Molly's Lips: Club Mephisto Retold (10 page)

He slapped her hand away firmly. “No.”

To his disbelief, she tried again. Right to his face, right in front of him, she defied him. He trapped her arms in one hard grip and slapped her. “I said no.” She tugged at her wrists, but he raised his hand again in warning. Jesus. She did have a breaking point, and she’d just reached it. He shook his head at her, frowning. “You were such a good girl at the party. But you’re not being a very good girl now. Put your hands on your head.”

She started to cry. She was falling apart. He had to get her to bed, because he sure as hell wasn’t letting her come now. He released her ankles and unclamped her nipples and marched her to the bathroom. An ice cold shower cooled her down pretty quickly, but her miserable shame was still in full force. She couldn’t beg, so she cried. When that didn’t work, she cried harder. When he started oiling up the dildos on her harness with the teasing lube, she fell to her knees and sobbed into the floor like a feral thing.

“You were doing so well,” he said as he harnessed her, just to exacerbate her misery.

He put her in the underbed cage, a claustrophobic, dark space for bad slaves who acted out. From there, she couldn’t see him and he couldn’t see her, which was by design. She was tightly contained, her needy pussy encased in its convex metal cup and the dildos filling those orifices aching to be satisfied. Her hands were cuffed at her waist so she couldn’t even wipe her tears. He let her cry a long time, enjoying it at first. After an hour, his patience wore thin. She was the one who’d defied him. His word was law and she knew it, no matter how much she hated it, no matter how much she’d wanted to finger her pussy. It wasn’t fucking allowed. It was what she’d signed up for, and what she had to live with. Finally, he banged on the side of the cage and ordered her to go to sleep.

He woke in the morning and stretched, feeling unusually rested. A rollicking orgy had a way of doing that. He looked at Molly’s cage in the corner before he remembered that she was in the bad-girl cage beneath his bed.

He got up and showered and shaved, figuring he’d let her sweat it out in the cage a little longer, but when he returned to peer through the bars at her, her eyes were closed. She was so still.

Oh my God, I killed her.
Could a slave die from an orgasm denial regimen? She wasn’t dead though, just wiped out. Her eyes moved faintly behind her lids, and her face was still criss-crossed with dried tear tracks from the night before. Her chest rose and fell, her sweet lips open just slightly so her breath whistled in and out. Since the very first night, she hadn’t talked again in her sleep. He didn’t realize until now how he missed it, that secret side of her. He still wanted to know all her secrets, but the week was almost over and he’d learned nothing at all.

He rattled the bars in a sudden fit of irritation. Molly’s eyes blinked open and she too seemed to forget at first where she was. When she figured it out, shame washed over her features.

“Are you better now?” he asked.

She nodded, and he helped her crawl out. He removed her harness and washed her, then took her to the kitchen for breakfast. Not surprisingly, she had little appetite. He persisted, coaxing her to eat syrupy pancakes from his fingers and lick the stickiness clean. She drank thirstily and he refilled a water glass just for her. At some point during this quiet and intimate breakfast, he decided to take her out for a while. She’d been cooped up in his club for nearly a week. It wasn’t good slave ownership. Like a flower, she needed fresh air and sun.

Clothes. She would need clothes, and his certainly wouldn’t fit her. Over the years he’d accumulated a fair amount of female clothes in his spare room, which he laundered and put away for emergencies such as this. He gave her a warning look and left her alone, unharnessed and unsupervised. Hell, if she masturbated now, he’d throw in the towel, but he knew she wouldn’t. He found some jeans, a tee shirt and pale green sweater that looked to be around her size.

When he returned to the kitchen and held them out to her, her mouth dropped open in surprise. Her features broadcast worry and confusion.

“It’s okay, we’re going out,” he said. “It’s a beautiful day and you haven’t gotten much exercise this week. Put these on. No panties and no bra. I don’t want anything between me and you but these articles of clothing.”

She dressed like she was doing something naughty and forbidden. He wondered how often, in her day-to-day life, she actually wore clothes. Not very often, he guessed. She kept plucking at the garments like she wasn’t sure they were put on right, but she looked lovely. Fresh and conservative, like a co-ed on her way to class. The jeans accentuated her feminine form and the sweater was thick and cozy for the chilly early spring weather. Mephisto fingered her collar, removing the o-ring that betrayed the decorative band’s true purpose.

“Vanilla enough, I guess,” he said, smiling at her. She smiled back, even though she still looked a little bewildered. From deep slavery and a night in the bad-girl cage to a trip outside the walls. He decided to drive her to a park, and spent the whole way lecturing her about obedience, the importance of orgasm denial for discipline, and other slavey topics, basically just to turn her on. After that, he took some time to praise her for her sexual submissiveness the night before at the orgy. Through it all she listened attentively, her hands clasped in her lap. Her silence was like a third passenger in the car. So obvious, and yet unacknowledged by him. Better, she didn’t even seem to feel the urge to speak. His quiet, mastered doll.

Only one more day.

Her Master would come for her tomorrow. Part of Mephisto would be relieved to see her go, but part of him had grown attached to her. He needed another damn week. The whole point had been for them to get to know one another, to gain some ease and understanding. But Mephisto was afraid the only understanding Molly gained was that she’d never willingly come near him again. He’d enjoyed exerting his authority over her, and she’d probably enjoyed parts of it too, but had they grown closer? It was hard to tell.

As they walked around the jogging path at the park, Mephisto watched the other groups of people. Couples, friends, families with children on bikes or scooters. All these people were involved in relationships, and so was he with Molly. Their relationship was just different. At one point he took her hand, not even thinking.
She’s Clayton’s. She’s only yours on loan.

They stopped at a snack bar, and he bought ice cream and popcorn. She looked so delighted that for a moment he almost lost his composure. It was just soft serve, for fuck’s sake. He wanted to ask her if Clayton ever took her for ice cream, but he was afraid to hear that he didn’t. He wanted to buy her a billion ice cream cones. Silly, when he wouldn’t allow her even one orgasm. She licked the cone so sweetly, so happily, that he fed most of it to her, fixating on her lips and her tongue.

When the cone was gone, he ate the popcorn, occasionally feeding Molly and occasionally feeding the ducks waddling by. It didn’t even occur to him at first that it might look strange, the way he fed her. Lots of couples fed one another, but that was usually flirtation. Impulsive sharing. For the entire week, Molly hadn’t eaten anything that hadn’t come from his hand. The idea of it hit him in his groin. He walked her a little way off the main path to a secluded bench and pulled her into his lap. He put his fingers to her lips and she licked off grease and popcorn salt with a grin that slayed him. When she finished he snaked his hand up her shirt, under her sweater, and pinched her nipples until she squirmed. Her breathing quickened and she shifted in his lap. He imagined her pussy moistening, her little clit hardening up once again, ever hopeful even though time after time arousal had ended in nothing but frustration this particular week. Physiology was an amazing thing.

And it worked both ways. She slid a hand around his neck—a forward, unrequested embrace—and he was too aroused to correct her. She rested her face against his cheek, making tiny, faint lust noises. His cock was straining, hard as rock. He squeezed her breast and groaned, wrapping his other hand in her hair. He pulled her head back and kissed her neck, her eyes. When she moaned into his mouth he broke away and looked around at the people in the park. “My own orgasm denial,” he groused, exasperated. “For once, I feel your pain.”

He took her hand and dragged her after him in search of privacy. Off a trail, in the back of the park, he found a remote wooded area. There, behind a curtain of thick brush and bushes, he had her kneel and serve him. It was a memory moment for him: the light breeze, the singing birds, and Molly’s expression as she licked around his cock and sucked his balls. He curled his fingers into the bark of the tree beside him, feeling the scratchy solidness of it. The whole world seemed to shrink down to that one moment, that one sensation of Molly and nature and everything being in tune.

He bucked in her mouth, caressing her face, wanting to scream out all the things he felt. His wonder at her submission, the privilege, the specialness of it.
Tomorrow, she goes. Tomorrow, all gone.
He pushed that thought away, living in the moment, enjoying her skillful ministrations until his climax exploded and almost took him to his knees. Later today, he decided, he would let her come. He would give her an orgasm as special and memorable as this. He’d wanted to wait until the last day, but today would be better. He actually couldn’t wait to see her fall apart with the power of all that pent-up lust.

With that thought, he zipped up and handed her the used condom. She leaned down and blithely buried it under a pile of dirt and leaves.

“Silly girl,” he snorted. Silly, unfathomable, reckless girl. She was still reckless, he decided. It just manifested in different ways, like giving all her power over to another person. A carefully chosen person. Someday, that responsibility might be his.

Or perhaps not. Maybe someday she would choose not to be a slave anymore.

Mephisto took her hand and led her to another area of the park, a picturesque urban stream flanked by rocks, bushes and trees. Molly used to work for Seattle City Parks, monitoring stream life and pollution. She’d told him all about it one night while she was drunk. She’d been so impassioned about it. Did she even remember that now? She’d quit her job—or been fired—just a few weeks later. Had she ever been to this park? This stream? He searched her face for answers but she remained stubbornly expressionless.

A sudden breeze kicked up and rustled the trees, the tiny buds that bloomed in the new warmth of spring. Molly put her hands together in front of her lips like she was praying, and for a moment Mephisto thought she might speak, but she didn’t.

She started to cry.

He could have asked her then, asked her all the things that Clayton wanted to know, that Mephisto desperately wanted to know too.
Are you happy? Are you sorry? Do you have regrets? What do you see in your future?

What do those tears mean?

She turned to him and her expression said it all.
Just take me home. That’s all I want, to escape this. Please don’t ask me anything.

So Mephisto took her home.

*** *** ***

Back at the club, Mephisto watched Molly undress and fold her borrowed clothes into a perfectly aligned stack. He took the bundle and tossed it on the pile with the other things for the laundry service, only so he wouldn’t be tempted to hide them away and fondle them like some sociopathic stalker after she was gone. Meh. He might still do that.

He reattached the o-ring to her collar and put her to work dusting and straightening up the dungeon. She moved around doing whatever task he set her to in perfect slave mode, as if her short brush with the outside world was some horror that proper service and submission could erase.

So be it. She was happy. He was glad to know it. She didn’t yearn for all the things she’d lost when she went into slavehood, all the things she’d left behind. She yearned for her Master, Clayton, and if Clayton wasn’t around, then him. So, to keep her happy, he continued to assign her the most menial tasks he could think up, while he worked at his desk and daydreamed about ways he could bring her to orgasm later. Some bondage, a little teasing to make her think she was in for more torture, and then—

He heard a shriek from the kitchen. He ran in to find her standing at the sink, fumbling with the faucet handle. She’d been ironing clothes for him, but the iron was lying on its side, the clothes knocked over in a jumble. He righted the hot iron and went over to her.

“What happened?”

Like some nightmare, some bad dream, she held out her forearm. The underside had an angry red mark down the middle. He grabbed it, staring down at the pristine velvet skin already puckering into blisters. “Fuck!”

He held it under the water. Clayton would fucking murder him for this. “Fuck!” he shouted again, so loud she flinched. He thought about her tears at the stream, her robotic slaveyness. “Did you do this on purpose?” He clenched her elbow as he yelled at her. “Did you?”

She shook her head, looking scared.

“Talk to me, damn it!”

“You put me on speech restriction!” She pulled her arm away from his rough grasp.

He gave her a quick, sharp slap across the cheek, for the sass and for the panic that even now had his heart pounding. Self-hurting slaves didn’t fly with him. He’d been there, done that, read the book and written the review. He didn’t fucking do that shit. He took a deep breath and grasped for calm.

“Forget the speech restriction,” he snapped. “How the fuck did this happen?”

“It was an accident. I’m sorry!” He gazed into her eyes, searching for answers, and saw no guilt or premeditation, only pained shock. She didn’t do it to herself. It was an accident. His breath came easier, but there was still his broken promise to explain to Clayton.

“I told your Master no permanent damage,” he said. “No scars!”

Again she stared in miserable, tongue-tied helplessness. She must think him a maniac.
Breathe. Just breathe. Take care of her.
He unplugged the iron and hurried her back to the bathroom. He ran her arm under cold water a while longer, then dried her burn with the softest towel he could find. It stood out in stark relief against the pale skin of her forearm, half an inch wide, a couple inches long. “Jesus Christ,” he yelled again as he wrapped the burn in a loose gauze bandage. “He’s going to kill me.”