Interlude: Xaviera

Her heart was pounding as she crept through the halls. Last night, she hadn’t pushed it. Mistress had just left, and Master was cranky. But it had been long enough that it should be safe, and she needed as much time as she could get, for her plan to work.

She didn’t knock, of course, just slipped in, releasing the working that disguised her clothes as something that would raise no eyebrows. The room was dark, but the warmth of recent light and presence still permeated it; he must have either just departed, or more likely, just gone to bed.

Bed was where she wanted to be, so that was fine with her. She moved that way, slipping into bed on the side where Mistress usually slept.

Abed Emrys may be, but asleep he certainly was not; he rolled over instantly, flame flaring over his hand to illuminate their faces. “It’s just me,” she quavered, hoping she hadn’t miscalculated.

“Oh,” he said, apparently past the hour of eloquence. “What do you need?”

What did he think she needed? He’d Kept her, hadn’t he? “You, Master,” she whispered.

“Ah.” The flame danced through the air, providing a larger glow as it illuminated the room like soft candlelight, revealing the silky green nothing she was wearing. It was nothing like she’d ever seen Mistress wearing – and that was on purpose. She didn’t just want to be a substitute.

“May I stay, tonight?”

“Yes... yes, you may.” He extended his arm across the bed, not actually touching her, but the invitation was there.

“Thank you.” She crawled over to him, leaning into his arm. “Thank you, Master.”

“You're welcome.” He was warm, so warm against her, although of course the flickering firelight helped matters; as well as providing what, she had to admit, was a decidedly romantic ambience. It suited her purpose well.

She wriggled a little bit closer, looking up at him through lowered lashes. ”You're good to me,” she murmured.

“Well, that's all part and parcel of this, right? We're supposed to take care of you.”

She licked her lips, searching for the subtext. Take care of could mean so many things. “Yes?” she tried.

“You're not used to that, are you? Someone being good to you?” He draped his other arm lightly over her body.

“Ardell was good to me,” she argued, even though she knew she shouldn’t. Ardell hadn’t caught her just to use her - well, maybe he had, but he’d rarely been as obvious about it.

“If that's true, then why do you sound so surprised when you say I'm good to you?”

This wasn’t how she’d wanted this to go, but here it was. “You didn’t want me,” she answered, embarrassed by the catch in her voice.

She knew what that did to men, though. She could use it, and she would.

“Hey now,” Emrys replied predictably, his hand gliding over silk and scales, sending a heady rush through her. “You think I don't want you?”

She looked up at him, biting her lip - carefully, with her front teeth, the non-poisonous ones. “You didn’t want to keep me. I’m just a tool.”

“Not just a tool,” he protested. His hand behind her came up, brushing the hair back from her face, and she knew she was winning this fight he didn't even know he was fighting. “You're a person still.”

“I’m a possession,” she said quietly. Ardell had taught her that lesson very thoroughly. “Your possession… Master.”

“Despite that, you're still a girl. Not just a tool or a toy.”

She hadn't mentioned anything about being a toy, she thought, but she wriggled in his arms, subtly emphasizing the unvoiced thought. If that was what he wanted…

“I’m whatever you want me to be.” She smiled, hoping he thought that appealed to her.

“No, no...” He shook his head, pulling his arm back from her a bit. Damn! What had she done wrong?

“I don't want that. I don't want you here only because you think I want it.”

She shook her head urgently, even while she wondered at this sudden touchy-feely crap. “I want it, too,” she insisted. She pushed one strap of her negligee off her shoulder, letting the green nothing slip down slowly. “I want you.” And she did, too.

“It's... not the same, without Sheen here,” he mused, half to himself; his eyes were right where she wanted them, though.

She shrugged, making the bit of silk slip lower, his gaze following downwards. “Different can be all right, too?” she offered.

“It could be... if you want, I won't deny you that.”

She lowered her eyes to hide her triumph. “Yes, please, Master.” The slip finished its descent to her hips.

“Well,” he wavered, even as his fingertips brushed her waist, “I'm not sure we should...”

She stopped his argument with a kiss, her chest pressed against his. “I am.”

Finally, it seemed she was melting his resolve. Where did he keep pulling those new spurts of objection from? Whatever it was, it was silent now, as his arms wrapped around her.


  Copyright © 2009-2011 Lyn Thorne-Alder with Elasmo. All rights reserved.
| Home | About | Table of Contents | Contact|