Mistress Mine

18- Suzanna

"I got one," I told her.

"No way! When did that happen?"

"The same time the apartment happened,"

"Don't you just regret every moment you didn't have one?"

I thought about it. About the obstacles it had created with my relationship with Oliver, and the brief breakup. But then thought of the clean house that I've been coming to everyday, the meals he prepares so meticulously well, and his smell when he sat by me on the couch last night, the way his thigh brushed mine. If it weren't for Sybil barging in without invitation or a warning, our evening would've escalated into much more before I could've even realized it.

My silence gave the ideas that I especially didn't want to give her. "Don't tell me," she said. "You haven't navigated the possibilities! What are you doing?"

I feigned confusion, "What possibilities,"

"Well, for one, no vibrator needed ever again," she thought a moment before amending, "Well, not ever, but like, you now have an array of possibilities to choose from," she continued in shushed tone, "they're so, very talented."

"Well,"

"You've always been so stiff. You need to loosen up a little."

"There had been no time." And also, there's the fact that I've never been with a slave before, one doesn't know when to initiate contact when he's always looking away, never meeting my eyes unless he was asking how I liked the food or whether or not I wanted my coffee with cream and sugar. In fact, now that I think about it again, our evening yesterday wouldn't have probably gone anywhere. I most likely would have ended up being too awkward and called it off before it started.

"Now you're just being silly, seriously. Unbelievable!"

She wouldn't understand, she'd had a slave since she was seventeen, it was like second nature to her by now. But I tried explaining anyway, "With a free man, it's simple, we both want it, we both know the limits and-"

She cut me off, shaking her head furiously, "But that's just it, there are no limits to what you can do. He'll do whatever you want him to do. It's why he's around." I was ready to disagree, shaking my head, and she saw it. "Here, I'll demonstrate," she said, then called, "Ronan!"

He appeared, still in his g-string that left nothing for the imagination, and bowed before her, holding a jar of what looked like honey in his hand, a wooden spatula inside it. "It's not quite ready yet, Mistress."

"There," she ordered him, pointing to her bed, and ignoring his statement, "lay on the bed."

He did as ordered, still holding the jar in his hand. I stood up, "You're going to burn him just to prove a point, and I'm the one being unbelievable!"

She took the jar from him, her eyes searching his body. His chest was hairless, and so she moved her attention to his legs, getting him to raise them, then proping them up with a pillow. "It's what he's here for,"

"For you to burn,"

"For him to please me. And it pleases me right now to do that to him."

"I really-"

She cut me off, "And he doesn't mind, do you, boy?"

"No Mistress," Then, of all things he could do, he turned to me, and said, "I would be thrilled to do whatever Mistress wanted me to do, ma'am."

"And I thought you were one of the nice ones," I told her.

She scooped a bit from her jar, ordered him to stay still, then spread it on his leg, he hissed, but otherwise didn't move. She waited a moment, not looking at me, then touched what she's put before quickly withdrawing her hand as she's been stung. She sucked at the hurt finger, then put the jar down and went to sit next to him, her hand stroking his cheek. His head slid only an inch, and in the next moment, he was placing a kiss on her hand, then before she withdrew it, he cranes his neck and took the finger between his lips, wrapping his lips around and sucking. They looked ready to be devoured, or perhaps it was the nude body that was projecting that kind of invitation. And except turning his head, he hadn't moved a muscle, just as she's ordered.

It was jarringly sexual, but unlike her attitude, his didn't seem rehearsed of designed to put on a show. It seemed genuine, if a bit over the top. His eyes never left searching her face, presumably looking for any sign of discomfort. But her eyes were on me, a slight crease marrying her beautiful features, and she smiled, looking all too pleased with herself.

I wasn't too pleased, though. I know what a hierarchy is. I know slaves go through much to please their owners, and are ready to endure a lot if that meant avoiding a punishment that was much worse later. I was under no illusion of that, I had grown up around it, and had been part of it. I was part of it now. I hit my own slave for little mistakes countless times, and I hadn't thought about it twice. I wasn't uncomfortable doing that. I only had a problem with sexual acts, because they were new to me. But I never hit him for no reason, or to prove a point, or for entertainment. Which was what this thing had turned into, entertainment.

Arabella sighed as she saw my expression, "The instructions said that we wait fifteen to twenty minutes. How long has it been, boy?"

"Thirteen minutes when you called me, Mistress."

"I am one of the nice ones," she told me, answering my accusation from earlier, "I'm so nice that's the most I could do is use hot wax on him that most middle class women get burnt with at least a few times in their lives. You, yourself, have been through laser sessions. And don't these hurt?"

"Sure," They hurt like a b'tch. "But-"

"That's it, then. These are the same kinds of pain. You go through it to have silkier skin and please the society around you. He goes through it to please me."

I couldn't fault that logic. And she wasn't waiting for me to. In her head, she'd won the argument, and she had gone back to promptly touching the wax that had, by now, cooled enough to harden. "I'm supposed to snatch it, all at once and quickly."

"As per the instructions," I mocked.

"As per the instruction," she repeated. Either not noticing my sarcasm, or choosing to ignore it.