Ice Queen (13 page)

72

Ice Queen

“That’s because you don’t have to seduce or flirt with men, Mistress Marguerite.” He leaned his head back on her shoulder, turning to brush her cheek, smile up into her confused eyes. “You are a seduction. A man looks at you and not even a siren’s voice would tear him away from your side, or keep him from seeing to your desires. But the rest of us poor Doms…” His thumb drifted to her wrist, stroked that erogenous zone.

He felt her shoulder shudder where it was pressed under his. “We must endure the torment of flirtation. The tedious, monotonous arts of active seduction.” Despite her best struggle, he saw that tightening of her facial muscles he was beginning to recognize as her version of a smile, the resistance to one.

“Tyler, I really don’t like you.”

“I’m glad you told me,” he said gravely, wishing he was free to turn around and kiss a smile onto her mouth, a real one. He had a suspicion that those blue eyes could sparkle like diamonds when she was truly happy. He lifted his head, returning them to their back-to-back position where she thought he couldn’t see her. “Tell me about his hands.”

“They’re…capable. You’d think the cock would be the focal point of the picture but because they’ve brought his hand into it, underscored its functionality by showing it stroking and stimulating him, you begin to think of the other things his hand could do if…”

“If?”

“If he stepped out of the picture.”

“Nicely said.”

“You still haven’t told me what you’re looking at.”

“Marilyn Monroe’s breasts.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a molding. Not from the real ones, because the artist unfortunately was just a boy when that wonderful lady passed out of our lives but he studied her movies, photographs. Interviewed two privileged gentlemen who had the honor of seeing them uncovered. He chose to mold them as they would have been toward the latter end of her life, when they were fuller, heavier, ripe.” Tyler paused, searching for the right words. “When I saw it, I saw what he intended. The breasts of a woman… They’re her life, her vulnerability, one of the most powerful of her allures. Have you ever noticed when a woman touches herself for pleasure at The Zone, she often starts with her breasts, almost as fascinated with their perfection as men are? But while our interest is often atavistic, hers is more reverent, as if thanking Mother Goddess for a gift that ties the woman to Her. And I suppose that’s why he also sculpted her hands beneath them, cupping them. The vulgar would say that it represents what she offered to the world. They’d mean it in a crass way that denied her value, the fact that she captured our hearts as much as our sexual fantasies.

She was a woman in every sense of the word. Every man wishes he could have saved 73

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her, helped her see the world was a far better place than she knew and that she was stronger than she realized.”

“I think you’re idealizing her. She likely was as difficult and mundane as any of us.”

“I reserve the right to make up my own story behind the art.” Switching gears on her, he curled his forefinger and thumb around one wrist.

“You’re fine-boned for your height. No jewelry, though. You don’t wear it much but when you do… That was some show of ice at The Zone. If that robber had known you were carrying those on you, he would have fought a lot harder. Probably cut your throat.”

When his grip tightened on her, just thinking about it, her fingers touched his, a reassurance that stilled him, made him loosen a bit. He cleared his throat. “Tell me your favorite piece of all of those you see in front of you. Don’t think about it, just say it.” His sudden possessive protectiveness was almost more unsettling than his moments of physical seduction. Marguerite struggled to stay up with him. “They’re all beautiful. You’ve got exquisite taste, Tyler.”

“I certainly do.” He pinched her knuckle and she wiggled her finger free.

“Now you’re flirting.”

“A Master? We never flirt. We merely wave our hand and command our sub to fall to her knees in slavish devotion. We never cajole, coax, flirt, seduce…” He tilted his head, this time toward her other side. Catching her braid in his teeth, he gave it a tug and succeeded in catching the band holding it. When she jerked her head away, he was able to pull it down six or seven inches, off the base, so that the braided strands started to loosen.

“Tyler Winterman—”

“Tell me your favorite. Stop being a polite guest, trying to say all the right things.”

“The statue in the left corner. I like the statue. And the chair near it. Though it’s not part of the artwork.”

“Describe the statue.”

“It’s a man and a woman. It’s done in brown clay and she’s… He’s behind her, his arms outside her arms, both in a vee, pointing down the front of her body, all four hands clasped just at her vagina. They’re bent over. His legs are spread, hers together, and it’s obvious he’s inside of her. Her head is back on his shoulder, his is tilted forward, his lips on her opposite shoulder. They’re perfectly meshed, unified. I like the lines of it.”

“Get past the artistry. What does it say, what does your heart say when you look at it?”

I wish I was her.
The thought came to her mind uncensored but she couldn’t say it.

“The look on her face…moves me. She’s not thinking of anything but this, doesn’t have to. Nothing is touching her, filling her but him. She’s an empty vessel, filled by him.” 74

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He was silent. She knew he knew there was more. “And you like the chair,” he said at last.

She let out the tense breath she was holding, relieved he hadn’t pressed. “Yes. What do you call it?”

“A tête-à-tête.” The design was like two chairs facing in opposite directions, side by side but curved as one pair, so the two backs formed an intimate S-shape that would allow a man to reach over and lay an arm around the waist of his lover. However, separated by the opposite arm, they had to maintain a seductive distance. “There were many subtly suggestive items in the Victorian era,” he noted. “During sexually repressed times, I think people just get more creative.”

“That chair seems to be more romantic than sexual.”

“You think so?” He shifted to consider it, which rubbed his shoulder against hers again. He was so much broader there, reminding her how infrequently she allowed her subs to get close enough to her to compare the differences in their body types. “If you and I were sitting there, side by side, you know what I’d do?”

“I’m not going to encourage you.”

Tyler smiled to himself. “Do you also realize that many of the most popular sexual role-playing games we’ve adopted are associated with that time period? For instance, I can imagine you as a prim schoolmistress, saying what you just said to me, the naughty student. I come back after class is over, having loosened my cravat, tossed away my neat stockings. I take away your ruler and turn you over
my
knee for once, throwing that skirt over your back, feeling the press of your waist against my thigh, seeing your trim pantaloons beneath. Wondering what it would be like to take those down your stockinged legs while you’re struggling, kicking in those dainty little boots…”

“While I maneuver for a clutch grip on your crotch to get you to let me go.” He winced. “You and Mistress Violet have similar mean streaks.” But he noticed her eyes had moved back to the photo
Cry Mercy
and her pale face had more color than before.

“Now if I were in that chair, I might try to steal a kiss. Or maybe go lower, kiss every inch of your lovely throat, down to the first button of that stiff shirt. I’d bite it off with my teeth, then the next one. Run my tongue in the valley between your breasts, nuzzle your soft skin, nip at the lace holding it. But what would your more romantic version be?”

She couldn’t grasp any image now except the one he’d just painted. Imagining.

“I see you’re fascinated with
Cry Mercy
.” Her gaze jerked up and he saw her realize at last that he could see every expression of her face.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it?” he continued in a mild tone. “How the photographer chose to keep everything in black and white except for that one ruffle of pink lace across the widest curve of her ass? And you can’t help but think of another area so delicately 75

Joey W. Hill

pink and female, waiting for a tongue, a hand or cock to slide into its welcoming warmth. Now, answer me. What was your romantic version for the chair?” The creases of her palm were damp enough to please him. He was equally pleased by the tension he felt in her body now that she knew there was nothing she’d been able to hide from him.

She drew in a breath, then another. He admired her ability to continue to regroup, rebalance, no matter how often he was seducing her off the pedestal.

“Just sitting like that, the closeness, the arrangement of the chair speaking for itself, saying that the two people in it have a connection, or want more of a connection than they ever had up to that point. The suggestion of things to come. That’s romantic. And I guess you’ve proven it can be sexual, too. That’s a dirty trick,” she added. “The mirrors.”

He lifted one shoulder in a brief shrug. “The point is the sub learns there’s nothing she can hide from her Master, that she’s to be open to him in all things.”

“She doesn’t deserve any privacy?”

“No,” he said simply. “Not if the Master is going to give her the pleasure she deserves.”
And needs.

He removed the slat of the chair to free the cuffs from it. When he moved to the floor, he felt her watching him as he brought the cuffs under his hips and pulled his long legs through the loop of his arms in a lithe, practiced move. Bending, he fished the key to his cuffs out of the melted ice, unlocked them. Then he came around the chair to squat between her spread legs, laying one palm on each kneecap.

“You look like you’ve done that a few times in your life.” Her breathing was beginning to elevate, he suspected because he was so close and she was completely helpless before him.

“More than a few.”

Sliding his hands up her thighs, he studied her face as he moved inch by inch up the inside until his thumbs were resting just shy of the spread crotch, framing it. With her arms behind her, her breasts were well displayed before him, the white shirt pulled taut across them. He suppressed the urge to unbutton her shirt, fondle them in whatever underwear she’d chosen to wear beneath it. If she’d dressed to the skin in the same theme, it would likely be something as practical and nonsexual as the rest.

Clothed even in armor, her breasts would attract him. “The strongest drive inside of a submissive, underneath all their emotional wounds, is for the Master to push aside any curtains or walls they may have erected to separate them from their true self, the naked, vulnerable soul. Because that soul wants only one thing. Do you want to know what that is?”

She tightened her jaw, looked through him until he touched her face. Not with forceful compulsion but a whispering caress that drew her gaze back to him.

“You’ll answer me, Marguerite.”

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“I don’t want to know. That’s not what the training’s about.”

“Wrong. That’s what submissive training is all about. Getting past those shields so she feels truly bound to her Master, a part of him as he’s a part of her. The ultimate connection, where thought isn’t necessary. They’re together in the most elemental and perfect way there is.”

She stared at him. “Let me go, Tyler. I can’t do this.”

“You can. You will.” He framed her face, leaned forward, pressed his lips to her cheek, her forehead, the curve of her ear. Her body shook under his touch and he kept his touch soothing, gentle, stroking the wisps of hair around her face. He’d gone to one knee to accomplish the nuzzling caresses. His leg pressed against the inside of hers, the front of his shirt brushing hers, his breath warm on the side of her neck. “It will be all right, Marguerite. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.” He drew back, just a space. Marguerite saw that his eyes were almost gold in the room’s light. To his right she saw the brown statue she liked so much. The woman who could just be in the moment, a part of her lover, worrying about nothing further.

She closed her eyes, looking for something solid but the only thing she could feel was his touch on her body. “Why is my key still in ice?” She opened her eyes.

His lips curved. “I put it in a bigger ice cube.” 77

Joey W. Hill

He’d had Sarah lay them out a light meal in the breakfast nook off the kitchen.

Moonlight glittered on the Gulf as the backdrop for a bistro table draped with a lace tablecloth, set with an elegant set of dishes, a silver soup tureen and a trio of candles of different sizes.

When she saw it, she stopped them with a hand on his arm, a bare brush of contact she instantly removed. “I appreciate…” She shook her head. “May I say something?”

“You may. And I’m impressed by your memory for instruction.”

“I understand how this could be seen as necessary, this warm-up.” She waved her hand at the table. “I appreciate all the effort you’ve put into it. But why don’t we skip it and get to the rest?”

“Still trying to control the situation.” He propped his hip against one of the chairs, crossing his arms across his chest to consider her. Marguerite could not think of a response because it was obvious that was what she was trying to do. But she wasn’t a submissive, damn it.

“Just like the annual physical, hmm? Have the doctor get on with it while you pretend you’re anywhere else, waiting for the metal probes to finish their routine of humiliation.”

He was tossing her analogy back at her and she forced herself to remain calm, steady. “Tyler, I’ve read—”

“No. You haven’t. Not closely enough. Pull out the requirements. I’m sure you’re carrying them on you. Or have you committed it to memory?” Thinning her lips at his sardonic tone, she removed it from the pocket of her slacks and handed it over.

“Restraints, exhibitionism, interactive play with other subs and Doms and several other categories I’m supposed to inflict on you or go over with you if you ever intend to do them at The Zone. Mummification, sensory deprivation, pain, et cetera ad nauseum.

But then there’s this paragraph beneath that laundry list. I’m sure you read it, reread it, hoped I wouldn’t care enough to notice it.”

“Tyler—”

“Be quiet.”

She stiffened at his sharp tone. He guided her firmly to one chair, holding it out for her. When she sat, he put the paper down in front of her. “Read the last paragraph. Out loud.”

“The Master must be satisfied that the mentored Dom or Domme understands the psychological issues during submission as a part of these components. That’s fine 78

Ice Queen

print,” she muttered. She saw him press his lips together against a smile and wanted to slap him. “I know submissives as well as you do.”

“No, I don’t think you do. Not from this side of it.” He uncurled her fingers from the paper, made it drop to the floor. “Let. Go. Of. Control. In order to take control, someone else has to relinquish it. Willingly. For you, being a Mistress is breathing.

Unconscious, unthinking effort. You don’t think about the why of what you’re doing, you just do it. Your rational brain isn’t part of the process.”

“Is that an insult?”

“Not at all.” He looked surprised that she would think so. “There are many spiritual paths that spend a great deal of time teaching their acolytes to do what you do so naturally without analytical thought at all.” Analytical was not the word she’d choose for the way he was making her feel, or the thoughts that were running through her head.

He crouched, staring steadily at her, no smile now on his lips, no mercy in his gaze.

“I’ll say this one more time. I will be gentle. I will be slow. But you don’t have the reins.

You don’t tell me what to do. You may ask anything you wish. But it will be up to me to decide to answer or grant your desire. You have responsibility for nothing this weekend except to serve my desires and submit to pleasure. Mine and your own. And first, we eat.”

With effort, she bit back a defensive retort. She had known all along he wouldn’t let her make this session into a silly game in her head to establish distance. To him, Mistress Marguerite had been left outside the front door. But she didn’t know herself in this role, which gave him all the advantages.

Trying to get her mind around it, she thought about herself with Marius, Brendan or any of her subs. Thought about the way they looked at her. For once, she dared the emotional risk of trying to see through their eyes and understand. What came to mind was Brendan, the way he’d looked to her when the pain had taken over his body.

Maybe a sub initially floundered in a sea of uncertainty but found his calm in the belief that the Master or Mistress was the anchor, the lifeboat. That he or she would throw out the float on which the sub could rest, giving them a calm space to focus their desire. Could she trust Tyler enough to do that in this controlled environment that felt anything but controlled? Could she trust anyone to do that? And why was something that was so simple and safe feeling so threatening?

“Marguerite.” He laid a hand on either side of her face. When she tried to look away, he held her fast. “You’re stirred up right now. This is like using muscles you’re not used to using, may have never used. For some subs what Brendan asked you to do, the branding, doesn’t even seem close to edge play.” His touch dropped, closed over her wrists as she tried not to let the anxiety take her. The fact he’d picked up on her thoughts as easily as if they were written on the paper on the floor unnerved her. “For others, this—” his grip tightened, “is the edge. I understand that. I’m going to push you 79

Joey W. Hill

out of your comfort zone but only to teach you to trust me. Just trust me. That’s what this whole weekend is about.”

If he wanted to beat her within an inch of her life or poke her with hot brands, that she could handle. She hadn’t expected that Tyler’s version of submission would include crawling into her mind. She should have expected it but perhaps she’d thought her status as a Mistress would have made that a forbidden road that any decent Master would have respected by not going past the roadblocks. Tyler seemed to be zeroing in on those areas she didn’t feel should be involved.

But she couldn’t help wondering if her subconscious had known the truth all along.

In fact, a desperate part of her suggested that she may have chosen him specifically because he had that capability. Maybe ultimately, despite her protestations and manipulations, it had been her choice to be here, doing this.” He rose. “Don’t touch anything in front of you. Put your hands under your thighs and I want your knees apart, your feet tucked in around the outside of the chair legs.

Shoulder blades pulled back, touching the back of the chair so I can see the outline of your breasts against the moonlight outside. I want to feed you by hand while you stay in that pose.”

“I told you I’m not really hungry.”

“This isn’t about nourishment, Marguerite.” He pulled the chair on the opposite side of the table closer to her and sat down. His knees were splayed so one pressed against the point of her hip along the side of the chair, the other against the point of her knee under the table. “And our current conversational topic has been exhausted. You’ll need to ask permission if you want to choose another one.” Keeping her legs apart was making her pussy throb in response. The pressure of the crotch seam of her slacks made the reaction more acute. She was too aware of how close his hand was. With his forearm on the table, he had his fingers draped loosely over the edge, inches from her thigh.

“You can look out at the water if you wish.”

She immediately turned her head, realizing he hadn’t commanded her to do it but given her the option, a direct acknowledgement of her weakness, her fear. She wanted to look at the beauty of the view primarily because she didn’t want to look at his face.

He stroked her ear, tracing the shell and then his clever fingers were freeing her hair all the way from her braid, sending it rippling down her shoulder, along her jawline. His touch soothed her, eased the pressure on her scalp. She noticed the single orchid bloom in a vase on the table, the deep pink-purple of its delicate petals.

“I raise them.” He noted her glance. “I started with the native Florida species and have branched out since. Seems we both have an interest. Do you grow your own?”

“Am I allowed to speak?”

“A slave must always answer when her Master asks her a question.” He ignored the waspish tone. “And please do. I love nothing better than the sound of your voice.” 80

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That old-fashioned gentleman again, his eyes so intent, body so disturbingly close and attentive to the position of hers. “I don’t grow orchids,” she said at last. “Japanese tea ceremonies place special emphasis on the display of flowers during tea to match specific themes or just for contemplation purposes. I like the tradition.” He nodded. “Some sources say the very first flower arrangement came from Buddhist monks.”

“Saving flowers uprooted by a storm by placing them into containers of water,” she finished. “Out of reverence for life.”

“Ironic, isn’t it? When flower arrangements now are all about the deliberate cutting off the life of a flower?”

She didn’t want to be reminded that he was an intelligent, interesting man. His sexual power was enough to overwhelm her at the moment. “There’s a man who studies the art of flavoring teas with flowers,” she continued. “He brings me his blends to try out and he’ll bring me flowers to be displayed with certain teas.”

“So he provided the orchid on our table the other day.”

“Yes. It was a gift from some time ago.”

“And how old is he?”

She raised a brow. “You think a certain age removes him from competition for my affections?”

He smiled. “I think past a certain age a man’s heart couldn’t handle you. I know mine races like a teenager every time I’m around you.”

“He’s a friend.”

“How about me, Marguerite?” He cocked his head. Her gaze lingered on his firm lips despite herself. “Am I a friend?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“A cautious answer. You know what, Marguerite? I don’t think I want to be your version of a friend, because a friend is someone you can put into a neatly labeled box.

Waitstaff, flower man, Dommes at The Zone. People whose margins of existence don’t really encroach on yours.”

“Well, I didn’t ask you to be my friend.”

“Careful, angel. Speaking without a direct question,” he reminded her. “I’m also not worried about tripping over your admirers because you don’t invite them into your home, in here.” He touched her sternum lightly. “You come out to hold court with them and take chaste strolls along the parapets. At the end of the day you roll up the drawbridge and leave them outside.”

Tyler met her gaze, held her in its grasp. He intended to keep doing that until it was second nature for her to look him in the face. “And I’m already inside, whether you’re going to admit it or not.”

“Then you’re a trespasser. My castle guard will locate you and I’ll have you hung outside the castle gate and disemboweled as a warning to others.” 81

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He noted there was no amusement in her words. There was a slight break in her voice. She was attempting to ignore his words but the most significant factor to him was the fact that she hadn’t denied it.

Ladling some soup into her bowl, he picked up a spoon. “This is one of Sarah’s specialties. It’s a potato soup with fresh vegetables from Robert’s gardens and a mixture of spices I know nothing about except they’re terrific and I usually want to eat about a gallon of the stuff before I come up for air. Now, as I’m feeding you for at least the next fifteen minutes, I want you to talk about yourself. You. Who is Marguerite? What does she think about, dream about?”

“So you can tell everyone at The Zone personal things about me? Brag that you know what they don’t?”

“You’re very skilled at that.”

“What?”

“Changing the subject so we’re not talking about you. Why do you do that?”

“Because most people aren’t interested in other people except as it relates to their own stories.”

“I’m interested in you.” Brushing a finger over her cheek, he made her hold his a gaze an extra beat. “Only you. And perhaps I’ll tell them Marguerite Perruquet is a remarkable woman, just as you expected her to be. Someone to admire. Open up.” He inserted a spoonful of soup between her reluctant lips, casually picked up the napkin, dabbed at her mouth. Was pleased when he saw the exceptional taste of the soup register. “Or maybe after hearing you talk fifteen minutes, I’ll say, ‘God, she’s a bore.

You don’t want to know.’”

Some of the tension in her shoulders eased. He saw something else in her expression to please him, just a glimpse. “Now that was almost a smile. Fifteen minutes, Marguerite. That’s a command. I’ll help you get started. Tell me about the doll and the children’s tea set.”

She went still. “It was a gift.”

“When?”

“When I was a teenager.”

“Seems the type of gift you’d give a younger child.” He studied her face, the closed expression. “Fifteen minutes, Marguerite. Give me honesty and you’ll be able to put one check mark on your little paper.”

She sat back in the chair, her expression frosty. When her gaze shifted to the expanse of air over his shoulder, he noted it but let it pass. For the moment.

“My mother died when I was fourteen. I went into foster care. I had difficulty adapting, and a social worker brought me the tea set and the doll.”

“Keep going.”

“That’s all.”

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“No, it’s not.” He put down the spoon. “The tea set was new when she got it for you, perhaps picked up at a drugstore. It isn’t chipped, not even stained by the teas that might have been in it, remarkable care for a teenager to take with a cheap tea set. On the other hand, when she gave you the doll, it wasn’t new. It was something that had belonged to her. I’ll bet you brushed that brittle golden hair with a comb, just enough to remove tangles, carefully curled and parted it, tied it back with a ribbon. You removed as much of the scuffs as you could from the once peaches-and-cream cheeks, the bow-shaped mouth. The blue eyes were intact but the lashes were already stubby and sparse.

You could have found a new dress for her, glued new eyelashes on, had new hair implanted by someone who restored such precious toys. But you’ve kept her in the condition she was given to you, just like the tea set. Because it was important for you to always have her be the same. Because people take exceptional care of the things that matter to them.”