, following me in orgasmic bliss before my spiraled fall is even complete.

The party is running along at top speed when we arrive, tables set around the walls, leaving the center clear for ballroom dancing. Wigs bob and skirts flutter. It seems the ball is a hit with Jackie’s friends.

Garrett kisses my temple, whispering against my face, “You are to be commended, Kitten, the party is a huge success.”

Not knowing Jackie’s friends as well as Garrett’s, I am still nervous and double check everything with my eyes to be certain, taking into account that all is running smoothly. Live music in the corner—clarinets, Baroque oboes, eighteenth-century strings and bows, two violinists and a harp capture the Mozart piece they are playing sublimely. I smile. Finding a group to recreate our eighteenth-century soiree was a challenge, but we did it. I credit Enrique for all the hours he put in to make this happen. I’m sorry he refused to take part in tonight’s festivities, but I knew going in that Enrique is not a big Jackie fan.

The beds in the corners, canopied for privacy, were an Enrique-brainstormed moment. He insisted. I thought the beds were a tacky addition since we do have private play rooms strung throughout Lewd Larry’s for such moments, but since each of the four beds seems to be occupied to full capacity, I guess I was wrong. I watch as couples disappear between the drapes of one of the opulently curtained beds and decide to stop counting after the fourth couple disappears, not really wanting to know what full-capacity of a queen-size bed is.

Garrett chuckles, seeing where my gaze has wandered. “We’ll try out one of the beds later. Right now, I want to dance.”

One of the beds later? My brain screeches to a halt. No, no, no. I may have officially acquired slut-girl status by having sex with Garrett’s best friend, but having sex with several of Garrett’s friends all at the same time? I draw the line. Kitten does not gang-bang.

Dancing a waltz, thighs damp and sticky post-sex, is a new experience and my almost non-existent bare boobs managing to jiggle while we dance keeps me on edge, nervous, or maybe it was only the comment about the bed.

I will kill Enrique for the bed idea.

Three dances later, I have forgotten to be miserable or worried. Sex scenes have broken out all around us. We should have had all beds and no tables. Garrett is having a blast, twirling me around the floor, having learned tonight that I can actually dance. We are laughing and mid-spin when Jackie joins us. She looks incredible.

“Happy Birthday, Jackie,” I say, slightly winded.

“Shouldn’t you be sitting naked on a cushion, slave?” she demands.

I back away from her vehemence.

“Jackie,” Garrett growls a warning under his breath.

“She needs to know her place.”

“She is mine. Her place is at my side, in the way I see fit.” He defends us and it makes me feel horrible.

He shouldn’t have to be defending us, or me. I remember the day he was too harsh and it was Jackie defending me and even then his harsh wasn’t really harsh, but still, she defended.

“Or until she runs back to Thomas’s beach house? Hmmm?”

I back further away, a tear slipping over my cheek. Jackie hates me.

“That was uncalled for, Jackie.” Garrett sighs. “Without her, none of this would have happened tonight.

Enrique’s big idea was penis-shaped piñatas and pin the woody on the donkey.”

“So she’s a classy party planner, give the girl an award,” she quips, snapping her well-manicured fingers, posing for the crowd gathering at her flanks. She titters. “Now let’s find you a piece of meat at this party worthy of being your true submissive.”

I stand there, in Garrett’s shadow, taking her verbal abuse, not knowing what to do or how to stop it.

Then, remembering what Garrett said—she is mine—I react without conscious thought, moving closer to press my face between his shoulder blades, wrapping my arms around his waist. “You are mine,” I whisper.

I feel him still beneath my hands, knowing he heard me, if no one else did. I say it louder, “You are mine,” making sure they all hear.

I drop my hands, cupping his soft, curled cock in my hands and he responds to the touch, growing hard beneath the velvet.

I duck under his arm, still holding him in my hands and the crowd grows larger as I size up Jackie, glaring, seething, baring teeth and hissing at her. “He is mine.”

“You could have fooled me. Can you prove it?” She flicks my collar and without the lock through the hinge there is no safety catch. It drops. The crowd gasps as it falls but Garrett manages to catch it.

“The proof is the dampness of his come between my legs; the proof is the mark he left on me when his teeth closed around my nipple.” I reach up and flake away dried paint, revealing the deep purple dents made by his teeth on my breast. “The proof is the mark he left on my heart and on my soul and that is no one’s business but mine. How dare you challenge a mark so sacred that only he, I and God are privy to it! You may be his oldest, dearest friend—but I am his. ”

Gasps are followed by oohs and aahs as Garrett secures the circlet around my neck, locking it in place with a small padlock, leaning close to my ear to whisper, “You are mine, Kitten.”

I lift my mouth to his, offering my lips. “You are mine, Master,” I affirm, kissing him hard and deep. A litany resounds in my head, for better or for worse, for better or for worse, for better or for worse.

I open my eyes to find Garrett gazing into my face. He smiles, I smile, and Jackie in a grand harrumph storms away, followed by her entourage.

“I’m sorry.” I say.

“Whatever for?”

“It is her birthday and she is your very best friend. I don’t want to come between you.”

“You will never come between our friendship, Kitten.” Garrett states with a most serious voice. “Jackie has been my friend longer than anyone else. We tend to protect each other.”

“And right now, she thinks she’s protecting you from me?” I interrupt.

“Yes,” he agrees, lifting my chin when I drop my gaze to the floor. “The question is, do I need protecting?”

I close my eyes against his gaze, fighting against the tears that would fall…mad at Jackie for ruining the fun we were starting to have, mad at myself for feeling so much doubt.

Opening my eyes, composed once more, I state an obvious truth without answering his question. “I wear your collar. I am here because I choose to be yours. Can we go back to having fun, now?”

“You are my heart, my life, my one and only thought.”

-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The White Company

Garrett

I am not certain whether I should strangle Jackie for trying to cause trouble or kiss her for waking Kitten up. Collared, we can begin again, and she will learn that though Lord Fyre and I play very differently, we still play hard.

I promised her I wouldn’t mark her until all of his marks are gone. I lied. There are still faint lines on her back and buttocks; I marked her anyway, circling her breast with my teeth marks. God, she is beautiful, she marks beautifully, all that pale skin, so very white even before the stage makeup.

I purposely chose a table next to one of the beds and although all of the food is decadent, luscious, Kitten has yet to do more than nibble. She watches. Overtly, but I catch her now and then, peeking from beneath hooded lashes. Two men climbed into the center of the bed next to us moments ago, and although they were obviously enjoying each other, one of them called a server to them. She is older, mid-forties, but beautiful, and not as blushingly shy as the twenty-somethings who float around refilling champagne. I was vaguely surprised that she put up little fuss when she was pulled onto the featherbed mattress as easily as she was, but then I look at the two men—Gulliver and his latest beau, Phillip, reputably bi-curious, and seeing that he had no trouble pinning the girl now sandwiched between them, believably so.

I used to believe in labels, straight, queer. I don’t like labels so much any more, having no idea where I would fit. Easier to just be who I am than to be classified, especially if someone were to try to label me as bi-curious at this late date.