The toga wasn’t that bad, now that Kendra had gotten used to it. Of course, now that she’d gotten used to it, the night, and the dance, were over, Ofir was a little bit tipsy and beginning to lose the edges of his senatorial drapings, and they were away from the safety of the crowd and back to their room. She surreptitiously straightened her own draping, hoping Ofir would fall asleep before getting any other ideas.
Alas, it seemed unlikely; he gave her a look as the door closed, and she knew what he wanted, what he expected of her. Maybe she could divert him with conversation?
“So I guess I’m leaving in the morning,” she blurted out. “For a couple weeks.”
Ofir stood beside the bed, facing her, as he de-accessorized his outfit. “Yeah,” he frowned, grunting as he struggled with a strap.
Oh, dear, that hadn’t been the direction to go with that. “May I help?” she offered, gesturing to the straps.
“Yeah,” he repeated sullenly, dropping his hands and looking back at her.
He didn’t like her to drink much at dances, which, conveniently, was also her opinion on the matter, so her hands were more steady as she undressed him, trying to focus on something innocuous. His arms. His tattoos. Sometimes, that she could do something better than him made him angry. Not tonight, please. Someone would notice the bruises.
Fortunately, he seemed to realize and accept that his mild inebriation was the cause of his unsteadiness, rather than holding it against her.
“Good girl,” he said, placing a hand on the side of her head, over her cheek and hair. She leaned into the hand, letting the little rush of pleasure flow over her. It felt so good when he was happy with her.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“You know how to thank me properly,” he chided gently. “And meanwhile, we need to talk about this trip of yours.”
She felt heat rising to her cheeks and lowered her chin deferentially. “What about my trip?” He couldn’t order her not to go, could he? They’d worked so hard for this.
“Well, first of all, you need to understand what it means if you’re going to leave. This isn’t something you can just walk away from, even for only a couple of weeks.”
She nodded. They’d talked about that, cy’Pelletier. Her, Renata, Callista… but he wouldn’t want to hear that. “Okay?” she squeaked. She seemed to squeak more and more lately.
“Being away from me is going to hurt. It’s not going to be fun, it’s not going to be pleasant. You need me. You need my attention, you need my touch.” His hand slid down to her shoulder, exerting a soft downward pressure that she knew wouldn’t stay gentle for long if she resisted it.
She had no reason to fight it, right now, so she fell to her knees in front of him, her head bowed. “Yes,” she said softly. Even if his touch was as often painful as it was pleasant.
“You’re not going to like being away. You’re going to wish you were with me; and at night, you’re going to crave my touch, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Do you still want to go?”
This was going to hurt. She swallowed. “Yes,” she whispered, trying not to look as if she was bracing.
“What are you waiting for?” he snapped, visibly irritated. “And you’re sure?”
He couldn’t tell her not to, she realized. He didn’t want her to go, but he must be forbidden, somehow, from simply ordering her to stay home.
She finished undressing him with careful, quick movements, shifting a little, trying to find that place where she wasn’t thinking any more. “Yes, please.” Pretend it was his choice.
“Alright, then, there are going to be rules, lest you forget your place without me around to remind you.”
Rules. More rules. Please, please don’t let any of them be the sort that showed. She stroked his hips, nodded silently.
“Wait,” he said suddenly. “Your clothes, too, first. And yes, rules. Don’t tell anyone that you’ve been punished, or how. Don’t tell anyone you’re not happy here. In fact, don’t talk to the staff about our relationship at all.”
She nodded at every order, slowly stripping off her toga, letting it pile around her feet. Why would she want to tell people? Cy’Pelletier, maybe… but teachers? “Okay.”
“That’s better. Now come here.”
She let him hold her head again, pulling her down, and resisted the latent urge to fight him, an urge that was lessening every time.
“Good,” he said as she began. “That’s all you’re good for anyway; probably all you’ll ever be good for. Remember that.”
Copyright © 2009-2011 Lyn Thorne-Alder with Elasmo. All rights reserved.
| Home | About | Table of Contents | Contact|