Joined: 22 Mar 2008
Tue Mar 25, 2008 5:02 pm Post subject:
The innocent #2
|The gloom of the house soon began to take over me, as I worked on mundane tasks daily. For several weeks I took care to ease his working life, and attended to his needs in a professional manner, dutifully anticipating his requirements. He remained aloof, only addressing me where necessary, and for the most part, left me alone.
The evenings followed the same pattern as before. He bestowed on me gifts of clothing that would titilate and delight him, and I continued to please him by wearing them. As time passed I wanted more of his approval, taking care to present myself in a way that would impress him, and each night he would leave me wanting. Needing him.
And then one day he left me completely alone.
He mentioned nothing of a trip, and I sat alone in the dining room, picking at my food, the table set for one.
The servants gave nothing away, despite my questions, and I was informed only that ,"he was not here." My curiosity increased throughout that first evening, and I went to my bedroom thinking of him, wondering where he could be, and why he did not tell me. By the second night, I was pained in my fascination of him, and decided to find out more.
I waited until late, for fear of being caught, and gave the impression that I had retired until morning. The house was quiet and dark, and the silence overwhelmed me as I made for his bedroom, creeping along ancient floorboards that threatened to give away my secret. It was cold on the vast landings and empty staircases, and I chastened myself for my lack of clothing. I had been distracted by my wandering thoughts, and had not thought through the implications of sneaking around late at night with only a nightdress to protect me from the winter chill.
Eventually I came to his door. Pausing for a second to listen for movement elsewhere in the house, I reached for the handle and turned it slowly. It opened silently and allowed me inside.
His room was everything I would imagine it to be. Lavish and inviting; heartless and cold. The bed that took up a great deal of the room was opulently dressed. Curtains hung around it in a way that was oppressive in the whispering moonlight, the thick fabric black and fearsome. A large painting hung on the opposite wall, above an enormous fireplace, and I could only just make out the shape of a face, and the eyes that bore into me. It was a painting of him.
I shivered with the cold, and with the creeping regret. What did I expect to find? I turned to flee to my own quarters, and then stopped.
He was in the doorway.
Fear raced through me and I tried to step back, finding myself rooted to the spot. the room seemed to close in on me, the walls pushing closer, the curtains threatening to engulf me, to wrap themselves around me in their accusing embrace. What was I doing here? What would he do?
He walked over to the side of his bed and flicked a small switch, illuminating that part of the room with a lamp. I could see now that he was not angry, but amused.
"I leave you alone for a second..."
I felt like a child discovered out of bed after lights out. Trapped by his gaze, and still unable to move, I felt my cheeks burn. He was staring at me again, this time with fire in his eyes, his burning gaze on the white cotton that covered me only slightly. I knew that he would be able to read the shapes of my body, the curve of my hips, the straining of my breasts. And it enflamed me, both in shame and in lust. I wanted him to see me, but I also wanted to run back to where he could not. He stepped slowly towards me and stood close. I could feel his breath on my face, the heat of his body, the warmth of his eyes.
He reached for my nightdress and pulled it over my head.
My skin prickled with the cold as the air clothed it, and I forced myself to resist covering up what he clearly wanted to see. He stepped back to drink me in, his hands clasped in front of him, as if viewing art at an exhibit. I was his Venus, his marble goddess, his sculpture. I was still unable to move, and he chose not to, preferring to desire me from his position as observer.
"Why do you torture me?"
My eyes widened as he spoke. Why did I torture him? He, surely, was the torturer, the tormentor, the master of my fogging mind, my aching body.
"How do I torture you, Sir?"
I was genuine in my innocence. It was unclear to me that he was as intoxicated by me, as I was him. He stepped closer again, and I gasped as his hand touched mine, and as he kissed it with his warm lips.
"I worship you."
Unable to speak, I stared dumbly at him, my hand limp in his. He replaced it at my side and kissed my cheek: a paternal gesture that warmed me to his usual coldness. Then he moved around until he was standing behind me, brushing my hair from my neck, before resting his lips against it. I felt the blood rush to my head as his hands moved onto my waist, and he slid them around me, drawing me closer, and allowing me to feel his excitement against me, the submission of his desire, the betrayal of his secrets.
"Do you fear me?"
I was startled by the question. I found him repulsive, but at the same time intriguing. I was disgusted by the very thought of him, but I had never been wanted more. I shook my head, but he knew me to be lying.
He led me slowly across the room, and hope filled me as I began to relax in his desire of me. Then he stretched my hands out to the post and its oppressive curtain, reached for the cord holding it back from the bed, and bound my wrists to it above my head.
Confusion and terror were clear on my face as he stepped away. I tried to turn and look for him, but the light was still dim, and he had tied the cord tightly. I felt more naked than ever, and tried to pull myself free, but he was a master in his bondage of me. I felt him come closer again. He pressed against my bare skin, and I pushed myself towards him, wanting him to take me, but he was taunting me. He reached round and blindfolded me roughly. Unable to cry out, I simply sobbed. He knew how afraid I was, but at the same time was aware of the pleasure he was serving me, and of the power I had over his desires. He knew me to be aching for him, willing him to complete the act, but he was taunting himself more than he was taunting me. He wanted me. He was forcing himself to hold back, to resist throwing me down, as was his wish. And I knew that it was taking all of his willpower not to do so.
He had me under his spell.
But I was the master now.