Oh, even the way he says my name makes my insides quiver. I turn my head, looking at the master of the house through lowered lashes, as I know he prefers. Command me, anything. Everything. It’s yours. “Yes, Sir?”
“See me in the study when you are finished with your duties.”
“Of course, Sir.”
The command gives me renewed energy. Dusting and scrubbing has never seemed so delightful as knowing Sir Thomas has some other project planned for my time. I know he does. There’s no other matter for him to call me to the study after. As I work, my mind wanders, what will he ask of me this time? The last time, he bound me, blindfolded and nude, in a stall in the stables. It wasn’t until I felt myself penetrated that I knew it was not Sir Thomas inside me at all. But I could sense his presence, his satisfaction as I obeyed his command. That it pleased him to watch the stable master take me pleased me also. Of course, it has pleased him even more to have me after, his breath harsh in my ear as he demanded I tell him how much I had enjoyed his gift. How I convulsed around him when he threatened to leave me there, a wet and well-ridden mess for the other male servants to deal with at their leisure. I clamped my thighs together at the memory of their seed dripping from me, drying on my skin.
If my knees were shaking when I entered the study, it was more anticipation than fear. “You asked to see me, Sir Thomas?”
“Close the door.” When I did, he spoke again, commanding me to lock the door and come closer to his desk. His fingers found an errant strand of my hair, fallen from my bun as I worked. How vibrant the red looked against his pale skin, almost like blood, and the thought made me wetter. The sound of my name again, I knew my lips parted on a gasp, but silent. I know my place, and Sir Thomas expects me silent and biddable unless he tells me otherwise.
The hand crept closer to my skull, and then pulled me in, clamped on the back of my neck. His lips skimmed back in a smile that was all cruel mirth. “So base, my dear.” At the angle he holds me, I cannot move, neither closer nor away, cannot take my eyes from his face inches from mine. I dare not speak without permission, so I let my actions speak for themselves. I know my eyes widen with desire, my tongue wetting my lips and drawing his attention to my mouth.
All of a sudden, he pushes me away. Luckily, I caught myself to avoid stumbling before I hit the floor. “I think I will take supper in my chamber this evening. Tell Cook.”
“Of course, Sir. Will you be wanting wine with your meal? I’ll ask Withers to bring some up from the cellar.” He gave me a look that told me I ought to have known the answer without asking. I blushed as much from his scrutiny as from my lack of thought. “Is there anything else, Sir?”
“Yes, Virtue. Dine in the kitchen before you bring up my supper. I will want you to serve me in my chamber. All evening.”
I feel his hand atop my head, stroking, the heat of his leg through his trousers by my side. I should be vulnerable. His lesser, beneath him in so many ways, exposed. And yet, despite his sometimes cruel exterior, I feel desired. “Hello, pet.”
“Good evening Sir.”
I rise when he commands, let him bind me to the bed with great loops of rope at wrist and ankle, taking delight in the dark flare of his eyes as he tests his knots. They are sound, giving me little mobility. This is in my favor. How hard it is, how strenuous a test of my will, to remain still when he fills the hollow of my navel with wine, sucks the ruddy droplets of it from my breasts, from my nether and core, teasing me until I taste blood holding back my cries.
And oh, when he placed his dinner upon my stomach, the trust, the need to hold even my very breath as he cut, so carefully, the way the blade of his knife grazed my skin, all pressure and no sting. I would have welcomed the sting had he given it, but he prides himself how closely can he push before one of us errs. I am breathless, dizzy with want, wet, aching, near desperate when he sits back, a smirk twisting his lips as he dabs at them with his napkin.
I know that smirk, know that dinner is far from over, no matter how neatly he presents himself. I am right. How me falls one me, all lips and teeth and tongue, scraping, suckling, biting, his voice hot and silky against my beating pulse as he tells me, “Let me hear your prayers, sweet Virtue.”
And then I pray. How I pray! I call to him, my lord, my God in black, until he takes pity on the poor sinner at his mercy, parts my thighs wider, buries his mouth on me, and in me. Each new invocation spurs him onward, and I revel. I will bear the mark of his teeth on my inner thighs, sweet rings of bruising from them, from his fingers, as he keeps me open for his feasting. One hard jab of his tongue, two, three and I find salvation! Heaven is open to me and still he drives me onward. I am bowed as far as my bonds allow, his zealot, his harlot, and only when I am drained, exhausted from my fervor, my idol lifts his gaze to mine.
He crawls over me, face still wet with wine and my juices, and strips. I would have let him take me had he still been fully clothed, delighted in satin and velvet, wool and leather, the only bare skin his prick sheathed in me. But he knows my vices all too well, and his bare skin on mine, there and too far away to touch, to clutch, as he pounds me so masterfully, oh what delicious torment.
He keeps up that torment all night, slowing when he feels his own peak arriving, delaying us both until he knows I am wanton for him, the coverlet soaked beneath me, in wine, in sweat, in droplets of gravy and my juices, until my wicked, depraved little heart begs him to give me what I want most. I know the begging will get me punished later, and I want that as much as I want anything else he will give. I feel the rough grip of his hands, tilting up my hips, the way it opens me to him more, the way it makes him sink deeper into my core, hit places that hurt in the very best ways, twinges that radiate outward with each hard jut and jab of him.
I am sore and raw, worn so thin I am sure he will fuck himself into the bed below me before long, that I hit a peak again. This one is weak, my body sucking at him almost half-heartedly when he withdraws himself from me, working himself to spill his seed on my skin. White, creamy jets of it rope over my skin. I am too tired to even move, to writhe under the legs that straddle my waist, as he rubs himself against my wet stomach, my breasts, circles my nipples with the head of his shaft.
My body hovers above the bed, transcendent, as he unties me, chafes the raw skin of my limbs. I am somnolent, languid and limp, as he lifts my head, drips wine onto my lips directly from the decanter. He lifts me, carries me to the fire, holds me there in his great chair, while he directs a maid to change out the bed. I wonder dimly why he bothers. I will serve him this way until dawn breaks, but he enjoys his creature comforts, including a bed that is warm and dry. I am laid upon it, tucked into its warmth before he joins me. “Rest now, pet. I’ll wake you when I have need of your services again.” It is a command I cannot deny, one that pleases me to obey. As do they all.
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