Mirror of My Soul
Page 41

But when she looked into Tyler’s eyes she was lost in the pleasure of performing for him, a pleasure that had heightened her tea during the past hour, just as Violet’s teasing of Mac had heightened it for her.
Whereas Violet had been teasing her slave, Marguerite had been teasing her Master, feeling his eyes on her throughout. His increasing heat as she brought Roland and Leila to climax together, talked to Violet, stroked Roland to fever pitch. She was rocking, so close, but even as she reached that pinnacle, she knew she wouldn’t go over. She’d never been able to do it this way, always hitting that wall, the slammed door, only able to push through it with the destructive restraint of a scarf and belt on her throat.
But she had another way now, the consent of her Master. That reassurance that his restraint was upon her, ironically giving her the safety, the freedom, to take that leap.
She looked toward him, the realization in her eyes, communicating her desperate need to him.
“Come for me, angel.” He understood, was ready with the harsh command, his face alive with a hunger as if he had ordered her to sit on Roland’s mouth himself. Her body exploded, her body arching back, quivering against Roland, the tissues throbbing with the orgasm as she cried out, driven higher by his order, by his eyes upon her, by Violet’s mating cries as Mac brought her to the same pinnacle.
Roland gasped against her vibrating pussy. “Mistress, please…”
“Let go, Roland. Let us hear you.”
His strong body bucked under her, moist mouth opening wide on a groan of release that vibrated against her, increasing the aftershocks as his come jetted out of him like a fountain, bathing her hand gripping him, her wrist and forearm above in liquid heat.
When she flicked her gaze briefly across the pool, she saw Violet had moved back, impaled herself on Mac’s cock, lowering herself inch by inch onto it. She began to move, riding it, his great body surging up into hers as she milked him, drew him out with her whispered demand.
“Fuck me, Mackenzie. Fuck me hard, baby.”
It made Marguerite’s own pussy contract again to hear the words, to have it match so closely her own need, even so close on the heels of the orgasm she had just had. She wanted, needed…
She gave Roland a full measure of satisfaction from her hand, taking him down slowly, sitting back to ease the plug from him, turn it off. Then she bent down, brushed her lips over his jaw, tasting the mark of her scent. “Thank you,” she murmured.
He gave her a lethargic smile, managed to turn his head and press his lips to her hand. “My pleasure, Mistress.”
She rose, felt his eyes follow her as she dropped the towel and walked down the steps into the pool, moving through the water, across it to her Master.
Tyler still sat in his chair, watching her approach. She wanted his firm lips on her, the hard cock she could see under his wet shorts deep inside her, his body all around her, holding her, caring for her, bringing her pleasure.
He rose as she stroked across. Unfastening those shorts, he kicked them off so when she reached the pool’s edge he met her naked. Taking her hands, he lifted her out in one powerful motion that took her breath from her. He kissed both her hands, then kissed her mouth, gathering her in close, his hands wandering down her back, caressing her ass in front of the others. Turning her so her back was to him, he took a seat in his chair again, guiding her hips down, down, so she sat in the chair on him, facing outward. His cock slowly slid into her tight wetness while she shuddered, rocked upon him, made a keening sound she could not control.
When she was fully seated on him, he put a hand over her throat, brought her back with his hand there and the other flat on her belly, snugging her hips deep into the crook of his. As he held her head back so she was staring at the sky through the solar panels in the ceiling, she felt every eye on her exposed body, especially at his next whispered command.
“Spread your thighs wide, angel. Let them see how beautiful you are, my cock deep inside of your cunt.”
Never would she have believed in this moment. That she would be held in a man’s arms who made her feel safe, loved. Who was the release valve for the sexual pressure that built so high inside her when she Mastered a sub, a valve she couldn’t release herself. That she would take warm pleasure the way a submissive did in being displayed by her Master, knowing she was his, all his.
And when she did spread her knees, his fingers were there, playing with her stretched lips, her clit, pinching and stroking as he moved inside her. Tiny but wondrously effective movements stimulating her, his strong thighs moving her in a position she could do little to nothing to control. And always that hand a firm collar on her throat, her breasts bouncing hard as the strength of his movement increased. His intent was clear. A rough quick fuck to spill his seed in her, to show her how the past hour had teased him to raging for her. It was what she wanted. The proof of his possession, his desire to be Master of her as a Mistress and watch her do what she did so well, took such pleasure in. To know emotionally and physically he would control the release it built in her.
He took her up, up…and then he took his fingers to other territory. Her breasts, the delicate skin under her arms, playing in the shallow indentation of her navel. She wondered what it would be like to be pierced there like Violet. She gasped his name as he prolonged the torture, returning to her clit and pussy enough to keep her on the precipice, but drawing back each time she was close. Her breasts and nipples began to tingle painfully at the jolting, pleasure-pain that wanted his mouth, his touch. But he withheld it, teasing, rousing, bringing her almost there, retreating. She wanted to feel him come inside her, needed it.
“Watch them,” he said, directing her glazed gaze to Violet and Mac. They were being roused anew by watching the two of them, such that Violet was kissing her husband, riding him again, his hands now free, hard on her hips, driving the pace this time.
Tyler’s words were ragged, indicating his control might be as frayed as hers. She squeezed down on him, turned her head against his grip to speak, her breath hot and wet against his neck.
“Master, please. Please come inside of me.”
With a groan, his control broke, telling her he’d been waiting for that gift, the gift of submission only she could offer his soul. When the hot streams of seed brought her to orgasm, she cried out, rising up even as his hands tightened, holding her steady on his cock as their bodies pounded together.
Moving like they were meant to be so fused, now and forever, she knew the complex give and take of dominance and submission between them no longer needed explanation or apology. The answer could be no clearer than it was in a moment such as this.
Chapter Fourteen
After the intensity of the earlier part of the evening, the rest of the night was quite mellow, social. Clothes were changed or donned as appropriate, and the seven of them reconnected to eat an elegant dinner, play card games in a screened gazebo by a manmade lake, drink wine and watch the moonlight play on the water. They discussed life and politics, and the philosophy of BDSM, as people of similar interests would who enjoyed one another’s company.
At length, it was time for Roland to head for home. Marguerite walked him to the door, allowed him to bid her an affectionate farewell, his lips brushing either cheek.
There was a slight hesitation as he hovered over her lips, giving her the choice. She drew back, softening the refusal of that privilege with a warm look, a press of his hands.
He gave her a rueful smile, a wink and retreated down the steps, lifting his hand in a parting goodbye.
She sensed the goodness in him, but also sensed he was still at that age he wasn’t ready to find one woman. He was having too much fun in the sampling. And that made her smile inside, reminding her of Chloe’s joy for life. She found herself wishing him a good life and a good love, a permanent woman to claim him when he was ready for it.
As she came back into the house, Mac was heading to his and Violet’s guestroom.
He was wearing a pair of jeans now that the tone of the evening had changed, though his Mistress hadn’t been inclined to allow him a shirt. Marguerite certainly didn’t object. However, he still nodded his head respectfully, murmuring “Mistress” as he went by her.
Marguerite watched him go up the stairs, the broad back marked by lash scars, the jagged bullet scar that had nearly ended his life.
“Mac?”
She realized at that moment she’d never directly addressed Mac Nighthorse, such that his name almost sounded odd on her tongue.
He stopped, turned. “Yes, Mistress?”
The tone of his voice distracted her, as she realized it was more gentle, softer than when he spoke to a man. Thinking about their conversations tonight at dinner, when he spoke to Leila versus Roland, or Tyler versus herself, she realized he’d done it consistently. And now that she thought about it, so did Tyler.
She crossed her arms over the banister, considered him with a frown. “Earlier tonight, Violet suggested that men like you and Tyler don’t see a woman as capable of taking care of herself.”
He smiled, apparently not the least offended. “Maybe we don’t believe a woman’s ability to take care of herself should relieve a man of the responsibility of looking after her.”
She opened her mouth, shut it as his grin deepened. “Was that what you were intending to ask me, Mistress?”
“No. You distracted me. Your tone of voice,” she amended quickly at the twinkle in those silver eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t think it’s a question I have a right to ask. I’m not even sure why I want to know.”
“Mistress Marguerite, you can ask me anything.”
“Do your scars still bother you?”
He cocked his head, came down a couple steps. “Not the ones on the outside. The ones on the inside, sometimes. But I’ve figured out if you can’t heal them, you need someone to help you accept them.”
“Is that what Violet is to you?”
“She’s everything to me,” he said simply. “Without her, there isn’t a me. Not a me I’d want to live with, anyway.”