Sacred Revelations (13 page)

I remember crying the first time I was ever spanked. Garrett spanked me the day I woke up at his condo the first time. I swallow hard, thinking that this time tomorrow, I will be with Garrett. Although the thought invades, I don’t want it to. I don’t want to think about Garrett, not yet. I don’t want to worry that I will not feel the same way about Garrett as I did before. I don’t want to worry that I am so changed by what I have shared with Lord Fyre that anything less intense than him won’t be enough…and not intense as just the actions of what we have shared—because the photo shoot on the rocks and the shark cage both rank as the highlights—but the intensity of his personality. Lord Fyre lives the way we all should live, like the next breath he takes might be his last and he doesn’t want to miss a single second of life.

I love that about him. I love Lord Fyre.

Yes, I can admit this to myself. I love him and I want to enjoy my last night as his property.

I focus on watching his reflection in the mirror. I count, he swats. My ass becomes a rosy glow, though a perfectly formed deep purple handprint defines the site of his first swat. I know I will keep this bruise a week, maybe longer. It will change its color, gradually fading, but for a while, I will remember.

I am grateful for the mark he has left on me.

At the club I have heard the bruises left behind referred to as trophies and have often wondered at that.

For me, it is not so much a prize but a remembrance. If I could, I would immortalize these bruises, and I pray that, true to his word, I am allowed a copy of the film. I have no doubt of his word but I worry that Garrett will not let me keep it. Damn, the man is in my brain again.

Go away, Garrett. Leave me be this night!

“I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the leaving you all. I’m not afraid, but it seems as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven.”

-Louisa May Alcott

Thomas

She shudders when I stop. I run my hand down the smooth center of her back, hip to neck, then reversing the stroke, petting up from neck to hip. I stroke, once, twice, letting her know that for now she is safe, the pain over.

“Thank you, Lord Fyre.”

Her bottom glows, rosy and bright. Her flesh blazes heat beneath my fingertips. Two perfect handprint-shaped bruises blossom in the center of her ass cheeks. I bend, kissing her left ass cheek, directly over the bruise. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

I lay the paddle down on the table. Seeing it go down, she licks her lips, relaxing only once she sees the paddle leave my hand. I pick up the long-handled vibrator, switching it on so that she hears the faint buzz.

I run the vibrating head over her calf, teasing the back of her ankle before drawing it up her calf, nudging the inside of her knee to spread her legs wider before sliding up the inside of her thigh, keeping it away from her pussy, knowing how badly she wants me to touch her there. I take the vibrator down the inside of her other thigh. She hisses, not daring to beg. I rub the vibrator over the backs of her thighs and along the curved edge of her ass. Switching the vibrator to my left hand, I rub the vibrator inside the creases of her knees. It is a sweet spot for her. Tickling. She dances on her toes. I ease my right middle finger along the slick edge of her labia.

“You are so wet for me. You like this don’t you sweetheart?”

“Yes,” she moans, lifting her hips.

I press my finger into her, feeling her vaginal lips grip around me. I end the torture, drawing the vibrator up to her clit, tapping then holding it over her most sensitive spot, making her scream as she rides out her orgasm, waiting until she sags against the rail before I pull the vibrator away. Turning it off, I lay it on the table and reach for my next implement of pleasure, a special gift I bought for her and have yet to find the

right moment to give to her. It is an extravagance, a solid metal butt plug, the handle shaped like a bird’s head, the beak holding a diamond setting. I hold it down for her to see. “I bought this for you.”

I tilt my head down to see her better, seeing her eyes glow. “Before you ask, yes, it’s a real diamond.” I smile at her. “Always play with men of means, if you can, it’s so much more fun than getting shagged by a man who shoves a ninety-nine-cent fingernail polish bottle up your butt and calls it plugged.”

She giggles and the sound is music to my ears. “It sounds like you may have some experience in that department, as well, Lord Fyre?”

I wink. “None I’m willing to admit to.” I stay kneeling, letting her see me play with the smooth edges of the plug. It will be the largest I’ve ever used on her. It will be a heavy mass inside her, stretching and filling her, but the best surprise will be the weight.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.

“Yes, beautiful women deserve beautiful, expensive toys.”

Standing, I rub her ass, stroking over the dark purple circles very softly, fanning out my fingers to caress every bit of her bright pink skin. I smack her lightly with my bare hand, smacking as I slide the plug through her vaginal wetness, slicking it, then pushing quick and hard to insert the butt-plug into her anus.

It is large and she grunts, but lifts her ass to take it. God, she pleases me.

“Wiggle your ass, sweetheart.” I want to see the diamond sparkle in the candlelight.

She wiggles and it is a glorious sight. I am deeply affected by her erotically, the sight of her, doing the things she does…so sensual…so feral, and yet I think over and again that she is unaware of her affect on me—on him. I do not want to let her go. I know I promised Garrett, but the fact remains, I want her. As much as I know he wants her back, I want to keep her.

I close my eyes against the sight of her, almost wishing I wasn’t taping this night together. It is so hard to steel my emotions against the thought of walking away from her and what we’ve shared here. “Are you ready for me to hurt you some more?” I pray she doesn’t hear the cracking in my voice, forcing myself to focus so that I can complete this scene .

“Yes, Lord Fyre.”

“You want me to hurt you while you hold your new pricey toy inside of you?”

“Yes,” she sobs, closing her eyes.

“Squeeze it with your muscles.”

The metal plug bobs, evidence that she does what she is told. “Keep squeezing it until you can’t squeeze any longer. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Open your eyes.” She does, her toy still bobbing in her ass.

I pick up the riding crop with my right hand, the flogger in my left. I hold them in her line of vision, so that

she will see what’s coming. I think it is so much more exciting when the anticipation is allowed to build. I rub them both up her leg, one at a time, tapping her lightly with each, and then stroking again. “Are you ready for this, love?”

Her brow furrows, showing her worry. “Yes, Lord Fyre.”

“Stay relaxed,” I warn her, stripping off my shirt, folding it over the chair. More focused than before I am ready to enjoy myself with her, not having allowed myself this particular pleasure until now. I will mark her, leaving behind a web of stripes and welts for her to carry for weeks to come as her trophy of our time together.

I start on her ass and the backs of her legs with the flogger, warming her up, light and medium thuds, quick, rhythmic. I set the pace so that I will be able to last a long time, knowing that she will outlast me.

We have three hours.

I make her rosy and pink, getting her to the point where she is floating on endorphins, only then increasing the tempo, punching up the pain level.

I slap her with the flogger then, lifting the whip, I add its sting, alternating, sting, thud, sting, thud. Even floating on endorphins, I have her undivided attention as I combine flogger with single tail, covering her back, buttocks, and thighs.

Sting, thud, sting, thud.

“Oh God, oh God,” she pants and I know she isn’t praying for pain relief. I sting her good, once, twice, leaving a welt, then tease with the flogger, thud, thud, thud .

“Oh God, Lord Fyre, please, please, please.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“I need to come,” she grits out.

“How?” I ask, near to losing my own resolve to finish this scene . God, I want her badly. “How do you want me to bring you?”

“Mouth,” she pants. “Fingers, vibrator, I don’t care, just please, please.”

“Beg me, slave.”

“Oh God, please, please, please, Lord Fyre, please let me come!”

I drop to my knees and touch my tongue against her clit. Her taste is a mingling of salty and sweet and her dampness quickly covers my beard. I inhale deeply of her, enjoying the sigh that comes to her lips when I do so. She is soaking wet as I slide in a finger, two fingers, working her gently, and then withdrawing them, taking away the sensation, returning my tongue to barely lick her clit. I hear her gasp. I lick harder, alternating softer, setting up a rhythm I know her body won’t deny and, just as I feel her tension building, I tug the butt-plug from her hole, sending her over the edge. I hold her legs tightly as she bucks and writhes, not letting go with my mouth, licking her, sucking her, making her scream into the night.

She trembles, shaking and writhing in her bonds, senseless in the time it takes her to absorb all the pleasure. With my arms still wrapped around her legs, I rest my head on her thighs. As I wait for her to come back to earth, I am filled with gratitude so great my head swims and my heart pounds. There are many women I’ve given up, many more I’ve walked away from. Some, like Latisha, who have chosen to walk away from me, and none have affected me by half as this woman.

Dear God, thank you for the moment in time I’ve shared with this woman. She is the light that casts my shadow. Only in the depth of her darkness have I found my own light. How am I to ever let her go?

Pulling her collar chain, I drag her lips closer, until they are pressed between the rungs of the safety railing she is bound to. Holding the chain tight, I capture her mouth, kissing her, licking, her, raping her mouth. This is as close to fucking her as I will ever come and I want her to remember my taste, mingled with hers, bruised into her mouth.

Kissing her, hard, harder, I shove my fingers into her again, driving them deep, finger-fucking her pussy while I rape her mouth with my tongue. I bring her hard and fast, just because I can, just because it gives me pleasure to do so.

She lies across the bed face down. The evidence of my abuse is displayed in a pattern of pinks and reds and purples across her ass and thighs. I sit down on the bed, leaning over her face. She is resplendent, exhausted, and gloriously flushed. I kiss her temple, holding her bangs away from her face. “Are you ready for the birch cane, sweetheart?”

She opens one eye lazily, hoping I am teasing, and seeing the cane in my hand, she knows I’m not. She closes the one eye, and I think for a moment that she will cry, her face screwing into a devastated mask that she hides behind her hand. I let her hide, watching her regain her composure.

It is a moment before she can speak, a moment before she can surrender to this pain; but she does surrender, saying, “I am ready, Lord Fyre.”

“Turn over, love. I’m going to mark your front side now.”

She gasps then settles for holding her breath before finally blowing out her resolve in a loud huff, and rolling over. She squeaks in pain, the endorphins calming enough for her to feel the welts along her backside scraped by the bedspread.

I do not drag out her agony, catching her quick on top of her thighs with two quick flicks of the birch, again, quick, two more flicks on top of her thighs. The welts spring up angry and red immediately. After the second set of flicks, she grabs her thighs with her hands, hiding them from me. I know that she hurts like hell and her covering herself is more reflex than conscious action. I flick the birch against her stomach and her hands move to cover her middle.

I flick the inside of her right thigh hard, the birch marks her wide and deep, the welt an ugly purple, but not breaking the skin.

The pain brings her off the bed. I grab her shoulders and pull her into me. “I’m done. We’re done,” I promise. It takes a moment for my words to sink in and then she understands. We’re done.

The words reduce her to hysterical sobs. I hold her, letting her sob until she sleeps, and even in sleep, she cries.

“…I am running away from something dreadful and cannot escape it. I am always with myself, and it is I who am my tormentor … it is myself I am weary of and find intolerable and a torment. I want to fall asleep and forget myself and cannot, I cannot get away from myself.”

-Alexei Tolstoy

Kitten

I awake to find him gone. It is early, very early. I slept, not meaning to and now he is gone. I close my eyes, remembering…

I end up screaming at an empty room and the walls echo back to me as I slam into the cold, tiled bathroom. “I will not cry for you, Lord Fyre. Damn it. I do not love you. I love Garrett. I belong to him and today I will go back to him.”

I hit the light switch hard, turning on the light, liking the pain of hitting the light switch hard. Seeing myself in his mirrors, seeing each bruise, each mark, I am flooded by the memory of last night. I sobbed and he held me. It was too much knowing that we were finished, knowing that our time together was over. He held me and kissed me, saying things he shouldn’t have ever said to me.

“Thank you for sharing your darkness with me, sweetheart.”

I cried harder.

“I love you,” he’d said…oh my God, he did say it. Why? Of all the things to say, why did he say that to me? Only my mother ever said I love you, no one else, not until the moment in the hospital when Garrett said it. It was just three words strung together with the promise to be waiting for me. But Garrett does love me, doesn’t he? Or he wouldn’t be waiting, would he?

I wish Garrett had said I love you like Lord Fyre said I love you. I love you with so much pain in his heart that he sounded like it hurt to say it. I love you like I may never see you again and I don’t want that to be truth. I love you, I love you, I love you.