I started to count, an old trick of mine to keep myself from begging for more when I hadn’t been given permission to speak. I didn’t get to thirteen before quiet sobs broke from me, brought on by his hot, wet tongue running over the fire burning deep in the muscles of my ass cheeks. I heard talking somewhere, but couldn't make out the words; my heartbeat was pounding so loudly, it drowned it all out.
I was so lost in my own mind that I didn't realize what was about to happen until it was too late. I felt the thick head of his cock slide through my folds, hitting my clit only once before he pulled back and pushed into me so hard that the bench almost moved with the force of his penetration.
My startled cry was hoarse and strangled as my body stretched to accommodate him. I'd forgotten how he felt, how much his body demanded the attention of mine, and the tears fell freely as I panted, completely helpless and unable to do a thing about it. The feeling only amplified the pleasure of the friction. Even as his body brushed against my sore and swollen ass cheeks, the flare of pain was consumed by the pleasure of his dick, stretching me to my very limits. Jared’s grunt of gratification lasted only a second before he swung back and pounded into me with a relentless rhythm. My hands pushed the boundaries of the cuffs, the leather biting into the skin of my wrists savagely before that pain was stolen, too.
The world melted into oblivion. Once again it was just the two of us, the inexplicable feeling of being whole as his hands gripped my flesh tighter. The yawning ache of need clawed through my body, my only conscious thought being that I didn't have permission to come freely.
It was like going up against a steam train, the inevitability of failing to wait for his command staring me in the face as I steeled my determination. There was a beautiful violence in the way he took me, not like he had the first night, which had been more brutal but needful and filled with desire. This time, he was enjoying it. He was taking what he wanted and his need to give pain had already been satisfied by his hands.
I felt his cock swell inside of me, the thrusts coming harder but slower. I heard his voice, strained but clear, giving me permission to let go, and I did. My ass pushed back against him, accepting him deeper, the pain flaring as my strangled cry of release filtered through my teeth.
His bark and growl of release came seconds before he slammed into me, pushing deep inside and then collapsing, his sweaty chest meeting my damp back, and our intense breaths sawing in and out of us. I felt exhausted, my body spent as I dragged in oxygen, my wrists falling limp in the cuffs.
I barely moved when he stood up and removed himself, and it must have only been seconds before a warm cloth wiped over my pussy gently.
Lucidity came to me as he massaged my arms before releasing my cuffs from the hooks. I could feel his hot breath rolling over my spine as he worked, periodically pausing to brush my hair from my face, kiss my forehead and praise me. The words had the impact they always did, happiness, contentment and the need for more swelling inexplicably, and being pulled against his chest with a blanket wrapped around me was safe and warm. I barely felt the sting of my ass as he sat and pulled me into his lap, my head against his chest as he smoothed down my hair.
I wanted this. This aftermath of the violence chased away by the strength of his arms and his whispers of encouragement. I felt a second of guilt for needing him before I pushed the emotions away and vowed to deal with them the next day. Tonight, it was about Jared and me, and I'd be damned if I was going to regret losing myself to him in these moments.
When I’d promised myself to think about it the next day, I'd meant it. I’d been determined to finally open my mind and just deal with what I was feeling. Unfortunately, that never happened. Jared had been called into the office, apologizing profusely for having to interrupt the lessons. Mistress had been as gracious and as airy as always, sending him on his way with coffee and directions to the beignet shop, seeing as he'd developed a taste for them, too. That left her and me. The prospect of being alone with her excited me. I wasn't sure what she had planned in her mind and she didn't reveal it to me until after I'd finished the breakfast dishes.
With a slap on my ass – one that made me yelp in pain – she told me to go and put some comfortable clothes on and to meet her in the kitchen once I was ready. I did as I was told, showering and pulling on jeans and a shirt before bounding down the stairs and into the kitchen, waiting eagerly for what was coming next.
The moment we left the house and climbed in the small confined space of her car, we both seemed to relax, the uncertainty drifting away as we fell slave to routine.
“Am I dressed appropriately, Mistress?”
She grinned and turned her head as she stopped at the red light, her eyes flashing with mischief. “No Mistress today, Pet. Just Kayla and Kit, painting the town red. You look just perfect”
My eyes widened, and my smile grew as I pulled my feet up under me carefully. It felt like it had been a lifetime since she and I had done this. In reality, it hadn't been that long, but with everything that had gone on, it felt like it.
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.” She laughed, hitting the gas as the light turned green and her hand reached for the radio.
We talked openly for most of the drive. She steered us toward the French quarter and parked in an all day spot, her grin broad as she jumped out of the car, waiting expectantly for me to follow.
This was my favorite part of the city. It was like something from the eighteen hundreds dumped into the middle of the real world, with the bars and loud music contradicting the architecture. I couldn't keep the bounce from my step as we headed down Bourbon Street and turned off to one of the lesser-known lanes. Mistress Kayla watched me with a bemused smile as I retold some of the stories I'd heard, the rich history of the streets flowing easily as I pointed certain monuments out to her.
“Do you know what building this is?” Mistress Kayla asked, slowing to a stop outside of a storefront that looked closed.
“Sure don't. I think it’s part of the block budgeting that runs from half a block over. It may have been a slaughterhouse at some point. If there's a courtyard, I would say that for definite. Or maybe part of the livery yard—”
“Slow down. I meant today. Do you know what it is today?”
I looked up and down the building with a different mindset, searching for some kind of clue as to what was inside of it, but it wasn’t a building I’d ever really noticed before in my wandering. It was definitely part of the French Quarter, and I would have bet my next paycheck that it had been part of the livery back in the day.
“No. I can’t say I do.”
“Then I know something you don’t.” She grinned, heading to the door and pulling it open slowly.
A small bell rang from above the door as it opened wide, and the subtle smell of incense poured out from the store – an invite that pulled us in with a welcome as the bell rattled again from the door shutting behind us. The moment I looked around I was lost to the rest of the world. Trinkets and paintings littered the solid and makeshift walls that looked like a maze as they ran through the open space. The lights were dimmed, which set the mood perfectly.
“Ah, Kayla. You came,” a man’s voice said from somewhere amidst the maze of walls. His tone was jovial and filled with pride as though he was honored to have her there. Maybe he was. If he was from the club, or at the very least someone who knew who and what she was, it would have most definitely been an honor for him.
“Of course I came. I told you my little pet was a huge fan of history. I knew she would truly appreciate this place.”
“An enthusiast?” he asked, stepping out from the shadows and spreading his arms. He was gorgeous and tall. His black hair was in dreadlocks that hung over his shoulders, his dark skin the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and his smile… his smile alone could have lit the room, it was so dazzling and bright. He threw his arms around Mistress Kayla before stepping back and looking at me, his hands taking mine and holding them up as he looked me over. “She’s more exquisite in person.”
“Thank you. However, I think it’s best you explain this to her. I’m still not quite sure I understand it. Kit, this is Master William. I met him years ago when I first moved to New Orleans from the bayou.”
“Just Willie now, Kayla.” He laughed, looping his arm through mine and guiding me toward the maze. “Your Mistress tells me you like to talk to the people around the city, and discover the stories?”
“Yes, Sir,” I answered as my head dipped a little. He wasn’t that much older than Mistress Kayla, but he had this wise demeanor, which reminded me of a professor or historian. His voice was deep and calm, putting me at ease from the moment he stopped by the first picture.
“I’m a painter, Bébe, but like you, I talk to people around the city, some outside of the city. They tell me stories of their lives, or stories of their ancestors’ lives. I write them all down and then paint the pictures that form in my head. Sometimes I go to the places they talk about and take photographs. I met your Mistress at Charles’ antebellum house, where one of the stories I had was set. If you wander into the bayous, you can still see some shells from the slave housing dotted around.”
He pointed to the picture, and I saw it. There was a shack there, with a woman washing clothes on a scrubbing board, children peeking out from the door and, in the background, was a big white house that I was now in love with. Stepping forward, I leaned in, taking in the details. The faces were expressive and the Spanish moss so detailed as it hung from the branches. I could almost hear the cicadas chirping in the background as well as feel the heat as it washed over them. It was breathtaking.
I wandered around for hours, reading the notes and photos attached to the paintings. Some even had samples of the moss and leaves from the live oaks highlighting the detail that he’d managed to capture. I would never have known this place existed had it not been for Mistress Kayla. I could never thank her enough for taking me there and sharing in my passion. She and Willie followed, whispering quietly to one another, Willie answering any question I came up with. I could hear the passion in his voice; he became animated when he spoke about it.
“And now for the real surprise,” he said, as I reached the end of the exhibit. I’d seen everything there was to see out in the showroom, and my head almost turned on my neck to look at him.
“Surprise?”
“I don’t just paint history, Kit. Come with me.” He walked to a door at the back and pushed it open, sweeping his arm out ahead of him. “A very good friend commissioned this painting.”
I stepped into what must have been his studio. There was a roller door open to a courtyard, which had tropical plants and a water fountain in the middle. Birds hustled away from the feeders as I walked in deeper, but they were the furthest things from my mind. All I could see was the painting in front of me. It was me, hanging from a chain in the ceiling, my wrists bound and, my toes on the floor. Even the beads of sweat trickling down my sternum were in such detail it looked eerily like a mirror.
“This is me.” It was a statement rather than a question, my head tilting to the side as I admired the curves of my own body.
“Very observant, Kit.” Mistress Kayla laughed, stepping up behind me. “And Willie, it’s perfection.”
“But how?”
Willie stepped closer to the picture and pulled something from the top right hand corner, before handing it to me. It was a picture of me laughing, my body curled up, my arms folded around my ribs. I remembered the picture being taken. It was the last barbeque Mistress Kayla had thrown in her backyard. Half of the club had shown up. I’d been talking to Master Adrian. He was as mean as a bear woken up from hibernation while in the club. He kind of looked like one, too, but outside of
Stigmata
, he was friendly and funny. He’d been telling me a story about his last duck hunting trip. I couldn’t for the life of me remember the punch-line, but it had been hilarious.
“You got that, from this?”
“I have a good imagination.”
“Good intuition, too,” Mistress Kayla said, stepping forward and looking over my shoulder at the picture. “You nailed it. She’s just as ethereal in reality.”
I felt my cheeks heat into a blush. The overwhelming emotions forced me to slowly and unconsciously back away from the painting until I stepped to Mistress Kayla's side. Her hand moved to my back and rubbed gently. I didn’t need to say anything. She knew me well enough to understand that my silence carried a weight with it. I loved it; I just couldn’t understand why she’d done it.
“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” Willie said, grabbing a tissue and stepping toward me. “It was done out of love.”
Love.
Suddenly the air seemed to leave the room. Why, I couldn’t say, but it did, and the oppressive heat made sweat prickle my forehead. I kept my smile bright, not wanting to offend them or bring up any kind of discomfort. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me and I just wasn’t sure how to deal with it at all.
Love.
It shouldn't have had the effect on me that it did. I loved Mistress Kayla and she loved me, and we'd known and spoken it for almost a year. There was, however, something in that moment that clicked inside of me.
Having been so overwhelmed with love for the most amazing gift she'd ever given me, I'd had a sudden epiphany. The scene in the painting had been so powerful, so encompassing, but taking a second to close my eyes, I realized that it hadn't been Mistress Kayla I saw taking that love and pain from my flesh, but Jared. The feeling of love had been his. The emotions the painting had given me were the same things he'd made me feel. It was all-consuming and pure. It filled every part of me from the follicles on my head to the tips of my toes.
I loved Jared.
I also loved Mistress Kayla.