[ Truyện Tiếng Anh] Mercy

Mercy
Mercy Page 40



“I’ll only come in if you promise to listen to me, to listen to my side of the story.”

“What other side is there?” I snapped. “I was completely passed out.”

“His side. What did he tell you?”

“Nothing. I sent him away. I have less than no interest in what he has to say.”

“He didn’t explain to you why he did it?” He was still talking to me from the door.

“I know why he did it, but it was still wrong! And you...he never would have thought of it on his own. So this is as much your fault as his.”

“God, Lucy. I’m so sorry. Please don’t be mad at me. I can’t stand it, I couldn’t stand it...if you won’t be my friend...”

Grégoire’s tears finally undid me. I started to cry too. It was all so sad and ugly. My lips trembled and my words came out in a rush.

“I need you now, G. I need you to be my friend, now more than ever.” I reached out for him and he came to me, enveloping me in his arms. I cried into his shoulder, the shoulder I’d leaned on so many times both in dancing and in life.

“I can’t believe we’re not going to dance together again. I just can’t believe it’s over,” I sobbed.

“Aw, Lucy, it’s not over. Don’t say that, not yet.”

“But it is, isn’t it? I’ll never dance again. I can’t. I’ll miss dancing with you most of all, G.

How can it be over? Forever? I just wasn’t ready for it to be over!”

“I know, sweet, I know.” He crooned to me quietly, trying to soothe me. I don’t know what he said. I was crying way too hard to listen. The thought of never again moving across a stage with Grégoire, soaring through space propelled by his agile hands, it killed me. I looked down at his hand patting my leg gently, felt his soft, fine black hair brushing against my cheek. The smell of him, the solid feel of him against me. I knew why I was so sad. I’d lost not one lover, but two.

Besides that, besides being alone and losing my lovers, I would get fat and awkward when I’d been sleek and graceful all my life. I’d get fat with a baby I didn’t want, that I’d resent, and then I’d have to live with the guilt of giving away my flesh and blood to some strangers because I was too selfish to love it. I felt like my life was over, and nothing in my future seemed worth living for.

“It will be okay,” he said when I’d calmed down enough to listen. “Everything will be okay.

Maybe you can become a teacher.”

“I don’t want to be a teacher.”

“You say that now, but you’ll miss dancing. You’ll miss it enough to do anything, I think.

And you’ll have this little one to teach dancing to.” He laid his hand on my belly. “It would be a shame to waste your genes.”

“No,” I said. “No, never. No child of mine will ever be a dancer—”

“Lucy. If you hate dance so much, why are you going on and on about how much you’ll miss it?”

“You know why. You know exactly why.” He fell quiet. He did understand the love/hate relationship we all had with dance. His joints were nowhere near as bad as mine, but the end would come for him too. “I can’t stand to think of this baby going through this pain and loss someday...”

At that moment, as I said those words, I realized with horror that I was already protecting the thing inside me, and there would be no way to let it go. I was already attached to it, as much as I hated it. Grégoire still had his hand on my stomach, caressing it. He’d known all along.

“You’ll find something to do with your life besides dance. I’m sure you will. It will just take some time, some courage.” He tilted my head up to his and brushed away the lingering tears.

“You’re a brave girl. You know that you are. You always have been. And you’ll be a mother now. You’ll be great at it. And you’ll be happy with Matthew, won’t you?”

“Matthew? No.” I buried my head in my hands. “I can’t...I won’t...G, why did you let me stay with him so long? I can’t go back to him. I shouldn’t. Should I?” He was quiet for a long time.

“I don’t know, Lucy. I don’t know. I don’t know that whole story, but I can tell he loves you very much.”

“I sent him away, G,” I whispered in dread. “I told him he was awful and a liar and a hypocrite and that I hated him and never wanted to see him again.” I burst into a fresh torrent of tears. I realized only now how painful it had been to speak to him that way, the man to whom I’d been trained to show respect. How could we ever get past the things we’d done to each other, the words we’d said?

“I can’t go back to him, G. Don’t let me. Please. Let me come back and stay with you and Georges, please, until I’m back on my feet.” I didn’t stop to wonder why I was begging so hard.

“Of course you can. You can stay as long as you need to. Maybe you both just need some time.”

I laughed humorlessly. That was exactly what Matthew had said. It seemed even now the two of them were working in tandem. “You’re so much like him,” I said. “I don’t understand how you two can be so much alike.”

“I don’t think I’m much like him, Lu. I think we both just care about you.”

“If he cared about me, he would never have done what you suggested.”

“But I suggested it, so I’m to blame also. Not that I’m arguing his side. I’m just saying...”

“Do you think I should go back to him?”

He looked away, considering. “Just give it time, Lucy. You’ll figure out what to do.

Sometimes I think maybe, with this, you really do belong together,” he said, pointing to my middle again. “But did he...what you did together...did he abuse you?” I snorted softly. If I was to detail half of what Matthew did to me, Grégoire would have the police down on his head, but I had reveled in all of it, all of it but what had happened at the end.

Even the misstep with Frank and Byron, while I hadn’t enjoyed it, had brought us closer, helped us find love.

“He never abused me, no, not in any way I didn’t want. We had a...safe word,” I said, my voice trembling at the end.

“A safe word?” Grégoire echoed softly.

For a minute we just sat in silence, the only sound the beep of the monitor and the steady click, click, sigh of the IV.

“Yes, a safe word,” I finally whispered. “For when he hurt me too bad.” Chapter Fifteen: Truth

I left that afternoon in a wheelchair to return to Grégoire and Georges’s house. Georges ured me I was welcome to stay as long as I liked, and while I had every intention of landing on my feet and finding something to do to make money and get my own place as soon as possible, it soon became apparent that it was going to take a while. Rehabilitation went slowly, and I hobbled about on crutches, and had terrible nausea and morning sickness and spent many miserable days in bed.

Sometimes, vowing to pull myself together, I showered and dressed and went with Grégoire to the theater to watch the show from the wings, but it was so painful to be there and not dance, and to endure the sympathetic stares and empty encouragements of the dancers, that I soon swore it off.

I still saw Dr. Rob every other week for appointments. He came by the apartment personally so I wouldn’t have to limp all the way to his office downtown. The rehabilitation was painful as he manipulated and coaxed my ankle, but even more painful was knowing that Dr. Rob was a direct link to Matthew.

I knew Matthew paid him for my care, because money never changed hands between us, and I knew also that he reported to Matthew on my progress, however slow. He must have certainly learned through Rob that I was still pregnant, that I hadn’t had an abortion after all. Rob asked me question after question every week, questions that grew more involved and personal, questions I knew came straight from Matthew’s mouth. I answered them, how could I not, grateful as I was for the fading pain and his patient, capable therapy.

Then one week he said flat out to me, “Matthew misses you.” The words landed on me like a punch in the gut. I’m sure I flinched, but he pretended not to notice. His fingers just kept working, manipulating, stretching my healing tendon just past the point of pain. I stayed silent, partly to pretend he hadn’t just said what he said, and partly because I knew if I spoke I would burst into tears.

He started to talk, uninvited, about his past with Matthew, all the mysterious and vague details I’d never known. He spoke of the impoverished, damaged family Matthew had come from, and detailed all the chances he’d taken, all the hard work he’d done to rise out of the squalor he’d been born to. He’d truly made something from nothing, built an empire of real estate from an Indiana shack. Dr. Rob had met him in college when Matthew was a struggling freshman, and Rob, a young man of privilege, was wasting his opportunities on women and partying.

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“I almost died one night. Alcohol poisoning,” he said. “He took me to the hospital, got medical care for me. He’s a good man. He takes care of people he cares about. He cares about you.”

I was really, really trying not to cry, but I was fighting a losing battle.

He pressed his point. “It’s hard for him when he cares so much about you, to not be here for you. He misses you, he wants to help you. I know he’d like another chance.” I wiped my tears. Through all this, his hands never stopped. The pain, the twinge and pang of him moving my ankle was the only thing that kept me from going totally numb.

“I know you miss him too, Lucy. You’re not happy. You belong with him, especially now.”

“Did he tell you to say that?” I scoffed through tears. “They’re the exact words he would use.”

“He asked me to tell you this, yes. But I’m not saying anything I can’t see for myself.

You’re unhappy without him, and you miss him terribly. Don’t you?” I would have answered him if I wasn’t suddenly bawling too hard to catch my breath. I did miss Matthew, I missed him like madness. I missed him so I lay in bed every night and cried for an hour. I missed him so that food had no taste and art had no beauty and life had no meaning. I missed him so that I wrapped my hands around my waist a hundred times a day to cradle the only thing of him I had left.

“What do I do?” I sobbed. “What do I do?”

“Forgive him. Let him come talk to you at the very least. He wants to see you, but only if you feel in your heart you can give him another chance. He doesn’t want to see you if it’s only to tell him goodbye.”

“But I don’t know. I don’t know if I can trust him again.”

“He made a mistake, Lucy, and he knows it. A big mistake, one with a lot of repercussions.

Lifelong, life changing repercussions, and he’s sorry for it. He’s used to fixing things with money. He’s always been able to do that. This is one situation that can’t be fixed. It’s been difficult for him. He’s as miserable as you are. I’m an outsider, I know. It’s really none of my business, but it seems to me...”

His magical hands kept massaging and moving my ankle and knee, working the stiffness away.

“It seems to me that you two being together and having to work through some issues is better than being alone and miserable for the rest of your lives. I mean, you’re both unhappy.

You’re both lonely. You both miss each other. It seems awfully pointless to me, at least from the outside looking in.”

“Ouch,” I said softly as he turned my ankle to the right.

“Nearly forty percent more range on that side. You’re getting better, Lucy. You won’t grace the stage again, I’m afraid, but I promise you, you’ll be able to dance.”

“I will?”

“I’m sure of it. Not perfectly, not with the intensity and stamina you used to, but you’ll dance again.”

He patted my ankle and fixed me with his gaze.

“Even if it’s not perfect,” he said, “if you enjoy it, if it makes you happy, then it’s a good thing.”

* * *

I thought a long time about the things Dr. Rob had told me, and by morning I’d decided to call Matthew, but I didn’t do it that day or even the next. I was afraid of taking that step off the precipice, afraid of trusting him again. But I was just as afraid of living my whole life without him when I needed him so much. I was afraid to call after the things I’d said to him. I was afraid to call because of the chance, however small, that he would not take me back. And I was afraid to call because, suddenly, I was starting to show.

I know, silly vanity, but what on earth would he think when he saw me? I wasn’t even five months along, but small and slim as I was, I already had a noticeable bump. My slender, muscular body was one of the main things he liked about me, and I was no longer anywhere close to sleek, with my belly sticking out strangely and my muscles weak after months of forced inactivity. Dr. Rob said he still wanted me, that he missed me, but would he really want me like this? I couldn’t even have a few drinks to muster up my courage, so for two nights I just stared at the phone.

“Call already, Lu,” Grégoire chided me on the third night. “Enough. Pick up the phone and call.”

“What if he decides he doesn’t want me anymore?”

He laughed. “For God’s sake, believe me, that’s not going to happen. He wants you back like mad.”

I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know, G? Have you been informing on me too?”

“He might have called me a few times. Checking up on you. We’ve talked.”

“You two! You both ought to be ashamed.”

“Just pick up the damn phone. Do you want me to dial for you?” I sighed. “Yes, actually. I’m shaking too hard to do it myself.” Grégoire picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. It didn’t escape me that he knew them by heart.

“He loves you,” he mouthed, handing it over. I waited with the phone to my ear as it rang. I hoped to get his voicemail so I could just leave a message. But no, on the fourth ring he answered, his deep silky voice in my ear.

“Hello,” he rumbled anxiously. “Is Lucy all right?”

I was thrown for a moment, but then I realized I was calling from Grégoire’s number, that he would ume I was him.

“This is Lucy,” I finally managed to say, and I hated how scared I sounded. I said it again louder. “It’s Lucy.”

“Lucy. Lucy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

There was a short silence, a slow, soft sigh.

“I’m glad you called me. I’m so glad. I’ve missed your voice.” He paused. “I’ve missed everything about you.”

I was crying by then, hard enough that I almost hung up because I just couldn’t get any words past my lips, but Grégoire nudged me insistently.

“Talk!” he ordered, gesturing to the phone.

“Matthew...” I whispered through tears.

“Yes, honey. I’m here.”

“I miss you, Matthew. I need you, I think. I’m sorry I said those things to you.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes, Lucy. I’m leaving right now.” I handed the phone back to Grégoire, wide eyed, terrified. Frantic with relief.

“He’s coming now.”

He smiled. “Figures. Should Georges and I go out? Give you two some privacy?”

“No! Don’t leave me! Just...don’t leave yet.”

“I won’t. I’ll be here if you need me, but you and he need to talk. So dry those tears and buck up. Be brave.”

I went to the kitchen and guzzled some water trying to calm myself. It occurred to me just as Matthew knocked that the pajamas I had on showed every bit of my strange new shape.

“Jesus,” I said, hiding behind the counter. Grégoire was already opening the door. Matthew shook his hand, but he was searching the room for me. He looked as amazing as ever, his piercing eyes, his virile body, the same intent swagger as he crossed to where I was ducking behind the counter.

He took me in with one sweeping gaze. “Come here.”

I straightened slowly, tried to stand and present myself to him the way he’d taught me eons ago. He pulled me into his arms carefully like I was a delicate thing, and I suppose I was. My leg still wasn’t completely healed. Although his hands on me weren’t rough or grasping, they were possessive, undeniably possessive, and I felt as soon as he touched me that I was his again.

“Lucy,” he sighed so softly that goosebumps rose on my skin. His hands cupped my face, then ran down over my shoulders, my pregnancy-inflated s, and over the curve of my .

They stopped on my little baby bump and his fingers spread out there, broad and warm.

“Lucy, my God. Look at you.” He fell to his knees and put his head right against me like he wanted to hear the baby inside, or perhaps feel it there. My hands curled in his hair. It disturbed me to see him kneeling at my feet, the supplicant for once, the one without the power. I wanted to give it back to him immediately. Take me, Matthew, I wanted to say. I’m yours. The moment I’d seen him in the doorway I’d known I was his and that I always would be as long as I lived.

Dr. Rob was right, we belonged together. If you enjoy it, if it makes you happy, then it’s a good thing...

He stood up and looked deep in my eyes, and I looked back at him just desperate with love.

He kissed me, hard, gentle, soft, deep, just kissed me and kissed me and kissed me again. He drew me close until I was wrapped tightly in his arms, body to body, and the little round body between us both.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, breaking away from my lips. “I’m really so sorry for what I did.

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You’re right. It was terrible, and hypocritical of me. It was the worst kind of dishonesty, when I demanded the truth.”

He sighed and took my face in his hands, his thick, gentle fingers threading through my curls. “I owe you truth,” he continued, “so here’s the truth. I’m happy you’re growing our child.

I’m sorry that I didn’t give you a say in it. I hope you’ll forgive me for that. But I won’t ever leave you again, Lucy. I love you, and I can’t really live without you. I’m going to marry you and we’re going to have a baby. And that’s, finally, the whole truth of it.” By this point, tears were running down my face and he put his cheek against mine so it grew wet too, then he rubbed it against my hair. His fingers tightened in my curls so I felt it, felt that insistent pang of pain.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you, Lucy. I don’t know how else to love. But I promise I’ll take care of you forever, if you’ll just give me the chance.”

“I thought you didn’t love me because I’d been raped. What about that?” He shook his head against my hair. “I didn’t understand. I just didn’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t because I thought you wouldn’t hurt me the way I wanted to be hurt.”

“Is that why, though, Lucy? Is that the reason you want to be hurt?”

“I don’t know,” I said, crying against his shoulder. “Does it really matter, Matthew? Does it really matter in the end?”

He thought about that for a long moment, then sighed so I felt his breath against my ear.

“I think the only thing that matters is that, from now on, we tell each other only truth.” I clung to him and he held me and soothed me while I soaked his shirt with tears.

“I’m...I’m afraid,” I stammered, my voice trembling.

“I know it,” he said, smoothing my curls. “I know.”

* * *

So back I went, from Grégoire’s to Matthew’s, that very night. Matthew insisted he wouldn’t sleep another night away from me and our child, and I was overjoyed to have my master back giving orders again. He came to my little room and helped me pack up everything, my very few things in my two suitcases. His eyes lingered on the Grecian Urn poem.

“Do you know why I gave you this?”

“No, Matthew, I don’t. Maybe because it talked about truth and beauty, and it was meaningful to you.”

“You were meaningful to me. Even back then when I was still in denial of how I felt about you. How much I loved you. Did you love me back then?”

I didn’t even consider lying.

“Yes, I loved you long before then. Desperately.”

“Me too,” he said. “I loved you from the start. I loved you when we sat in that coffee shop talking, and you blushed and stammered and tried so hard to tell the truth. I loved you when you danced that night at the Gala. I loved you that day we spoke in the hall, when you tied your little shoes up without looking down once.”

“You loved me then? You didn’t even know me.”

“But I did, Lucy. Just like you knew me.”

I sat beside him and we looked at the poem together.

“If you had told me the truth then,” I said, “I would have run away. If you had told me all that was going to happen between us.”

He laughed. “I still would have caught you. I wouldn’t have let you get away.” We said our goodbyes at the door. I thanked Georges and Grégoire with tears in my eyes for the love and support they’d given me when my life had been off the rails. But now I finally felt I was back on track again. I hobbled to Matthew’s house and he carried me up to his bedroom and there were Pietro’s paintings of me just as before, all three in a row.

I stared at the paintings while Matthew slowly undressed me, ran anxious fingers over me like I might still try to get away.

“I’m yours, Matthew,” I whispered. “Please take me. Like you used to.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

And he didn’t, even though he loved me for hours. He to me until I was falling asleep in his arms and still he made me come, made me thrill with his mouth, his fingers, his inside me. We fell asleep still connected, and I woke up the next morning in his insatiable grasp.

So life went on between us, thrilling and wonderful as ever. I rested during the day while he worked. Mrs. Kemp spoiled me rotten, coming and going and clucking over me constantly.

Kevin drove me wherever I needed to go, and Dr. Rob came to see me as always. I thanked him gratefully the next time I saw him for giving me the courage to call.

Matthew and I stuck to our pact to tell only truth to each other. We had long revealing talks in his bedroom—well, our bedroom now—while I lay cradled in his arms. My old life, dancing and the secrecy of pain, was replaced by a new world of honesty and warmth. And love. We’d talk for hours with his hand resting on my swelling belly, and the baby grew and began to move inside me while my leg knit together like new.

And of course we found ways to , to have ***, to , to do the things we had to do. It wasn’t always easy, and it was downright awkward as I grew bigger, but he still ed me and beat me and bedeviled me until I came. Matthew hired a private obstetrician who came to the house, and who was let in on our games so there would be no need to explain away the marks.

On the plus side of this open communication, the physician was able to offer frank advice of how far we could go and still be safe. “The baby is exceedingly well-cushioned,” Dr. Stein would say to Matthew with a wink, “so if she misbehaves, you give her hell.” It was one of those nights when my ankle was almost completely better that Matthew stroked my face and said, “So, now, Lucy, can I be your dominant husband?”

“You call that a proposal?” He pulled out a ring that made my jaw drop.

“Lucy Merritt, marry me.” An order, not a question, of course.

“And be your submissive wife? Let me think it over.” I pretended to for all of three seconds.

“Yes, Matthew, I will.”

He kissed me a long time, then he whispered to me.

“Lucy, will you always be truthful to me? Forever?”

“Yes, Matthew,” I said. “I promise I will.”

And I really meant it this time.

* * *

We had a wonderfully beautiful wedding that Matthew’s money threw together in a week.

His rich developer friends attended, and the dancers from my company. They wished me well but they looked at me with fear in their eyes. She’s through. Someday I’ll be through too. But being through wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. As time went by, I missed dancing less, and settled into the wonder of just being Matthew’s wife.

I was quickly becoming Matthew’s huge, bloated, whale-like wife, but he seemed to love me just the same. And being Matthew’s wife was a full time job, much to my pleasure and occasional pain. We played almost every day, and every night, and I’d never known such happiness in my life.

We found out eventually that we were going to be having a boy, so we began to shop for blue and boyish things. It was one such time, when we were out shopping downtown, that we ran into Joe. We were getting coffee, and a huge pastry to feed my pregnant hunger, when I looked up and saw his eyes on me, on my massive waistline, and Matthew at my side.

“Hi, Joe,” I said. Matthew’s eyes shot to him. “Matthew, this is Joe. We almost got married once.”

Joe had the grace to look sheepish. He had a ring on his finger. “Kim and I got married. And I see you did, too.”

“This is my husband Matthew.”

Matthew and Joe shook hands, in that way of two men who’ve loved the same woman.

“Nice to meet you,” Matthew said. “I guess I should thank you for being foolish enough to leave her at the altar.”

I nudged him, rolling my eyes.

The awkward conversation ended shortly afterward and we said our goodbyes. As soon as he was out of earshot, Matthew taunted him under his breath. “Idiot,” he muttered. “Vanilla boy.”

“Matthew, be nice. His loss is your gain.”

“And yours too,” he whispered, eyeing me lasciviously.

I laughed. “How can you look at me like that, when I look like this?” I pointed down at my huge belly, round and swollen.

“I think you’ve never looked ***ier. I bet Joe did too. I can’t wait to take you home and you.”

“Stop!” I laughed, looking around at the people passing by us, oblivious to what he said.

“You’re such a perv. To even think of ing a woman this pregnant—”

“What are you talking about? We’ll be ing up until the bitter end. Did you hear that, baby?” he said to my stomach. “If the womb’s a rockin’...”

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“Don’t talk to our baby about ***!” I giggled.

“I’ll be pushing the doctor out of the way to get at you in the delivery room.”

“Matthew!”

“Those stirrups will come in handy. I’ll be hunkered down there with my mouth between your legs.”

“Oh God,” I laughed. “Please shut up! You’re so sick!”

“You made me that way. You’re the one who did this to me and you know it. I was doomed the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Yes, we spent many fun, wonderful afternoons shopping and preparing for our lives to really, really change. We fixed up a nursery for our soon-to-be-born baby on the top floor of the house, the longest possible distance from the basement where we played, for obvious reasons.

In the early hours of New Years Day a little over a year and three months since we’d met, we had a healthy, darling baby boy. He had light blue eyes and red curly locks of hair, and we named our beautiful baby Keats.

Epilogue

His deep voice whispered over the monitor. “Little Lucy, I’m coming for you.” I laughed. So he’d successfully gotten Keats to bed. I was in the basement room, kneeling by the sofa. A moment later he was there at the door.

“Did you hear me?”

I nodded with a smile. It was a little ritual we used to test the monitors each night. A whispered message to whoever waited below, more provocative some nights than others.

He came to the sofa shedding his clothes. He looked down at me, taking control without words. As always, I gave myself over to him easily and thankfully. He sat in front of me, spreading his legs and guiding my mouth to his . I sucked him. He pinched my s each time he wanted something different, for me to lick his balls, or rim his . I stroked my lover and my husband all over, and he came on my lips and on my tongue.

“Beautiful little whore. Savor it. Swallow it all.”

I did, with grateful exuberance. He watched me, then pulled me over his lap. He started to spank me and I moaned from the pleasure of the contact. I squeezed and kissed his leg, and then I nibbled.

“No biting, Lucy,” he said with an especially sharp crack.

I jerked under the harsh sting of it and he gripped my arm more firmly behind my back. He spanked me soundly and I reveled in it. No matter how many times he did it, I still wanted more.

When my was deep pink and burning, he stood me up and walked me to the center of the room.

“Stay,” he said, and I complied, although I shifted a little from one leg to the other, trying to cope with the discomfort of my reddened and the increasing arousal in my and .

He looked at me sternly on his way back from the armoire.

“Behave yourself. Stand still.” Over his arm was a fine silk garter belt and some matching black stockings. I shuddered a little in delicious anticipation. It was going to be one of those nights.

He knelt at my feet and fit the garter belt to my waist, then laced it up in the back. He smoothed it down over my and my bottom, then picked up the first of the black stockings in his hands.

“Turn,” he told me, his voice low and raspy. I did, and pointed one toe. He gathered the stocking up with deft fingers and smoothed it up my leg with a delicate touch that belied his strength. He carefully hooked it in the front and the back, working the tiny garter clasps with a skill born of practice.

“Your other foot.” He did the same, gathering the stocking up, pulling it up to the top of my thigh, and hooking the clasps. He held my foot in his hands, massaged it. “Point.” I obeyed. He caressed my pointed foot while I stood perfectly still. “I thought dancers were supposed to have ugly feet,” he said.

“I’m not a dancer anymore.”

“Of course you are. You always will be.” He picked up my other foot and I pointed it in his hands. He ran his fingers over the arch and across the top.

“How beautiful you are, Lucy.”

“Thank you, Matthew.”

His fingers moved up higher, splayed across my ankle and then up my shin. He shifted to crouch behind me until I could feel his hot, steady breath on the back of my thighs. With both hands he smoothed the back seams, running one finger up the center of each calf. I tried to stand still but I was so hot, so wet. I tried to stand still and be a good submissive to him.

I felt his mouth brush against my outer thigh, and then at the lacy sheer top of the stocking, he placed a kiss. He nibbled, softly biting the pale skin outlined by garters, and wherever he bit me, he licked and tasted me too.

“Down, lie down.” He pulled me down to the floor right there where I stood. He parted my thighs and licked above my stocking tops, and I flexed my thighs in that way I knew drove him wild.

“Your hands,” he growled, and I gave my hands to him. He grasped them tightly in his own.

His questing mouth settled between my legs, and the second he put his lips on me, I arched under him, the warm erotic sensation too much to bear.

“Lucy,” he chided. “Be a good girl. Don’t you come yet. I’ll punish you if you come.” I shook my head and gritted my teeth as he laved me. Lick, caress, nibble. Each point of contact sent lust through every teeming nerve. He went on and on, teasing me to insanity.

“Matthew, please!”

“No.” His deep voice vibrated against my . He nipped me softly, thrusting his fingers inside me.

“Please, Matthew, please, you’re going to make me come!”

“I said no,” he growled, feigning impatience. “You obey me or you’re going to pay.” I felt him smile against my as he closed his teeth on it and very intentionally sent me over the edge. I came with a howl, shaking and bucking. He licked me hard across my entire aching slit, then looked up at me with a devilish grin.

“You’re so naughty, such a naughty girl. I don’t think you’ll ever learn.” He hauled me up, looking down at me masterfully, then kissed me long and hard so I tasted myself on his lips. He ran his rough hands over my bottom, squeezing and pinching it.

“You’ve already had one spanking tonight. You’re going to be sore.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry I came without permission.”

“I know you’re sorry, but my rules are very clear.”

I loved this man. He hauled me to the armoire and I stood beside him and watched him choose which instrument to punish me with. He chose the thick leather strap that really smarted.

“Over to the wall, Lucy. You know what to do.”

I went to the wall and put my hands on it, and rested my forehead against it. I thrust out my just the way he liked me to, and he tapped it lightly with the strap.

“Part your legs.” I did, but not very wide. He popped me then. “More. Don’t around.” With a sharp yelp I parted them wider. “I’m sorry, Matthew!”

“Hush. Just stop dawdling, it annoys me. Spread your legs and stick your lovely little out to me. You know by now how this works.”

I did as he asked, my trembling legs spread wide, my ready to accept whatever punishment he wanted to mete out. That night, he was in a mood to beat me hard, and he landed some good ones that had me hopping up on my toes.

“Keep your legs spread. Stand still or I’ll add more strokes.” I whined because it was a really hard strapping, but I tried to resume the position he liked, that had me spread wide and open to him. My hands clenched into fists against the wall as I counted each stroke and struggled not to reach back.

“Don’t you dare take your hands off that wall,” he said. “If you cover yourself, you’ll be a very sorry girl.”

“Yes, sir,” I moaned. My was on fire. The leather strap was thick and it hurt like hell. I ended up getting an extra five for fidgeting. By the time he finished, I was wailing and tearful, but I was wet too, and ready for him.

Until he told me to do otherwise, I held the position. I wanted to press my legs together to ease the throbbing in my , but I didn’t dare, and he chuckled, knowing exactly what I felt.

“You horny little cum whore. You’re supposed to be feeling punished.”

“I do feel punished.”

He smacked my with the strap. “Don’t contradict me, Lucy. Watch your tone.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said with all the submissive deference I could muster in my current state of quivering lust.

He stood behind me, close behind me, and I waited for his instructions. I hoped they were the basely ***ual kind.

“What do you want?” he asked.

I answered him honestly. “I want to come.”

“You like when I redden your naughty little bottom?”

My pulsed with each word he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re such a dirty little slut, aren’t you? I bet you’d like me to plug your and then you until you scream.”

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All I could do by that point was make a little strangling sound. He crossed to the armoire and returned with some lube and a toy. He lubed my while I braced myself against the wall, trying to stand still. He pressed the toy against my tight hole and I felt it invade me. It was a big one, but by then I’d been well trained. I pressed back against it, opening to its girth. I let it slide into me, long and hard and thick. I may have moaned softly when he rubbed the small of my back.

“Good girl. I bet you love how that feels.”

He turned me, his big hands on my waist, and I looked up at him, my eyes glazed over with need. He smiled down at me as he lifted me, braced me against the wall, and settled me down on his .

I groaned in my throat from the wicked sensation, his huge filling me, rubbing against the toy in my . He pressed against me, pressed me right to the wall, and his hard chest and abs were like steel against my skin. I wrapped my legs around his and arched against him. He drove in me over and over, all the way to the hilt.

For a while, he held my hands behind my back, but at the end he let them go, and I wrapped them tightly around his neck. I was filled with him, filled with love for him, filled with thankfulness for his care and his mastery.

“Come for me, Lucy,” he urged me.

With a stifled cry of joy, I obeyed.

THE END

Look for this title in a paperback e***ion on Amazon and other online bookselling outlets starting in December of 2010.

About the Author

Annabel Joseph writes emotionally intense stories about the romance of dominance and submission. You can learn more about her books, read reviews, and find contact information at http://annabeljoseph.wordpress.com.

An Excerpt from

CLUB MEPHISTO by ANNABEL JOSEPH

Copyright 2010 Annabel Joseph

Publisher's Note

This book depicts "total power exchange" relationships that some readers may find objectionable. This work contains acts of objectification, orgasm denial and speech restriction, caging, anal play and double penetration, BDSM punishment and discipline, M/m/f, M/m, orgy and group ***ual encounters, voyeurism, and limited circumstances of dubious consent. This work and its contents for the sole purpose of fantasy and enjoyment, and not meant to advance or typify any of the activities therein.

Please exercise caution in entering into or attempting to imitate any extreme BDSM

relationships.

Molly

Molly lay on the cot on a cool vinyl sheet, looking up at the slight, stern-faced woman above her. Ms. Bobo scared her. She felt one freezing cold hand on her thigh and braced herself.

Rrriip.

Owww! Ow! Molly managed not to cry out. She didn't cry out much anymore, not from something so mild as getting her waxed. Ms. Bobo came to her Master's house every two weeks and waxed Molly bare whether she needed it or not. Master was a stickler for personal appearance, and Molly was not permitted to wear clothes, so no part of her appearance could be let go in any way.

Another glob of hot wax was dropped between her legs, spread around perfunctorily by the silent, elderly Asian woman. At one time Molly used to try to converse with her, but she didn't try anymore since Ms. Bobo ignored her soundly and never answered back. Molly thought perhaps Ms. Bobo did not speak English, but it was much more likely that her Master had instructed Ms. Bobo not to speak to her.

Her Master was the type of man who could get people to do anything he asked. Or demanded. Her Master was a very rich and very intelligent man. That was what drew Molly to him in the first place—his wise eyes and the way he seemed to know exactly what to do in any situation. She had fallen deeply in love with her Master nearly from the start, and she believed he loved her. He married her in a very large and ostentatious wedding attended by important Chicago businessmen, congressmen, and people of note. That was their vanilla relationship, the relationship that existed outside the web of daily life they moved in. Their other relationship was more private. Total power exchange. TPE. Her Master had spoken with her about it before they wed, and she had agreed, yes, yes. She loved him. She would do anything to make him happy, because he made her the happiest woman on earth. Their wedding portraits were in the unused study in the east wing, where they often met family. It was one of the vanilla rooms. She was not his slave in that room. She stood beside him and greeted visitors and guests in that and a few other rooms which were designated as "strictly vanilla."

She hated those rooms.

Rrriip.

Molly stared up past Ms. Bobo, remembering her wedding day. She had enjoyed the ceremony, as well as the celebration afterward that had gone on all night. But she'd loved the honeymoon most of all, when he had snapped on her eternity collar. It was the type of metal collar that had to be cut off to be removed.

Those photos from the wedding were strange to her. The fancy white dress instead of the ness she naturally moved in now. And no collar around her neck, not the slim metal seamless collar or any of the thicker leather collars he sometimes used to restrain her. In the wedding photos they stood side by side, a couple. Well, not exactly side by side. He was taller and so she was looking up at him, at his thick, wavy blond hair and golden skin. She was the pale, dark-haired girl beside him, fallen into a dream. Even as the photographer had posed them and taken the photos, Molly knew it was false. Playacting. She ought to have been kneeling, and collared, at his feet.

Ms. Bobo made a grunting sound and gesture that Molly knew now meant to turn over.

She got on all fours and spread her legs, arching her back. At one time this had embarrassed her, but now it just meant the bikini wax was nearly over. Ms. Bobo spread her cheeks with her gloved hands—quick, businesslike handling. A dab of petroleum jelly on her anus and more hot wax spread between her cheeks. Molly hated the feeling of the hot sticky wax more than the actual pain of the hair removal. That was quickly over, like a massive bandage being ripped off.

But when the wax was hot, being spread on her, she knew the pain was still coming, and she hated waiting for pain.

Rrriip. Ouch.

Ms. Bobo packed up her kit and left with the same scowl she'd arrived with. While Molly showered off, Ms. Bobo would go out to Master's office where Mrs. Jernigan would pay her and schedule her next appointment. Mrs. Jernigan and Ms. Bobo were equally frownish most days.

When Molly saw them together, she would steel herself against laughing at their battle of scowls.

Unlike Ms. Bobo, Mrs. Jernigan spoke to Molly, but it was generally to give directions and relay Master's orders. Mrs. Jernigan was Master's eyes and ears while he was away. She was also his housekeeper and general istant. There was a chef too, to whom Molly was forbidden to speak, but Molly was never permitted in the kitchen so she couldn't have spoken to him anyway. She didn't even know what he looked like, only that she ate the food he prepared, and that it was very delicious. Well, mostly it was delicious. Sometimes, if Molly was being punished, the chef was asked to make her bland, tasteless things.

"Girl!" Mrs. Jernigan's Irish-inflected voice rose above the noise of the shower. Molly shut off the water and toweled off.

"I'm coming, Mrs. Jernigan!"

Molly was given dinner earlier in the day so that when Master arrived home she could focus all her attention on her service to him. Molly put soothing lotion on her tender, waxed mons, hoping the redness would dissipate before Master arrived and wanted to use her. She was careful not to touch herself in any way Master might find inappropriate. Her *** belonged to him and she was not allowed to touch it on her own. Sometimes it was difficult, because the slightest thoughts of Master could send her slit into overdrive, but there were only a handful of times, mostly in the beginning, that she had been unable to resist the urge to masturbate. Her stolen touches and had resulted in such agonizing and humiliating whippings she quickly realized the pleasure was simply not worth the pain. But perhaps tonight Master would give her an orgasm...

"Girl!" Mrs. Jernigan yelled again. For a tiny Irish woman, she could really yell loud.

Molly took one last look at her figure and her shining collar and hurried to the dining room. She stopped just outside the door and stepped on the scale under Mrs. Jernigan's scrutinizing eye, then raised her arms for Mrs. Jernigan to measure her waist and with a tape measure. Master required a certain weight and if she went over it, or her waist or exceeded the parameters he set, Molly didn't eat. It was more or less a formality, since Master also controlled how much she ate, what she ate, and how often she exercised. In five years of marriage, Molly had never missed a meal except for behavioral issues. But she enjoyed submitting to the ritual, because it underlined the fact that her body belonged to him.

"Go on, girl." Mrs. Jernigan nodded her into the dining room where Molly found a place set, as usual, for one. She sat and ate slowly, with refinement, the way he preferred, even though he wasn't there to see. She loved being able to follow his many protocols even when he wasn't there, as it made her feel closer to him in his absence. Before Master, she had been so scatterbrained, so reckless. She had lived dangerously and once had almost died. She didn't like to think of those times, and how lost she'd been. She...

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Frozen her. He had watched her that night, and she'd begun to preen under his steady regard.

How self-centered she'd been back then.

He'd come back again the following night, and this time he'd asked her to go out on a date. The way he'd asked had startled her. "Would you honor me by accompanying me to dinner?

I'd like to get to know you better." She had stammered out an immediate agreement, impressed by his handsome looks as much as his impeccable manners. Back then, men didn't treat her with much respect, but then, she probably hadn't deserved it.

But Master had made her feel as if she deserved it. He took her out several times before they began to play. She loved the bondage and his creative approach to ***. Soon he was explaining things to her like protocols and total power exchange dynamics. She hadn't realized how much she wanted strict control and limits until he started to impose them on her. She had curled into his increasingly rigid restrictions like a newborn baby into a blanket. She had felt reborn. She still felt reborn each time his gaze fell on her in desire or approval. When dinner hour arrived, she knew it would usually only be a couple more hours before he returned home.

When she was nearly finished eating, Mrs. Jernigan burst into the dining room in alarm.

"He's here! Your Master is home early—"

Before Mrs. Jernigan even finished, Molly was flying. She paused just a millisecond to scan her face in the mirror, checking her teeth for broccoli and scrutinizing her lipstick to be sure none had worn off. With a couple token tugs at her long, dark curls, she flew to the foyer and took up her kneeling stance at the entryway just as the lock turned in the door. She bowed her head, kneeling straight, her hands folded in her lap and her thighs slightly parted.

Master is home. Now I can be who I am.

Master

As always, she saw only his shoes first, his lovely shiny leather loafers, and the bottom of his crisply tailored and starched pants. She always fought not to look up. She had been trained to let him acknowledge her when and if he wished it. He almost always acknowledged her, but she was trained to wait.

Mrs. Jernigan took his briefcase and coat as always and bustled away with them. He reached down then and placed two gentle fingers on the side of her face. She suppressed the sigh of joy, the shiver that threatened to shake her each time he did this. His fingers trailed lower, beneath her chin, and tilted her face up. She stared at her Master—tall, blond, with blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence and challenge. She couldn't suppress an ecstatic grin.

"Lovely girl." His lips twisted into a teasing smile of pleasure. "Did you miss me?"

"Yes, Master! Oh, I missed you so much. Welcome home."

"How was your day?"

Molly told him an abbreviated version—which books she'd read, when she'd exercised, when she'd rested, when Ms. Bobo had come by. He listened with absorption. These were her moments, the moments he unselfishly gave her each day before he demanded she give herself over to his needs. She basked in his full attention, pouring all the appreciation and excitement she felt into her words because she knew it would please him.

When she finished, he lifted her to her feet as always and gave her a deep kiss full of promise. She pressed against his broad, firm chest, breathing in his masculine cologne and the fresh scent of his fine clothing. His fingers twisted in her hair, making her entire body tingle. Her skin felt alive wherever she touched him even though he was still fully dressed. Only then, after the kiss, was she able to focus again on her task of serving him. She peered up into his ice blue eyes silently, awaiting his next command, whether it was sending her for a whiskey, or for a whip.

"My pet, you are in high spirits today," he said fondly. "Come into the living room."

She trailed behind him to the adjacent space, a large, airy room with a huge window-wall that afforded spectacular views of the Chicago city skyline. Molly always found the staid lines and neutral tones of the room soothing, and sat there many hours just looking out at the view.

But not now. Now she was focused completely on her Master. He sat back in one of the club chairs near the fireplace, beckoning her forward with a casual gesture she knew well. She went to him and knelt between his outstretched legs. She loosed his waistband's button with careful, patient attention, not wanting to jostle or jerk at his clothing. She drew down the zipper and released his hardening member from the fly of his silk boxer shorts. He sank back with a sigh, letting her attend him.

Her Master's was truly wonderful, and it was no problem for her to worship and service it for hours on end. It was the perfect length and thickness—it choked her a little when he thrust in her mouth, and it stretched her a little whenever he entered her, but it was a thrilling stretch, not the painful kind. More than that, his represented, for her, her Master's awesome power and masculinity. She licked up and down the hard, swollen shaft, teasing the bulbous crown before bowing her head to lick around the base. She caressed his balls as she did, taking him deeper, deeper... He made soft lust sounds that thrilled her, his hands roving lazily over her hair, down to her shoulders, then down lower to squeeze and pinch her sensitive s. She made sounds too, hums and small moans of pleasure she simply couldn't contain.

He was clearly in as high of spirits as she was. It wasn't long before he leaned forward, grasping the sides of her head and taking her mouth in violent strokes that culminated in a pulsing orgasm in her throat. She stayed still, tasting his hot cum, swallowing it down and licking up the very last drops from the tip of his .

"Good girl," he said, tilting her chin up with a smile. "Go and tell Mrs. Jernigan that I will take dinner early tonight. We'll be going to Club Mephisto at ten."

* * * * *

Molly knelt beside him as he ate, in case he should need anything. He was looking over some papers connected to his work. She wasn't sure about the extent of his wealth or what he actually did all day as the owner of a prominent Chicago real estate firm. She just knew he was very successful at what he did. He had a real life name, Clayton, which she also loved, although she couldn't imagine ever calling him Clayton. She had called him Mr. Copeland while they were dating, and Master before they were even officially wed. His male friends called him Clayton when they came over and Molly dressed in unfamiliar clothing to act as Master's vanilla wife.

Some of his friends called him Clayton at the club too.

Club Mephisto. Master's favorite club, and the club where they'd met.

Master took Molly to the club on a fairly regular basis, perhaps once a month. Sometimes they didn't go for two or three months if Master was especially busy, and Molly would feel disappointed. It wasn't only that she didn't get out of the house much. To be honest, it was also because of Mephisto himself.

Mephisto was the owner of the private BDSM club Master preferred over all the others in Chicago. Since a couple years ago, Club Mephisto was the only place they went. Mephisto's clientele was hand-selected and thoughtfully chosen. It was Mephisto himself who had invited Molly to work at his club when he'd seen her, drunk and wild, dancing atop a table at a mainstream bar in Weed Street. She had shown up nervous and curious, and been put to work behind the bar in the dark, ****rnous play space. She had been given a white collar symbolizing Mephisto's protection. What she saw...the scenes, the ***, the power exchange...changed her life.

But she had never been Mephisto's girl. Mephisto was no one's, and no one ever belonged to him. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that everyone belonged to him in the intimate, decadent world he created. It was Mephisto who had paired up Molly with her Master. He had somehow engineered magic, knowing they were a likely match. It was what he was famous for, and why people always came back. It was why people in the lifestyle all wanted to find a way into Mephisto's private enclave. Mephisto created *** magic, and mind-blowing scenes of power exchange. Molly was not immune to his spell, although she hid her fascination as well as she was able. She didn't want Master to stop going because Molly had an inappropriate curiosity about Mephisto. Anyway, everyone did, not just her, so Molly tried not to feel too guilty about it.

"Girl? Did you hear me?"

Molly snapped back to attention, flushing red. "Please forgive me, Master. I was...not attending."

He gave her an arch look. "Coffee. And the clamps, if you are having trouble staying focused tonight."

"Yes, Master."

Molly stood and went to let Mrs. Jernigan know that Master was ready for after-dinner coffee, and then went to fetch the clamps from the unobtrusive stash of toys in the living room. It was no less than she deserved. How could she be daydreaming about Mephisto rather than paying attention to Master? Molly knelt before him as she returned, offering her s to him as she handed over the clamps. He pulled each hard before he closed the biting teeth down on tender flesh. Molly tensed at the excruciating pain, but kept her cries of discomfort inside. You deserve this. You deserve this. Focus. Mrs. Jernigan came in to deliver Master's cappuccino just as he was clamping the second...

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Master thanked Mrs. Jernigan in a cordial tone, then yanked the silver chain between Molly's s.

"Were you daydreaming, Molly?" he asked.

He was not truly angry, only slightly annoyed, to her relief. She nodded and answered,

"Yes, Master. I'm so sorry and I beg your forgiveness."

"What were you daydreaming about?"

She paused but a second. "Club Mephisto, Master." Well, that was true. She was contemplating the club, in ad***ion to the club's owner. But the words felt dry in her mouth. She knew them for a lie, a dissemblance. She concentrated on the dull, throbbing pain in her s.

You deserve this. You deserve worse.

Master sipped his coffee in a silence a few minutes, flicking the chain every so often to draw a gasp of pain from her. She focused all her attention on him, trying to make up for her earlier gaffe. At last he pushed back in his chair, but did not stand.

"I have news for you, girl. I have been called away for next week. Business. A last minute thing. I was a bit at ends trying to think what to do with you. It's fine to leave you with Mrs. Jernigan of course, but I think you get restless."

Molly felt devastated, cold-****ed. Going away for a week? That was so long to be without him. And it was true. She hated being alone with no interaction or affection, just trapped in Master's home with cold, reserved Mrs. Jernigan. She gazed up at him, letting her sadness show in her eyes. The pain of the clamps, which had given her a place of focus just moments ago, was now overshot by a much more encompassing pain that ached in her heart.

"Now, girl. It's only a week," her Master chided. "You look as if I just killed your puppy.

I actually made some calls from the office and hit on a viable arrangement, which is why I came home early."

"An...an arrangement, Master?"

"Yes, I've arranged for someone else, another Master I trust, to watch over you and put you through your paces while I'm gone. That way I know you're occupied and behaving yourself, and you needn't sit around here doing nothing with Mrs. Jernigan. Furthermore, now she can take a short vacation, which is long overdue."

"Oh, Master. You are so smart to think of that." She wanted to ask " who, who, who? " but that would have been a terrible breach of decorum, so she waited patiently for him to tell her who he'd chosen. She knew he would only choose someone very trustworthy and capable, and so she wasn't worried at the idea of being given into someone else's hands, only curious as to whom she'd be given to. It was certainly someone they knew from the club, since they were going there later. The idea of him making the effort to actually arrange such plans for her in his absence touched her deeply.

She gazed up at him. "I love you so much, Master. I appreciate it so much." Her trembling fingers reached out to graze his calf, the wonder of a mortal touching a God. "Dear Master. I cannot explain how much your care and concern mean to me." Her voice wobbled on the last word.

"Now there, girl. You know how I feel about you getting overemotional."

"Yes, Master," she whispered, reining in her tears. He reached out to toy with her hair, a light lazy touch that quieted her.

"At any rate, you may not be so grateful later. Mephisto is an exacting Master. Much more so than I. I coddle you shamelessly."

Mephisto? He was giving her to Mephisto? The warm fuzzy feelings of the moment before disappeared as her heart began to race. Her pulse pounded loud in her ears. Mephisto? For all her fascination with him, he frightened her. She shivered a little, trying to contain herself. Her Master watched for signs of reaction, and drew her closer when he saw what must have been her obvious signs of distress. He tugged her forward with the chain until she was hunched against him, her cheek resting on his thigh.

"Are you so afraid, pet?" he murmured. "I believe this could be a good experience for you. Something outside your quiet domestic existence with your old, settled Master."

Molly looked up in protest. "Oh, Master! You are not old. Please don't say such a thing!

You are terribly handsome and ***y and youthful—"

He chuckled and placed a finger over her lips. "I am twenty years older than you, which you very well know. Forty-eight is not so old, but old enough."

She held onto his leg, awash in a jumble of complex feelings. Fear, confusion.

Nervousness. Shame that the idea of serving Mephisto excited her, and sadness that her Master would be gone.

"It's only a week," he said again. "I think he could give you a lot of good experiences that will help you grow and deepen in your submission."

"You are my Master," she whispered against his knee. "I could never reject any treatment or training you chose for me. If you wish me to go with Mephisto—"

"I do wish it," he said lightly, with an ironic smile. "And you needn't torment yourself with guilt. I know there is attraction between you. I know that you desire Mephisto."

"Master..." She shifted in dismay. "I...I..."

"I am not angry with you. I am only stating facts. I have seen you steal looks at Mephisto at the club, and I've seen you two interacting. You are only human, as am I. You are a vibrant, ***ually alluring woman. I am not so deluded as to believe I am the only man on earth who interests you. In fact, if I were, I would be quite alarmed."

She shook her head, unbalanced by the sudden turn in the conversation. Her Master was always blunt with her, but in this case, his words deeply shocked her. Had he truly known her feelings toward Mephisto?

"Master," she said with gravity. "I am yours. I love you so deeply. With Mephisto—"

She stopped and peered up at him, seeking permission to speak openly. He gave a small nod.

"With Mephisto, it is a...a curiosity only. He is a mystery. That's all it is, the interest I feel. But I could never... I would never..."

"I certainly do not fear you will leave me for Master Mephisto. If anything, I hope your girlish imaginations and daydreams are not disappointed in the reality of life under his hand."

"He could never live up to you," she said, her eyes wide and emphatic. "My life with you is perfect."

"We do get on, don't we?" he said with tenderness. "I'll miss you while I'm away."

"I'll miss you terribly, Master. Truly, I will."

"It's my hope that Mephisto will keep you too occupied to miss me," he said in a dire tone that awakened a tiny frisson of dread amid all the excitement and confusion she felt. He must have noticed her small shiver.

"Don't fear, girl. I've informed Mephisto of your—and my—limits regarding your person.

You will not be harmed beyond the boundaries you're already accustomed to. But I believe Mephisto to be a more...intense type than myself. In more ways than one."

"Oh." She wasn't sure what he meant by that, but she knew without a doubt he would never put her in an unsafe or damaging situation. It was one of the reasons she adored him so much.

Her Master settled her back away from him with a sigh. "At any rate, it will be an adventure for you. While I will miss you, I actually enjoy expanding your horizons and indulging your fantasies, to a point. I hope to receive you back much refreshed and hopefully improved by the experience."

"I sincerely hope you will find me improved, Master."

"At the very least, you won't have gone to pieces like the last time I left you for a week's time."

She blushed. Last time he'd left her to her own devices for a week, she found herself coming apart at the seams by the fourth hour. Something about the predictability and calmness of service fulfilled her. Without her Master's limits and requirements, life became hectic for her.

Overwhelming. By now, after three years of serving him, she was a creature bred to control. Her Master was truly merciful to give her over to Mephisto. It was safekeeping, of sorts. She felt terribly emotional, and terribly eager to show him how grateful she was for his caring ownership of her. She hoped he would allow her to show him how much she appreciated him. She hoped he would take her to bed and let her give him pleasure, but she didn't dare suggest it. She sat quietly at his knee as she'd been trained. She waited to see if he would send her to Mrs. Jernigan for a whiskey. She knew that when he didn't take a drink after dinner, it often meant he intended to bed her.

She tried to make no outward sign of hope or craving—or worse, impatience—but part of her ached to throw herself at his feet and beg him to take her. She loved her Master's . She loved his hands on her, his mouth and his teeth and his thick shaft parting her and thrusting inside. Her service to him prevented her giving in to those impulses. She had long ago learned to hold her desires and wants silent like a secret in her heart, and wait to hear what he wanted. She lived to fulfill his needs. His collar was the reminder of her status and her purpose. At times like these, when she worked hard to control herself, she focused on the rigid caress of the metal band around her neck and found that submission came...

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At last, her patience was answered. He drew back from the table, grasped the chain between her s, and pulled her behind him to the bedroom.

* * * * *

He was rather tender with her, because he was leaving, she supposed. He pulled her close and caressed her as she undressed him with trembling fingers. I want...I want...I want... As hard as she tried, she still couldn't silence her wants and will completely. She had a feeling her Master didn't really wish her to. He took his time, having already ed in her mouth just before dinner. He toyed with her, stroking and fondling her in silence as she stood attentive before him in just the posture he liked. He took off her clamps, which he never left on too long for fear of injuring her sensitive tissue. She held her breath and shuddered as the intense rush of blood flooded her previously numbed s. He smiled knowingly at her. She understood that her suffering gave him pleasure, and that this involved no malice or menace on his part. It was simply the type of play that excited him.

He wanted more such play, which Molly expected. He made her bend over the curved oak footboard and cuffed her hands at the small of her back. He got the whip he favored, a short black implement that hurt terribly, like stripes of fire, and left pretty welts. He held the cuffs hard so she couldn't squirm or escape him. She still often tried to get away, to her shame. Master told her he didn't mind it, that he liked when she tried to evade him, because it showed that she didn't enjoy what he did to her. Molly still wished she could be still and stoic just to show how much she wanted to please him, and how much pain she was willing to take to make him glad. In her heart she was willing to take any pain for her Master. But in reality, the whip made her mind go blank and her body start to panic.

She buried her face in the bedding as the first blow fell, and another and another, hot, aching fire that made a helpless keening rise in her chest. Another blow, even harder. Her legs collapsed and he caught her with a whistling crack inside the thigh as a warning. She straightened her legs again, sobbing and snuffling, offering her for more punishment. Again, and again the whip fell across her hindquarters. She cried at each fresh blooming of pain, her hands struggling against him where he held the cuffs tight. No....no...please Master!

She thought the words over and over in her head, although she didn't say them out loud.

To have done so would have been pointless. She jerked and sobbed as two more strokes fell. Her cheeks clenched and her tried in vain to twist away. And then...reprieve. She lay still, shuddering and tense, her cheeks aflame with throbbing pain. Her Master put the whip back in its place on the nightstand and delivered a series of stinging slaps to her welted and punished bottom. She was so relieved that he was done with the whip that the blows barely registered. She pressed her against the edge of the hard footboard, squeezing her legs together as she often did to ease the horrible ache.

Her Master tsked and spanked her again so she yelped and desisted. "Stand up, girl."

She stood and faced him, her face wet with tears. He ran his thumbs across her damp cheeks and gave her an essing look. "Master Mephisto will not let your hungry little rule him anymore than I do, you know."

She felt ashamed. She had no control over her libido sometimes, a fact that both amused and exasperated her Master.

"I'm...I'm sorry—"

Her voice cut off as he took her chin hard in his hands.

"I am afraid this is another area where I'm entirely too soft on you. You shouldn't be allowed any relief after that kind of brazen display, but I'm quite certain I won't be able to leave you without seeing you coming in that charming way you have. But know this—Mephisto is not so indulgent in this area. I have told him he should not be so with you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"This is one area where I would like to see you learn a little more control. Good slaves should not try to pleasure themselves against the headboard unless Master commands it. Isn't that true?"

"Yes, Master," Molly whispered. "I...I try to control it...it is only that you...I...you..."

"Oh, I understand. It's my fault," he said in a dry, dire tone.

"No, Master! I mean...yes... I mean, the cause of my...lack of control is—"

"My irresistible animal ***uality?"

"Master." She said the only thing she could say without pouring out everything else she was thinking. But he surely heard it in that one word. Master, take me. Master, me. Please, Master, you must understand how uncontrollably horny you make me feel.

His lips quirked up at the edges, and she stared at the beloved face, the masterful visage that filled her dreams. The broad cheekbones, the aristocratic nose. The deep blue eyes beneath brows so light blond you could barely see the gray. He bent her over the bed again, still cuffed, still sore from the whip, and positioned his at her copiously slick entrance.

"My horny little pet," he sighed. "Always wet for Master. That pleases me." He grabbed her sore, welted flesh with rough fingers and pulled her back against him. She gasped in breathless anticipation as his thick parted her flesh, entering in a long slow slide that sent electric shocks of pleasure down every nerve. Before he'd even entered her completely, she was shaking in the throes of her release. He didn't stop, only gave a soft chuckle. "So poorly trained, and yet so delicious at the same time."

He continued to her and she gave herself up to the sensations and scents of lovemaking. Her s were still tender, dragged across the cotton coverlet of his bed as he thrust into her from behind, so the smooth linens felt like rough sandpaper. She felt the hair of his thighs scraping the sensitive welts of her bottom, and the press of his elegant fingers against her and waist. He pulled away, leaving her empty. He swiped some of the copious moisture from her and slid it over her hole with his thumb. She braced and arched her back, opening for him. His hurt as he parted her cheeks, but he didn't stop and she didn't even consider fighting him. The head of his pressed in and she closed her teeth on the coverlet beneath her, trying to endure the sharp ache without making any movements to elude him.

"Oh, Master," she whimpered. He made a soothing noise and leaned down with a hand on either side of her head, and slid inside her all the way to the hilt. There was still pain until he seated himself, and then her body relaxed, finally resigning itself to his invasion. He bumped against her, lifting her toes from the floor as used her tight hole for his pleasure. The pain mixed with pleasure at the intimacy of the act, and his mastery over her. The silence of his bedroom was broken only by his gasps and grunts, but then she heard a desperate whine and realized it was coming from her. She twisted her , wanting more, and he ed her harder, grinding against her so her pelvis was pressed against the edge of the bed. He took her in his hands then and slowed.

" Ohhh... " She loved her Master so much. Every inch of his thick member sliding into her was like a gift. He eased in and then out, holding her tight, burying himself inside with as much deliberation as he used to withdraw. He used his thumbs to spread her cheeks again and she knew he was looking at her hole as he plunged in and out of it. She wanted to look too, to admire the intimate joining, but it wasn't her place. She was glad Ms. Bobo had come that afternoon so her body was slick and free of hair for his pleasure. She wanted to come again and she whined, feeling ashamed, but also wished for him to understand how much he aroused her.

"What a good girl you are," he said, stroking her sphincter where it stretched around his . The sensation made drumbeats throb in her belly. Shame, excitement, arousal like liquid fire. "Master loves ing your hole. Now I want you to come for me. I want to feel your ring clamping on my ."

"Yes, Master," she gasped. "I want to come for you."

She clenched around his , grinding against the bed, feeling like his toy, his creature. I want to please you. I love you. The fullness in her and the swirling, building sensation in her engorged combined into an overwhelming race to completion. She let go, her arms flailing to be released from their bonds, her whole body bucking with the aftermath of her orgasm. As she came, she heard his groan of satisfaction. He pulled out and shot hot streams of cum over her back and cheeks. She lay still as he grasped her hands in one hand and rubbed the cum into her skin with the other. The slow possessiveness of his touch enhanced her feelings of exhausted satisfaction.

"Oh, Master," she whispered. "I love you. Thank you for giving me your cum. It feels so warm against my skin."

"I love you too," he said. "I love marking you this way. I really will miss you." The wistfulness in his voice made her heart start aching again and nearly brought her to tears. But Master had told her not to cry. She wanted to be a good girl for him.

He finally released her arms from their cuffs and then ordered her to dress for the club.

Club Mephisto

He told Mrs. Jernigan to dress her in the dark blue velvet coat. Molly was happy because it was one of her favorites. It was closely fitted up top, with large tortoiseshell buttons, and flared into a skirt-like silhouette...

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She buttoned up until they were in Master's car. There was no luggage to bring for her week-long sojourn at the club, only the coat she wore—which she would give up—and his collar, which she would die to keep fastened around her neck. As he got in the driver's seat and closed the door, she couldn't restrain a shudder. He would be gone for a week without her. He touched her knee and smiled sympathetically.

"You'll be kept busy, little one. The time will go fast."

"I hope so, Master."

"Unbutton yourself," he prompted.

Master's sedan had tinted windows, so when Molly traveled in her coat, he enjoyed having her unfasten and open the coat wide for his pleasure. She undid the tortoiseshell buttons and slid a hand down each side of the lapels so the coat revealed all of her front.

"Open your legs."

She complied, and his fingers slid roughly between her lips and then up to pinch each hard . She felt the flood of wetness between her thighs, her body's reaction to the casually possessive way he handled her. She opened her thighs a little wider for his pleasure, wishing she could slide her own hand down there over her freshly waxed lips to the aching nub that probably even now glistened with lust for him. Her cheeks still smarted even cushioned by the silk lining of the jacket. But she wouldn't fidget or shift, and she certainly wouldn't touch what was his. Her hands rested on either side of her, relaxed, slightly open. Whenever they stopped at a light, he would pinch her s, sometimes twisting them or even gripping the very edge of the taut peaks so she would have to bite back yelps of pain and mindless begging words. Ouch. Master! Please, that hurts so much. And still, the endless growing ache in her which made her want to beg for something else altogether.

By the time they pulled up at Club Mephisto, the silk lining of her jacket was soaked with her juices. Her Master made her scoot back and show him the darkened circle as she blushed red.

He just shook his head and made a deadpan comment about dry cleaning bills. She melted at his teasing smile and buttoned up before the valet arrived to take the car.

Soon they were inside Mephisto's enclave. A burly doorman welcomed her Master by name, and beckoned over a thin girl with black hair and geisha-style painted lips to take Molly's coat. It was a little chilly where they stood inside the door. She suppressed a shiver as a draft slid up between her thighs to freeze the wet warm sheen still coating her lips. Her Master also handed over his coat, so he wore only his finely tailored shirt and khaki pants. He rarely wore fetish gear—and in Molly's opinion, his business attire was much ***ier than leather and latex anyway. She knew other women thought so too, because she saw the way they watched her Master whenever he moved around the club. He was tall, over six feet, and muscular in the natural way of a man and not the showiness of a bouncer or bodybuilder. He moved with a confidence and stride that distinguished him as someone comfortable with power.

And then there was his handsome face, his commanding expressions. It was so effortless with him. He turned to her and she was already falling to her knees before he ordered her to.

Sometimes he let her walk, when the club was crowded, but today he wanted her to crawl beside him. Crawling was something she'd had to grow accustomed to, but she could do it now very gracefully and almost seductively. He took out a silver chain leash and hooked it to the ring on her collar, and then led her across the floor. Mephisto's was impeccably clean, and the common areas were carpeted with a deep dark gray shag that felt soft against her hands and knees. She often curled up at Master's feet on that shag carpet as he talked to other patrons or watched scenes in one of the surrounding play areas.

She knew to keep her attention on him, but a cursory glance revealed a few scenes in progress already. A sub surrendering to a hypnotic fire play session; a severe caning; an involved bondage scene in which a slave was being restrained over a padded horse and tormented with various sensations. Her Master led her past all the scenes and past the bar to a large table in the corner of the play space. Mephisto's office, more or less, where he met with prospective members and surveyed the goings-on as head dungeon master and owner. He rose from the massive oak table and extended his hand to her Master.

"Clayton. Good evening."

Her Master greeted the club owner effusively and Molly stole one of her usual fascinated glances at him. He was dressed in black—he was always in black. Today he wore a loose black cotton shirt and black jeans, and his thick dark hair was pulled back from his face in long dreadlocks. The effect was not disordered at all, but very striking. He was nearly as tall as her Master, but he was far more muscular. Even so, when he moved it was with a grace and quickness that seemed dangerous, not clumsy. Mephisto's eyes were dark, as black as his clothing. Perhaps they weren't black, but she'd never chanced to look directly at him out of the cowed submission he inspired in her. In most women, actually. So she umed they were black, for it seemed most fitting. His skin was dark bronze, mulatto cappuccino, deliciously set off by piercings in his nose and ears.

His eyes fell on her then and she shivered. He was studying her in a way that unsettled her. But then he smiled and reached to pat her head, a light touch of welcome.

"Ah, your lovely kitten,” he said to her Master. “She's looking as sleek and fine as ever."

She couldn't pretend to herself that his words didn't affect her, but hopefully she didn't give too much pleasure away. Mephisto turned and went to the table, gesturing for her Master to join him. Molly took her place on the floor at Master’s feet, sitting back on her knees and watching for any cues. But he was focused on Mephisto now, so she attended to their conversation.

With the low hum of trance music in the background, the men exchanged pleasantries and her Master told Mephisto a little about his trip and the work that necessitated it. Mephisto ordered drinks for them from the bar, and Master gave her some sips of water from his own glass. After a time, as their conversation moved on to happenings at the club and local lifestyle news, Molly's attention began to drift and her back started to ache from trying to sit up straight beside him. Her Master must have noticed her begin to struggle. He jerked on the leash and she straightened, but then he drew her head down into his lap and began to stroke her hair. She relaxed against his hard thigh, trying not to drool from the smell of him. She sometimes thought that, like a dog, she could smell her Master out from a roomful of imposters, just from the familiar scent of his skin and his clothes. She drifted in pleasure as his fingers rubbed her nape and trailed up into her scalp, parting her curly hair. I love you. I love you, Master.

Then she realized with a start that the conversation had turned to her. Her Master was explaining some of her routines and habits.

"Of course, for this week she is yours. Feel free to handle her as you wish, within the limits we talked about. I just wanted to give you a sense of what she's accustomed to."

"Certainly. That helps me. And just to reiterate, these are the limits we've outlined here."

She heard the faint rustling of papers. "No scarring or body modification, no unprotected ***.

What about withholding of food and water?"

"I'll leave that to you. I know you well and I trust you to act responsibly." He reached beneath the table with his other hand, caressing her cheek lightly. "She is my beloved, and my toy. My slave, but also my wife. I cannot expect you to treat her exactly as I do. Please enjoy her as you will until I return."

"And...in the event there is an accident with a condom?"

"She's been sterilized. No chance of a pregnancy, and her most recent STD tests are here.

Everything should be in order." More rustling paper. Molly felt embarrassed to be discussed so impersonally, but she knew these were the same questions she would want to know the answer to if she were put in charge of someone else's slave for a week.

Molly felt her Master's leg twitch slightly against her head. "If anything were to happen to her—just by chance, you understand—we see Dr. Preis up on Woodlawn. He has all her records and he knows her well."

"Don't worry, Clayton. I won't break your toy. I plan to keep her in my rooms most of the time, and even when I bring her out to share she'll be well-protected. As you know, my private parties are even more exclusive than my Club events. I am very careful about who I allow to use my slaves. Now, if you don't mind, may I address your slave for a moment? On her feet?"

"Certainly." Her Master yanked the collar gently and Molly pushed up off the floor out of obedience more than willingness. She stood beside the table as both men sat looking at her.

"Master Mephisto wishes to speak to you, Molly," her Master said.

Molly. He only called her Molly when they were vanilla, interacting as equals. She wanted to shrink into herself, but her Master pinched her thigh and ordered her to stand up straighter.

"Molly," Mephisto said with a smile. "I promised your Master to take good care of you this week with his permission, but I require consent from...

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She bit her lip, blushing. "Yes, Sir."

"Do you agree to act as my slave this week, giving me your complete trust and obedience?"

"Yes, Sir. If it pleases my Master."

Mephisto smiled at the man to his right, and Molly felt her Master's hand touch hers.

"Answer for yourself, Molly. Do you consent? Leave me out of it for the moment. He requires your permission."

She looked lost. "But Master! I don't want to leave you out of it."

Now Mephisto laughed and clapped her Master on the back. "Enough. That works for me. Clayton. I'm getting the sense that as long as you're willing, she's willing." He sobered and looked back at her. "What a very smitten slave you are. Your Master is fortunate."

She saw a look pass over her Master's face. She was very sensitive to his expressions and she got the feeling he found Mephisto's tone not completely to his liking. A moment later he rattled her leash and she thankfully sank back to her knees. She had a feeling her Master would leave soon. He doubtless had much to do to prepare for his trip and with her consent granted, there was not much left to do but surrender her into Mephisto's care. She pressed her cheek against his knee, huddled against his calf underneath the table. Fears and worries crowded her head. Where was he going? What if his plane crashed? What if there was a car accident?

What if he met another slave he liked more than her?

She bit her tongue to stop herself from pleading with him to stay, or to take her with him.

Why did he not just take her along? Because she might be a distraction. Because, perhaps, he needed a break from her sometimes. The true answer, of course, was that he did as he wished, and it was not her place to demand an explanation. He did not wish to take her on his trip. He wished her to serve Mephisto in his absence. She existed to fulfill his every wish. Her fingers clutched his calf, but she resigned herself to going with Mephisto willingly. She heard, with great dread, parting words. Final thanks to Mephisto, a rueful joke about how closely she'd adhered herself to his leg.

"Well then, she's yours," said her Master with a sigh. Not a sad sigh. She could tell his mind was already back on business. He'd made arrangements for her and now he was unencumbered by his slave and ready to go. She felt her leash passed over and a subtle tug from a new hand. "Bid your Master goodbye, kitten. You'll see him in a week."

"Now, no tears," her Master said as he leaned down to pull her into a hug. She breathed in against his neck, a deep gust of his scent to savor and keep until he was back again. "Your behavior will reflect on me. I want you to make me proud," he whispered against her ear.

"Yes, Master."

He rose and left, not looking behind him, although she watched him go as long as Mephisto would permit her. Eventually he tugged her leash again, a bit harder, and said, "Eyes on me."

She turned to him, not unwillingly, but she knew her sadness and grief still showed in her eyes. She saw a glimmer of sympathy, but not much. Then a resigned smile. "I don't think you'll be worth much tonight. We'll begin tomorrow, after you rest. But first..."

This time he reeled her in on the leash, wrapping it around his hand until she was crouched under the table between his legs. He handed down a condom, and she could not pretend to misunderstand what he wanted from her. He undid his fly as she unwrapped the condom. It was flavored, cherry or strawberry. He was only half-hard, so she fondled and kissed his phallus until it began to grow in her hands. His smell was not her Master's, but it was not unpleasant. His was smooth and his balls completely depilated, so unlike her Master's blond thatch. Once fully hard, Mephisto was thick and heavy in her palm.

In the darkness under the table she fumbled to roll the rubber down over the swollen head. He yanked the chain impatiently but she was not used to handling condoms. She went slowly, taking care to leave space at the tip the way her Master had taught her to do when he was sharing her with others. Thoughts of her Master ailed her again so it felt bittersweet when she took Mephisto in her mouth. How many times had she been curious about with him?

About the size of his and how it would feel inside her? It filled her mouth and she focused on her task, pleasuring him and fellating him. She did the best she could, impeded by the table top above her. Now and again he'd press on the back of her neck so she was pushed down on his solid length. Once she nearly gagged and choked, and thought she heard a chuckle above her.

A couple times people came by the table and Mephisto conversed with them. Whether or not they realized his was jammed down her throat, she didn't know and didn't really want to contemplate. As his pleasure grew, he seemed to expand to even greater dimensions and she started to feel exhausted. Licking, sucking, deep throating, pulling back to lick and suck his balls, and then back *****cking him again. She began to fantasize that he was her absent Master, and she served him with all the passion and desire she felt for him. Mephisto's legs tensed around her and he pushed her head down, down. She tensed her lips and held her breath, opening her throat for him, the familiar warm taste of on her tongue replaced by the cloying berry flavor of the condom. After several seconds, just as lack of air triggered the beginning of panic, he let her pull away.

"Stay," he said to her under the table. He left and she remained to analyze his feelings from the disembodied tone of his voice. Had he been pleased with her oral skills? He returned a moment later and yanked the leash again. She crawled beside him past the table into the back of the club and then into a living area she'd never seen. There was a private kitchen with a dining table, and then two doors opening to other rooms. He led her into the room on the right. It was large, with a massive iron bed raised high off the ground. She soon realized it was because the entire bottom of the bed was a cage of thick bars. There was another large rectangular cage in the corner. A girl appeared out of nowhere, a beautiful ethnic-looking girl with wildly curly hair and almond-shaped eyes. She began arranging blankets and pillows in the corner cage.

While she did so, Mephisto pulled Molly up and gazed down at her. It did not even cross her mind to dare to look away.

"You are no doubt tired," he said in a deep, rumble-edged voice. "Rest tonight, because tomorrow you will serve me at my leisure, and probably need to learn a lot of new things."

"Yes, Master. I will try my best to serve you."

"Yes, you will—or I will demand that you try again and again until you get it right.

Perfectly right."

Something in the way he spoke left her with no illusions that he might be patient in training her.

"And for the duration of your stay here, kitten," he continued, "you will abide by the same rules your Master set regarding touching yourself."

"Yes, Master." She couldn't help blushing a little at his direct stare.

"You will not want to discover what happens if you disobey me in this, girl.

Understand?"

"Yes, Master," she said, nodding. "I understand."

"Now Lila will show you to the bathroom, where you will shower, wash your hair, and brush your teeth with the toiletries set aside for you on the counter. You will leave things clean and orderly when you're finished, and then Lila will put you to bed."

Molly was well aware where her bed would be. On the floor, in the cage.

She crawled in later at Lila's command—washed, brushed, and exhausted—crouching down so as not to bump her head. It was somewhat exciting to be surrounded by those bars, but somewhat scary. Master had never caged her, and most nights even let her sleep beside him in his bed. The cage was much less comfortable than Master's bed, but she could still stretch out almost all the way. She found a comfortable position lying on her side with her legs drawn up slightly. Before she closed her eyes, she looked around the room again. Mephisto had long since left, gone back to mingle with the patrons of his club. Lila had left as well, after locking a padlock fixed to the door. Once upon a time Molly would have thought about fires, emergencies.

About how to get out if she really had to.

She didn't think about things like that much anymore. In a corner of the room, in the near darkness she could see a slow, blue blink. Camera. Someone was watching for emergencies, which was why Lila had left the lights dimmed but not out completely. She knew she would be safe here. Master would not have left her somewhere that wasn't safe. But there was safety and then there was control. She pushed on the door once, twice, just to be certain it wouldn't open.

She tugged on the padlock. No, nothing was pretend here. She was caged, well and truly. But she was grateful she hadn't been put to sleep under the bed, with him above her and no way to see him.

Molly's mind started to drift. She touched the welts on her bottom, just a brush of fingers as she settled. It had made her sad to wash off the last residue of Master's cum in the shower. She might have fallen asleep to the scent of it on her hands. But the welts were from his hand, and that soothed her. She cried a little, turning away from the camera so no one...

--- Gộp bài viết: 07/09/2016, Bài cũ từ: 07/09/2016 ---

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whoever might be watching her now. Soon she fell into a dreamless, heavy sleep. What time Mephisto came to his bed...if he came to his bed...she never did know.

To read the rest of Club Mephisto by Annabel Joseph, please look for it on Smashwords starting in December of 2010.