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Other Colors -- Ch. 14 (section 2)

A D/s romance set in Montreal. Due to length, this chapter has been split into two sections.
God. Oh my God. He did…

My knees nearly buckled. They were already weakened after my orgasm, and from being pinned apart by him for what seemed like half an eon. Now, with every step I took, I had to fret over the petrifying thought of Edward VII’s bitter chocolate dribbling down my thigh.

And right in that moment, I hated him. Dmitri, that is—not Edward. But also Edward, my blood simmered, and Lily Langtry and Madame and Marie and anyone else in history who helped me blunder my way into this. But him I hated most of all. I hated him because however humiliated and defiled I felt, I was still miserably and irrepressibly turned on.

He led me further, back between all the other little alcoves, still filled with their diners in dim chiaroscuro. Whenever possible, I kept my eyes to the floor—afraid to look at anyone, afraid they might read telepathically my shameful, surely melting secret. I walked heel-to-toe before him the whole way back to the vestibule.

He left me momentarily to retrieve our coats. I stood stone still, hands folded in front of me. I had no inkling, really, of what he had planned for me. And I suppose it never even crossed his mind that I might like to... or rather it did, and he didn’t care.

If I’d truly listened to him an hour prior, I should have been less shocked. He said it outright; that if I let him, he would make an object of me. But standing there all alone, staring down at my toes, I think I felt a bit less like one of his cherished objects than I did a thing used by him. Something soiled, disposable… I wondered. I wondered how long he would make me stay this way, and my frustration rippled a little deeper.

He turned back to me, something very chilling flickering in his eyes; and whatever it was, I knew I wouldn’t be kept waiting long. He was hungry. And I was food. From where he stood, I imagine I made my own fine, little tableau vivant for him in the candlelight. Standing by meek, and silent, I thought of Lefebvre's La Cigale.

I turned around for him, but he didn’t help me into my coat. He left it where it was, folded over his forearm, and snatched my wrist in his hand. I staggered behind him as he led me up the stairs toward the street. Wait. I can’t go outside like this, I twisted my arm away, and he twisted it right back. I’ll freeze before we make it three steps.

But we weren’t going outside. Instead, at the top of the landing he doubled back down another narrow stone corridor. Light was scarce, but I could see just well enough to read a raised bronze placard as he dragged me swiftly past it.

‘Accès réservé exclusivement au personnel.’

“…Dmitri,” I rasped, my voice shaking, “I don’t think we’re supposed to be here.”

He made no answer, but tightened his hold on me. My brow furrowed. When it came to breaking rules, from around kindergarten onward I’d been a quintessential wet blanket, and my recent evening in the Saint-Michel holding cell was an aberration that I didn’t hope to soon replicate. Yet here I was, his reluctant accomplice, trespassing the dim, twisting halls of a defunct jailhouse.

That the place had been a prison once was all the more obvious having left behind the soft and intimate textures of the dining room. Each doorway we passed was still sealed, replete with iron straps, heavy locks and latches, and a small, unsettling barred portal. He glanced through each one as we passed by it, dragging me along further into the darkness.

I couldn’t begin to tell what he was searching for—I was too short to see inside the cells—but at the end of the hall, he apparently found it. We halted. The hinges groaned as he drew the door open, and threw me inside. For a few foolish moments, I panicked, believing wholeheartedly he might just lock me up, and leave me there. But before the door even clicked shut, he was on me—storming and terrible, catching me in a kiss, and forcing me back, back until I collided between him and the wall.

But it wasn’t a wall. He turned his aggressions to my throat, and I glanced around, dazed. A barred and glassed-in demilune window let in just enough amber light from the alleyway to show that the room was in fact not empty. It was filled floor-to-ceiling with wooden racks of wine bottles. He’d pinned me against one of them, and a bolt of fear shot through me as realized we were fooling around in the restaurant’s wine cellar.

“No, no, no, wait. We can’t...” I shoved him hard in the chest, and strained to tear myself away, “what if someone comes in?”

He pulled away, but just barely, and shrugged out of his suit jacket. Christ, those shoulders… He stared, one side of his face starkly lit by the streetlamps.

“No one,” he drew a dusty, green bottle from the rack, “is coming to save you, Penny.” He let it fall, and I flinched as it shattered loudly across the stones. “Understood?”

I gazed down at the glass in glinting shards; a pool of inky red wine seeping slowly along the floor. I bit my lip. The blood and the body. It was pretty in a way, like a Willem Claesz still life—dark, overturned, and ominous. And though it nearly scared me out of my skin, the crash itself also stirred up something strange in me. I was still afraid. But I liked it.

And he was right. There were no footsteps echoing in the hall. No one was coming. And no one would stop him—not even me. Even if I’d wanted to, my body would never have allowed it. The lower half of me still smoldered for him.

He took me again, kissing me cruelly, and I, sighing and writhing, only craved him more for it. He was rough with me—far more so than that first time in his library—though each motion he made seemed fiercely deliberate. It was like an Argentine tango; all arrastre, caricias, and castigada. But even with him leading, nothing, my eleven unimpressive years of ballet included, could have prepared me for the lift.

He ripped his lips away from mine, fell to one knee, and before I even understood what was happening, he’d ripped the bottom of my dress clear up to my bottom ribs. I gasped as he laid a quick, soft kiss on my navel, and hoisted me off the ground—my bare thighs straddling his shoulders.

If I shrieked, the tone fell well above the range of human hearing. He held me there, feet dangling in midair, as he ran his hands across my chest, my waist, my hips, and down—down until sinking his fingers into the soft, ticklish skin of my ass. I giggled compulsively, and tried to squirm. He didn’t let me. I was trapped. And as I glanced down to him, to his predatory leer, and his prickling, stubbled jaw between my knees, I felt the full, fearful weight of my vulnerability collapse upon me.

He made me watch, half-sick with anticipation, as he drew his tongue roughly along my inner thigh, tracing a slender, black trickle of chocolate toward the warm, dark place he’d hidden his dessert. He went higher, and higher, savoring my every whimper, until a tremor shook through my entire torso, almost doubling me over. But my hips he held absolutely still.

“Not yet,” he paused to sweep his hands across my chest, shoving me back against the rack. “Be patient.”

I wanted to. I did. I wanted to be obedient; to do precisely as he told me. I wanted to hear him call me his ‘good girl’ again. But it took every ounce of restraint remaining in me just to keep from breaking down in paroxysms and tears. I shut my eyes tight. None too slowly, he was taking me to the edge of one of my most persistent and petrifying bedroom anxieties.

Granted, my list was not a long one, but at one time or another I’m pretty sure I went down on most every guy who ever spent the night with me. And none of them—not one—had ever seen fit to reciprocate. I never knew why, and for the longest time, it didn’t bother me in the least. It just wasn’t the sort of thing that gave me much pause.

But for two full years, the man to whom I was once engaged made me blow him every Sunday, just before he went golfing. He said his swing was cleaner when he wasn’t ‘distracted’. Then about a month before our wedding date, on a rainy, painfully shaming day in September, I finished the chore, and out of sheer curiosity, finally asked him whether there was any reason he’d never done the same for me.

He said he had before with other girls, but that the idea of doing it again disgusted him. He said it was unseemly, and unsanitary. He said it so casually; as if it all ought to have been obvious to me—obvious that my body was something dirty, and undesirable to him.

And I believed him. The truth was, I didn’t mind feeling a bit dirty once in a while. That was my secret to keep. But no sliver of me whatsoever liked being made to feel like honest-to-God filth. I could still see him; still hear him, really—amiably and obliviously explaining how much I repulsed him. I was still kneeling while he spoke. My feet had fallen asleep. He zipped up his khakis, and patted me on the head. He told me not to wait up. He would have his dinner at the club.

That was the last time I helped him with his swing. What he’d said stung me on the surface, but the poison went much deeper, and stayed in me long afterward. I wondered if all the others, few though they were, had felt the same way about me. After all this time, I was still wondering.

I quivered like one electrocuted as Dmitri drew nearer, and nearer. I watched his lips clean away the last little trail of chocolate from my thigh, and I felt the rough surface of his tongue dragging itself slowly to the center of me. At that last, critical moment, he stopped, expelling a long, hot sigh across my skin. 

“W-what is it?” the words singed my mouth, "...is something wrong?”

“Nyet,” he growled—and I could feel it; feel the warm, jagged vibrations of his voice, “…all the sweeter, little sparrow.”

With his last word, he let his lips close over my aching vulva, and sank himself upon me.

…God.

It was the word, the only one, for what I felt. He withered me. In principio erat verbum. My skin seemed to tighten, my muscles to dry out and twist. My toes coiled in until it hurt—I kicked my heels to the floor. And when his tongue flitted again over my clitoris, I cast my head back, closed my eyes, and either prayed to him, or repented. I’m not sure which. And I’m not sure that it mattered.

Ave Maria, gratia plena…

He devoured me. Deeper, deeper—I felt dizzy; almost drunk. The spinning in my head gained speed, and I ran my fingers through the dark waves of his hair, clutching it in fistfuls to keep my balance.

Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in… in…

He grazed me softly between his teeth, and all my Latin went up in smoke. Whole regions of my brain were burning themselves out. I could feel his whiskers prickling between my thighs.

B-blessed art thou amongst ladies…

He growled softly, ravening against my lips, and sparing not the slightest tingling fold of me.

And blessed the fruit of thy womb.

My hips pulsed hard against his jaw. When he first started in on me, I thought for certain I could stay there, floating on his shoulders, with his mouth on me all night. It was unhealthy—how good it felt, how easily he pinioned me, and turned me inside out. But something else was happening in me now. He’d made me greedy. I needed more. I needed him…in me. And I didn’t want to be ended until he was. Until he was filling me. All of him. To his very hilt. ‘Happy dagger. This is thy sheath.’

Holy Mary, Mother of God…

“…I want you,” my breath seethed inside my throat.

He didn’t stop. He spoke with his lips still upon me, wrecking me a little more with every word.

“No,” he let his incisors saw softly over the bud of clitoris. “You don’t, Penny.”

W-what? I shook my head furiously, frustrated, a few stray tears shaking down my cheeks.

“Tell me what you really want,” he stopped, and looked into me coldly. “No platitudes, Penny. No poetry.”

I turned away, teeth trembling. I couldn’t look at him. But a dark, vulgar part of me understood what he was after. He wanted to make me say it. He wanted to hear the truth—my dirty, desperate, and unadorned truth.

“I want you…” I whispered, shaking a few more searing tears from my lashes, “…to fuck me, sir.”

“Yes,” once more, he lashed his tongue across me. "You do."

“I want…I want your cock in me—fucking my cunt.”

“Yes,” he growled, "your sweet, sopping wet cunt, Penny."

“I want you to hurt me.”

The words were delivered out of my own lips, but I had no idea in what sinister organ of me they'd undergone their gestation.

“No.”

I gasped sharply as he rose, still holding me, and let my legs slip down about his hips. He bent his head very near to mine. I could see his lips and chin glistening. I could smell bitter chocolate on his breath.

“At least,” his belt clinked. “not tonight."

Pray for me now

With a jolt, he freed himself, sliding the length of him very slowly over my slickened labia, across my tormented clitoris, through a small, perspiring patch of soft brown hair, and up; until the root of him pressed in against me, and his tip grazed my navel. The heady sensation of his stab—the illusion, and shadow puppetry as prelude to how he indeed intended to run me through—it made me shudder, and it made me moan. How in God’s name does he fit it inside of me? It didn’t seem possible, not without impaling some vital organ.

…And at the hour of my death.

He drew himself down again, his tip gliding, just barely, between my inner lips, and he stopped. He put his forehead hard to mine. He made me look at him—made me look into his eyes.

Amen.

And he split me open. I spilled the whole volume of my lungs out in a single gasp. There was nothing lingering, or lovelorn in the way he handled me—all the sweetness inside of me, he'd already eaten.

I ran my hands through his hair, and he pinned my wrists against the rack. I strained to kiss him, and he left my lips empty. I laced my legs around him, pulsing my hips to hungrily receive him, and he thrust harder, deeper, utterly out of harmony with my undulations. And after only a few moments, his message became clear—what I wanted from him meant nothing in this. I meant nothing in this. I was a means to his end. He didn’t need for me to speak. He didn’t need me to see, or breathe, or move. All that he would have of me, he could take for himself.

So I surrendered. I let it happen. And I relished it—held by him, helpless, and half-stripped on the rack. He moved in me, pressing his chest into mine as he pierced me through. I breathed in. He withdrew. I breathed out. I ached all over. And I started to suffocate.

That part of him that penetrated me—it may well have replaced my phrenic nerve, controlling and cutting off each breath I drew. His speed increased, and his chest pressed harder, crushing my breasts beneath his rigid pectorals. Inspiration, expiration… The space between them kept dwindling; as did the little cage of my ribs. Lightheadedness hit me. I struggled to keep myself cognizant, but the air was running out.

It wasn’t just my labored ventilations that dizzied me. Somewhere, somehow, he’d set fire inside me. I could feel it, burning up each bubble of oxygen in my blood. I could feel the vacuum it created in my cavities; the constant, wrenching tension that sought to implode me. It was a kind of tortured euphoria. From my own lips, I’d have fed his flame the last breath of air in my body, just to keep it from dying out on me. And I’d have let it burn through and immolate me long before I ever tried to extinguish it.

He, too, appeared to be burning. Still harder, he sank himself into me. Beads of clear sweat glinted on his temples and brow, and his breath seethed hot across my face.

“Open those eyes, Miss Foster,” he snarled at me through his teeth, “I want to see them this time.”

This time? My body quaked as he drove his hips deeper beneath me, forcing me forward on his cock. He cleaved me. That spot—that tender, swelling, restive spot in me—he laid himself into it. And when I tried to cry out, he kissed me; stifling the sound before it started, and severing my breath before it began.

My chest and hips heaved. I still didn’t breathe. I saw lights spinning round me; strange stars of polychrome—red, blue, and green. And whether they augured in me the little death, or the other one, in my half-senseless state I could scarcely say. I saw them dilate, and detonate inside my eyes. And then I saw nothing.

I don’t think I blacked out exactly. I could feel him in me and around me the whole time, and I could hear him. I heard him groan, and gasp. My sight was gone, I think, for less than one full second. But when I came to, I was coming. And so was he.

His eyes flashed at me, fierce and freezing. I felt his flesh ripple, and stir. And I felt him go stiff, like fresh-smelted iron, as he emptied himself inside of me.

Still, I was coming. It just—it just wouldn’t stop...

A few broken pieces of me almost envied him. His was there, and then it wasn’t; pummeling and powerful, like a late summer cloudburst. But mine—it tore through me more like an iceberg; lumbering aimlessly on an arctic sea, but demolishing all that so much as brushed up against it. To this day, it was perhaps the longest individual orgasm I’ve ever had. And at that time, before Lacoste, it was likely the strongest as well.

His waves crashed on me. Cold, and hot, and cold again. They came at me, through me, and kept coming. I was drowning beneath them; sobbing silently skyward before they finally receded, desperate for a deeper breath. Then, the storm ended—and the last dying wave washed me, battered and broken, down upon the shoreline of his beating chest.

I fell apart, lips and eyelids trembling, panting hard into his shoulder for I truly don’t know how long. The entire time though, he held me there—high off the ground in his arms. I could feel his heart. It was pumping hard against my cheek. But his breaths were still steady, and slow. I curled my toes, wondering how long it had been since they’d touched the floor. It occurred to me hauntingly how powerful his body must really be. He could break you, I shut my eyes, and sank some teeth into my lower lip, so easily, Penny. So easily.

At last, he lowered me to the ground, and let go. I leaned back against the wine rack, blushing and tugging my dress back down to my thighs, as he snatched up both our coats and my high heels. I was still panting a little, and I could barely stand. But I could stand even less to be split from him, even for that fleeting moment. His hands, his lips—the rest of him. I wanted more; another cruel caress, or one last kiss.

One more, I thought dreamily, Please. ‘To smooth that rough touch…’ I stepped toward him.

But he held me where I was, shoving his palm hard into my chest. I gasped, and fell back against the rack again. He nearly knocked the wind out me. I clasped my breastbone, glaring at him; lips parted in a scorned and angry stupor.

“The glass,” he breathed coolly, nodding down to my unshod feet.

I glanced to the floor. A few green shards lay just at the edge of my toes, glimmering in a tiny sea of cold, red wine. Criss de câlisse

He leaned over and scooped me up in his arms, setting me down lightly by the door; then knelt and grasped my ankle—the same one he’d bandaged a week prior. I watched him through a drowsy mist of déjà vu, slipping my toes into the lacy, black shoe. ‘Il vit qu'elle y entrait sans peine...’ I couldn’t help it—I smiled foolishly, recalling my Perrault.Et qu'elle y était juste comme de cire.’ He slipped the other on, and stood.

“Here,” he whirled his heavy, wool topcoat around my shoulders, and tossed my ragged jacket over his arm. He caught my eye, smirking as he closed the lapels across my chest. “Wouldn’t want to catch cold, would we?”

I had hardly the composure left in me to speak. I just nodded.

Looking back, I suspect his cloaking me like that had far more to do with my disheveled appearance than it did with any foul winter weather. Somehow, it didn’t even cross my mind to consider what a mess he must have made of me until the following morning, when I could see some of the remaining wreckage in a mirror for myself. Even so, I knew full well that I looked absurd in his topcoat. The sleeves fell half a dozen inches past my fingertips, and even in my heels the hem still dragged the ground. It was the scent of it, though, that kept me silent—and why I didn’t particularly want to give it back.

I breathed greedily. The smell of himIt was familiar now, but still as shadowy and intoxicating as the first time he laid his hands on me. Crisp and heady. Civetone and cedar. Sea air after a storm… Even the wool—rough and bristling against my neck—it reminded me of his stubble; and I pulled it closer to me as he drew open the door, and wrapped his arm around my waist.

He led me briskly back down the corridor. Out ahead, I could see a little light spilling in from the stairwell. And for just a moment, I really believed we would make it out of that place Scot-free. Where does that comes from..? 

But a man’s silhouette appeared in the hall as we approached. He wore a white dinner coat. He was walking our way. I dropped my eyes, mortified, as Dmitri led me toward him.

“Monsieur Caine,” he hailed us, “avez-vous trouvé votre bonheur ici?”

Lord. I couldn’t bring myself to look, but I recognized the voice; the affected Provençal accent. It was the maître d’ from downstairs.

“Mais oui, Charles,” Dmitri didn’t slow us down; but I caught him discreetly handing off a thick fold of bills as we passed by, “C'était délicieux.”

"Très Bien. Merci pour votre gentillesse,” he called after us, “Bonne nuit, mes amis!”

I glanced up at Dmitri skeptically, my face flushed and brow furrowed. He smirked wryly, and drew me closer as we reached the landing.

“For the mess we made. That second bottle,” he thrust the door open, and we emerged onto the snowy streets, “was about my age, Miss Foster.”

My teeth chattered in the frigid night air. I had no energy to shiver. My body and brain were beyond drained, but not so much that I would miss this type of opportunity.

“Are you sure it was enough, then?” I crossed my arms, more pleased with the quip than I probably should have been, “Mr. Caine?”

He sniffed his amusement, and raised my chin to face him.

“Are you calling me old, little girl?”

“Mais non,” I widened my eyes innocently. “Je pense le mot est ‘millésime’, Monsieur.”

“You like provoking me, don’t you?” he ran his thumb over my lower lip, parting it softly from the one above, “you like showing me your teeth.” He leaned closer, and I could see his breath, billowing in wispy, warm clouds as he whispered, “That’s fine. I’m going to like punishing you, Penny,” he released my lip, “I’m going to like showing you mine.”

My heart skipped once, but I hadn’t the stamina to remain afraid of him any longer. I rested my forehead on his chest, imagining what dreadful anxieties might have gripped me in this moment—waiting to be taken back to Lacoste, to be taken his prisoner—had he not run me completely ragged beforehand. I’m not certain I would’ve survived the car ride.

A few moments passed, and a little black limousine met us at the curb. He helped me inside, and slid himself next to me. The moment the door snapped shut, I felt the last droplet of adrenaline dissolve out of my bloodstream, and exhaustion washed over me like an ocean wave. We started moving. He wrapped an arm around me. My cheek fell against his shoulder. And I slept. I slept deeply.

I don’t really recall arriving at Lacoste that night. There’s a heap of broken images where that memory should be—a dim mosaic from the time he roused me from the carriage house, to the time he left me at the threshold of that same dark bedroom, there at the end of the third floor corridor—the one that Anaïs Angélique de la Coste was said to haunt.

He told me I would be ready for him at seven. He kissed each of my eyelids. He drew the door closed behind him. I slept again. The rest is silence.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © © M. Thomas Ashe, 2015. All rights reserved.



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