Interlude: Ambrus and Manira

Ambrus’ neck felt bare and exposed under his open shirt; the flat torque he had worn for most of the last two decades was at “home,” in Regine’s room, waiting on his dresser.

It was just symbolic, of course; he still belonged to his Mistress. But when she chose to let him prowl “off the leash” she’d never either used or needed, his bare neck told both of them – and the others who understood – that he served his own pleasure tonight.

Not that he ever did any differently. Not that it ever failed to serve his Mistress’s purposes. And not that that bothered him in the least. His seed had been hers since she’d first laid claim to him; if it pleased her to allow him to spread it in a manner he found appealing, that was her prerogative.

And he did, sometimes, find it so, so appealing. Like this one. She had thrown him for a loop, but that made her all the more intriguing, all the more tempting.

A flash of dark hair and pale skin sent him sliding through the crowd towards the bar. She was… wasn’t Shahin. He had a moment for disappointment (that never reached his face, of course) and then this girl who was not Shahin (the hair was blood red, not black; the skin was peaches-and-cream) smiled at him.

“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “Buy me a drink?”

Of course not. The money, after all, was all going to his Mistress’s pockets; he never paid for drinks. And he’d come over for...


...for her, of course.

“Sure.” He gave her his best cute-and-harmless smile. “What are you having?”

Her name was Manira, he learned, over her first Tequila Sunrise, and there was something cute and kittenish about her that made him want to devour her, the adorable tilt of her head and the naïveté that seems to shine from her like an saint’s halo. Even her opening line had been practiced, she admitted, something a girl in her History class had suggested she try when she found a guy she liked.

She was vivacious and sweet, enough so that he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn she’d been a cheerleader, but polite, too, in a way that was rather old-fashioned, allowing him to guide the conversation, to talk about himself. Not that he had a lot to talk of – being a career pet for the greater share of his life hadn’t left him with a lot of stories to tell, at least not the sort he could tell to a charming 4-H member – who rode horses and played classical piano – and still expect her to talk to him afterwards.

And he found he wanted her to talk to him, to like him, enough that it was coloring, not just his choice of stories, but the charm he leaned on her. Rather than the crass, back-seat hunger that was his wont, he found himself twisting tales of roses and princes around her, soft feeling of romance and gentle, dimly-lit deflowering.

It was a subtler effect than he was used to spinning, but it seemed it worked; as they chatted over slowly sipped drinks, she went from shy and coy to relaxed and friendly, wiggling a little closer to him with each passing drink.

And when he walked her to her room, as the dance dwindled to a few sleepy slow songs, she tilted her head up for a good-night kiss, and he was careful to make it as gentle and sweet as the prince he was pretending to be, his hand trailing down his back but stopping before he reached the pert curve of her ass. He waited until she was safely inside her room, the door closed and clicked locked, before he walked away.

She would take time, and careful handling. A challenge. Oh, but a tasty one, and worth the effort, when he finally got to pluck that fruit. She wasn’t the target his Mistress had approved, and there was a chance Regine would be disappointed in him. Perhaps even angry.

The chance to finally get a rise out of her, that made the whole thing even sweeter.


Manira leaned against her door, catching her breath. He was so urbane, so experienced, so mysterious. What would it be like, to be courted by a man like that, to feel his lips against hers…

“Woah, girl,” she murmured to herself softly, shaking her head. Damn, for a half-breed he was good, really, really good. And his eyes were the deepest she’d ever seen.

“Shit.” And that beautiful hair...

“Shit. Fuck. Damn.” She threw herself on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. And those lips…


Copyright © 2009-2010 Lyn Thorne-Alder & Elasmo. All rights reserved.
| Home | About | Table of Contents | Contact|