Slave Wife (16 page)
Authors: Frances Gaines Bennett
For several minutes she lay still and Ward waited, her exuberant warmth against his chest. He was about to speak again when slowly, reluctantly, she nodded her head yes. He patted her head. “Good girl. Now you may stand and dress.”
Ward’s last vision of the girl – an image that would haunt his dreams for months afterward – was her small face peering sadly at him through the window of Reza’s big black car as it pulled away down the drive.
Ward leaned against a wall, a glass of David Nicholson 1843 in his hand. He appreciated that every bar at every one of Michael’s events, both private and corporate, was stocked with the obscure, mellow caramel liquid simply because he knew it was Ward’s favourite.
He sipped, letting the handcrafted
As with everything else Michael touched, the corporate office’s Christmas decorations were magnificent but tasteful. Ward glanced at the giant evergreen – real, just like the carved mahogany fireplace it sat beside, which Michael had cannibalised from an English manor house. Michael’s decorator, Ward mused, must have used a hundred yards of rich green and burgundy ribbons to festoon the branches before adding alluring touches of gold. Most impressive was the yard-tall antique Victorian angel, wearing elaborate robes that matched the ribbons and holding a long gold horn, which graced the top.
It was the employees’ high jinks, boosted by alcoholic Christmas cheer, that most intrigued him however. Ward noted, and filed away for possible future use, who chatted up who with what results.
One of Michael’s Directors was getting a little too friendly with one of Ward’s former co-workers, a female engineer who now wore considerably more makeup and considerably sexier clothing than during his tenure at Doud’s company, when Ward’s attention was distracted by the behaviour of a lone girl. The girl’s appearance was striking – all hard angles from her unnaturally black hair above sharp cheekbones to her muscular legs swathed in supple black that enhanced rather than hid her defined contours. Yet she moved so softly, slipping silently through the human knots with an exceedingly self-contained acrobat’s frictionless grace. More interesting to Ward was the discreet acuity of her observation – identical to his.
And by far the most interesting was her fascination with Karen, who stood meekly unaware with Michael beside the tree. From a distance she circled Karen like a predatory beast, camouflaged but poised to spring.
Delia was impressed but no longer overawed. She looked around the opulently decorated room and smiled to herself. Five years. Not that long really, yet everything had changed.
She smoothed her suit jacket’s perfectly tailored front, pleasurably caressing the fine fabric. The suit, a midnight-blue stylized tuxedo cut to one button in a deep front V and with a draping peplum rather than true tails, was from Donna Karan’s collection of about six years before. Delia’d found it in her favourite
San Francisco
thrift shop and had it remodelled to the current, narrow fashion. The fluid wool stroked her skin with a feather’s sensuality.
Again she smiled to herself as she flexed her shoulders and felt the straps crisscrossing her back. Her little secret and even more sensual. Underneath she wore nothing but a pleated white tuxedo shirtfront that covered her breasts but otherwise left her upper body bare of all but the narrow fabric bands holding it in place. Her gaze once again swung across the room while she wondered idly if any of these people might provide a good fuck … or better.
Her contemplation ceased abruptly, frozen toward the majestic evergreen. Instantly – or almost so – she recovered. She felt like slapping the shock off her own face. Wasn’t this the long planned-for moment?
Yet she’d not been prepared for what she saw. Michael, elegant in a dark suit and stark white dress shirt, had come through a door behind the tree, his hand proprietarily supporting the delicate arm of a woman Delia barely recognized. The woman seemed to lean on his towering frame. Delia’s eyes strained through the muted, sparkling holiday light while her body purposefully relaxed into nonchalance. What the hell had he done to her?
Casually Delia sauntered to the bar and retrieved a flute of champagne. Real crystal, she noted absently as she began to circle with feigned unconcern, hooded eyes never leaving the woman.
She was stunning, with a refinement only acquired by meticulous upbringing or arduous and tremendously expensive education. Every detail of her was perfect, from her glistening umber dusk mink coloured hair to her perfectly cut – and perfectly fitted, Delia marvelled unpleasantly, remembering her last visit with Karen – burgundy couture dress to her beautiful, bizarrely high heeled shoes. And yet the woman was diminished, severely diminished in a way Delia couldn’t immediately define but which seemed somehow familiar. Delia turned and retraced the circle’s perimeter.
No longer did she wonder about possible playthings. Only her circular pathway mattered, only observation and evaluation. Several times men and once a woman approached her. She paid little attention and rebuffed them without thinking, ignoring possible corporate consequences. This was the long awaited moment and she had only one objective. She was now Sensei’s trained predator.
An hour – longer? – passed and no plan had risen in her consciousness. Her muscles began to tense. Would she have another opportunity? And truly, for what? Now that the decision faced her she didn’t know.
Suddenly her senses tingled. She pulled her gaze away from Karen and saw a strange man leaning against a wall beside the elaborately carved mantelpiece looking at her. Well, really, he didn’t look strange. If she’d passed him on the street she’d have said he was unexceptional though pleasant and even handsome in a quiet way.
But her senses said otherwise. She felt his strength and – she stiffened – an unexpected thrill of understanding – her eyes widened in acknowledgement – and kinship.
He smiled and she was certain she saw his pale eyes twinkle, even from across the dim room. Then he pushed fluidly off the wall and approached Michael and Karen. Someone jostled her and she momentarily turned away. When she looked back, all three were gone.
Distress rippled through her but quickly rationality prevailed. It was still early and she knew they’d be back. She’d put the time to good use and schmooze. Delia smiled at the word as she perused the crowd. Yes, times had changed.
She was deep in discussion with a Director, a big man who looked like a Kennedy and had the same privileged leer. He’d placed his hand on her arm and was looking flirtatiously down at her when her senses tingled familiarly. A minute later the Director smiled over her shoulder and extended the errant hand. “Good evening, Ward. It’s great to see you again!”
She turned and found the quiet man at her back. He met her eyes and this time she was certain of his amusement … and empathy. The Director’s voice was at her ear, “Have you met Delia Swenson?” She gripped the man’s – Ward’s – hand and was struck by its thickness and dry warmth. Again she had the sense of his strength.
“Delia, this is Ward Smith. He’s an engineer who used to work for the
St. Louis
operation but now consults on special projects. Ward, Delia’s a hire for Michael’s new Berkeley IT division. She came to us in September from the
She tried to demur but Ward cordially interrupted. His understated voice sent little jolts up her spine. “I’m very pleased to meet you.” Delia knew he spoke precisely and was glad.
The three chatted amiably until the Director realized Ward wasn’t going to leave him to his prey and excused himself. Ward smiled pleasantly. “Would you mind coming with me? I’d like to show you something I know will interest you.”
Delia had no idea what he wanted from her and didn’t care. She walked through the crowd toward the door behind the Christmas tree in a pheromonal haze. Occasionally, when her arm brushed against Ward’s in the crush, little electrical currents made vivid starbursts inside her belly.
In blissful oblivion, she walked beside him down the long quiet hall … until she stood in front of a door she knew was Michael’s office and Ward stretched out his hand to turn the knob. Then she recoiled and came back to the “real” world. She, a very junior employee, was definitely not supposed to be here.
“Don’t worry.” He smiled at her, pushed the door open, guided her through and solidly closed the door behind her. “I have permission.” She heard the irony in his tone and the door’s click but her attention was fixed elsewhere.
In the palatial room’s centre a girl, naked except for strange silver underclothes, knelt, chained at the throat to a ring in the floor between two rare Persian rugs. It was Karen.
Karen neither lifted her head nor even looked up when they entered. Despite the dimmed lights, Delia realized Karen was on a chain so short her back bowed slightly. Her first impulse was to run to her friend but something stopped her.
Delia stood suspended in limbo, head tilted downward, hearing nothing and seeing only Karen. The sight shocked her. But it was a half-formed perception that held her like a beast scenting uncertainty in the wind.
Once again she circled, collecting data, evaluating, while the girl below her – Delia now visualized Karen as a girl, not a woman – never stirred. Karen’s body was slim but not emaciated, despite her appearance of frailty. In fact, it seemed a perfect representation of modern femininity. Delia marked the lovely rounded yet muscular swells of arms, buttocks and legs, as if the girl took meticulous care of herself – or someone else did, Delia thought bitterly. She noted the refined bone structure, the sublime curve of the spine.
Delia bent. What was Karen wearing? Delia peered through the dimness and her eyes widened. A wide metal mesh band encased the girl’s soft breasts, scoring them into a judiciously protuberant waffle pattern – enough to make innumerable tiny bulges but not to slice the flesh – as it flattened them, constricting her ribcage. Delia noted, startled, how meticulously the girl regulated each breath, straining to pull adequate oxygen into her restricted lungs.
A meagre “bikini” bottom appeared to be made of silver wire strands terminating in contacts to sacrum and hip joints – and no doubt other loci hidden from Delia’s view – threaded through a few flesh-toned fabric bands that virtually disappeared against Karen’s skin. Delia leaned closer, toward a short pink horizontal line just visible through the fabric. Was that the pallid remnants of a scar over Karen’s lower vertebrae?
But what the hell was eluding her? Delia almost had it. Almost but not quite.
She heard a noise behind her and pivoted, instantly on the defence. It was a revelation that greeted her. Ward stood with both hands extended. In one he held a braided flogger, in the other a small key.
Only her five year old obsession of Karen as a victim requiring rescue had blinded her. In a split second epiphany that perspective shattered and another emerged, like an abstruse change in camera angle. Now she understood. It could have been Anna at her feet. The two girls looked remarkably alike but that wasn’t it either. Rather, Karen’s persona unmistakably screamed “submissive”.
Ward’s smile broadened and Delia knew he’d recognized her transformation. His outstretched arms extended further, offering, no goading her toward a choice.
Her mind raced. Silently she raised a hand, putting Ward off. She had to think! She resumed her circular survey. What if she’d been wrong from the beginning? What if Michael had recognized Karen’s submission and only given her what she needed?
She glanced up at Ward, who hadn’t taken his smiling eyes off her. Would they really let her release Karen if that was her decision? A devastating spasm of guilt took her. Suddenly she knew how intensely she wanted her job, wanted this career path and the new world it promised to a hapless Midwestern farm girl. If she did choose Karen’s freedom would it all end?
Delia needed more information and there was only one way to get it. She removed her jacket and laid it on a delicate antique chair, tangentially aware of Ward’s very masculine interest in her skimpy covering. Under other circumstances she would have put his interest to good use. But not at this moment. Slowly, with ambivalence that felt bottomless, she lifted the flogger, ignominiously ignoring Ward’s gaze. Head down, she mumbled into her breasts, “This is not a decision.”
The implement drew her to it, entranced her, once it lay in her hand. It was actually a cat o’ nine tails and beautifully crafted. Made by Heartwood, she was certain. She hefted the handle with its intricate weave in lustrous shades of brown. “Yes,” she thought, while at the same time wondering how she knew, “Ward would prefer brown’s deep tonalities.”
Her arm swept the air once, twice, three times in graceful figure eights as she watched the supple movement of the nine braided tails tipped with tiny forked leather tongues. Inadvertently she smiled to herself in enjoyment, wishing, for a moment, that Anna was restrained before her. The thought jolted her back to the present and her smile vanished. She sighed, looking down at Karen’s vulnerable bare back … and with one integrated backhanded motion caused the vicious tongues to strike flesh.
The girl jerked and a tremor ran through her but she made no sound. Delia struck again … and again. She couldn’t deny it. The splendid cat connecting with the flawless skin felt rhapsodic. Even the slight metallic ping when a tail struck metal was enjoyable. She evaluated her own response. Her instincts, which she invariably trusted, were propelling her to hurt the girl – strong evidence of submission for a skilled Dominant. But not enough.