She carefully thumbed through a small stack of photographs, propping them around the items so that she could inspect the images at her leisure. They were simply more mementos of her conquests, but looking at them made the itch swell yet again.
She felt her hand slipping between her thighs as if by its own volition, and she knew it was time. Consciously stopping the hand before it could go any farther, she allowed herself an anticipatory sigh.
She reached up to the bureau and picked up the miniature bottle of rum. With a flourish she twisted the cap from it then pressed the opening against her lips and tilted her head back. She quickly swished the caramel-colored liquor around in her mouth, letting its alcohol-burn tingle for a brief moment, and then carefully spit it into a shot glass. She gently placed the glass jigger directly in the center of the assorted items. With a soft touch she fingered a partially smoked cigar, which still possessed a band proclaiming Cohiba and that was underscored by the word Habana -true Cuban contraband. She rolled it back to rest against the measure of rum and then allowed herself a fleeting, girlish smile.
As she looked up, she listened intently to the room. She could hear her slave’s breathing from his position on the floor behind her. He was finally settling into an even rhythm as he continued to come down from the rapid sexual high she’d inflicted. She looked straight into the mirror and flipped a shock of her waist-length auburn hair back over her shoulder then carefully turned her head side to side, checking her makeup. With the tip of her finger, she made a practiced swipe against the corner of her lower lip, blending a spot she felt needed attention. Then, she inspected it again before letting out a satisfied sigh.
“So,” she purred as she turned and began slowly sauntering forward until she stood over the man. “You weren’t lying, were you? Asphyxiation really is your kink, isn’t it, worm?”
“Yes,” he muttered as he tried to give her a nod.
“Yessss?” she questioned with a raised eyebrow, allowing the word to hiss between her teeth.
“Yes, Mistress,” he replied.
“Yes, Mistresssss…?”
“Yes, Mistress Miranda.”
“You like being choked by women, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mistress Miranda.”
“Especially beautiful women.”
“Yes, Mistress Miranda.”
“Tell me I’m beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful, Mistress Miranda.”
“Yes, I am… Aren’t I.” She uttered the words as a statement of fact.
She squatted next to him with fluid grace, displaying exquisite balance on the teetering heels, and ran her gloved fingertip along his chest, down his abdomen, stopping just before the upper reaches of his pubic hair.
“Then…” she began, pausing as she eyed him seductively. “Since you like it so much, maybe you would want me to do it again?”
“Oh, yes, Mistress,” he answered, an excited catch in his throat.
“Then… Beg me to love you,” she ordered quietly.
“Mistress?”
“Beg me to love you,” she demanded again.
“Please, Mistress,” he murmured. “Love me.”
“Excellent,” she trilled softly as she smiled. “We do love you.”
“We, Mistress?”
She didn’t answer. In fact, she didn’t say another word. She simply scooped the end of the leash into her hand and stood. Taking a stance that would ensure her steadiness, she then lifted one foot and placed the sole of her shoe against his throat as she began bearing down. She watched his face as he fought for air, yet in the midst of it all, he curled the corners of his mouth into what could almost be a smile. She more than sensed the sexual energy pulsating outward from him as he began to gurgle once again, and she let it join with the insane burn that was racking her own body. Immediately, it began feeding on the intensity and sent her inner fire flaring to near ecstasy.
In that moment, she knew she commanded his absolute devotion.
Looking to the side, she could see that he had stiffened yet again and was now throbbing in time with her own racing heartbeat.
In that moment, she knew she held captive his innermost desire.
But, for her, that simply wasn’t going to be enough.
She continued to lean forward, placing all but the smallest amount of her weight onto the one foot, all the while twisting the sole of her shoe against his throat. It didn’t take long before he gurgled a barely intelligible utterance that resembled more than just random sounds but a group of deliberate syllables-a phonetic string that sounded like it might possibly be his “safe word.”
She knew it was meant to be her cue to cease the torture. But, it was a cue that would go unheeded. She simply smiled down at him and continued to inflict the deliberate cruelty with renewed fervor.
A flicker of realization lit behind his eyes, and he began to struggle, but she had him pinned-held fast and completely at her mercy. There was no way he could break free of the bonds she had so carefully applied. He tried to buck against her, but it was obvious that he was already growing weak from the lack of oxygen. She now brought her full weight to bear on his collapsing windpipe, laying her gloved hand against the nearby wall for support.
In that final moment, she knew she had his fear, and it was delicious.
During the quiet minutes after that, as his eyes turned glassy, staring sightlessly upward to the stained ceiling, she knew she had the last thing she-and they-needed from him.
When she felt the very essence of his terrifying death seep into her own soul, satisfying the gnawing hunger for a time, she stepped down and slowly lifted her foot from his throat. She barely heard the quiet hiss of his trapped breath as it quietly escaped his lifeless form.
Then, and only then, did she receive her reward.
She now allowed the fury to run rampant through her body as she stepped forward and collapsed on the bed, writhing with an ecstasy not entirely of this earth.
11 Months Later
Thursday, November 3
7:23 A.M.
St. Louis, Missouri
CHAPTER 1:
“You knew I was taking these classes, Rowan.” My petite, Irish-American wife made the statement and then paused to poke her head through the neckline of a sleeveless, pullover sweater then tug it down over her blouse. Quickly sliding her thumbs along either side of her jaw, she gathered her recently shower-dampened spirals of auburn hair and pulled them from the back of the garment then allowed them to spill over her shoulders, falling almost to her waist. She looked back at me and gave her head an exaggerated shake. “So what’s the problem?”
“I never said there was a problem,” I replied.
“You didn’t have to,” Felicity stated.
Her normally soft, Celtic lilt was taking on a far more discernable edge, and the colloquial speech of her heritage was starting to add itself to the mix. While the undertone was always there, it didn’t usually present itself so clearly except under particular circumstances-such as being overtired, inebriated, or surrounded by her relatives. Since I knew she was none of the above, it could only mean one thing. She was getting perturbed.
“I’d call it more of a concern,” I told her.
“Semantics,” she chided.
“Not really.”
“So, you don’t have a problem with this then?”
“No… Yes…” I almost stuttered, fighting for some middle ground with regard to my feelings. “I don’t know. I just wish you’d said something earlier instead of springing it on me like this.”
“I’m not springing anything on you, Rowan,” she returned. “I just took some photography classes, that’s all.”
“You’re the most sought after freelance photographer in Saint Louis, Felicity,” I objected. “You don’t just take some photography classes.”