In her subterranean luxury apartment, Regine lounged in her overstuffed armchair, flipping channels on her wide-screen TV.
Ambrus sat contentedly curled up on the floor at her feet, watching the images flick past from the very discretely hidden cameras – dining hall, classrooms, hallways, pool… The students moved through the complex in little groups, the returning students with an amused arrogance, the new ones with a bit of nervousness, many with a certain defensive caution that Ambrus remembered well.
He’d been barely older then these kids when Regine had strode into the middle of a hardcore BDSM club, her only concession to the ambiance that her customary garden-party skirt and sweater set were in black and burgundy. Something about her had demanded attention and respect; she has not seemed so much out of her element as much as surrounded by others who didn’t belong. Ambrus remembered staring at her, defying punishment that never came; he remembered her staring at him in return.
She had held a brief, quiet conversation with the unpleasant man who’d been holding Ambrus’ leash at the time, and a few minutes later, Ambrus had found himself walking out with her hand on the back of his collar.
That had been two decades ago. He smiled to himself and snuggled a little more closely against her legs. It was his private belief that his brilliant Lady had never really understood what she was getting into with him.
She stroked his hair lightly and continued to flip through the channels. Outside the dining hall, a slender, waif-like blonde girl talked to two other blondes, these two California-tan. “Quite a few blondes this year,” he commented.
“One-third the new students,” she answered. “I blame Aelfgar.”
“They can’t all be his?”
“Two of them, and a third is his grandchild.”
“Grandchild?” He hadn’t recalled meeting a daughter of Aelfgar of the proper age.
“Through the father.”
“Aah.” Aelfgar did get around, after all.
She flipped the channel again, to the locker rooms. A fair-skinned girl with great masses of long, black hair was undressing, methodically removing her elaborate Victorian-esque outfit until she stood naked except for underpants and wristwarmers, and then began dressing in her gym clothes, every bit as methodically.
Ambrus wondered briefly if she was a cutter, if that was why she kept her arms so carefully covered, but more than that he wondered what her porcelain skin would feel like under his hands; he was fascinated by the way one long lock of hair trailed down her back, ending like an upturned question-mark just above the slight curve of her bottom.
“I want her,” he said, impetuously. It had been a long time since he’d asked Regine for anything.
“Shahin?” She stopped changing channels, leaving the image of the dark-haired girl paused, shirt half-on. “Then take her, dear. It shouldn’t be too hard for you.”
This is an updated, edited, revised chapter. For the original, click here
Copyright © 2009-2011 Lyn Thorne-Alder with Elasmo. All rights reserved.
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