some calm in the chaos of his life. When he was old enough, he left the last of his temporary homes and traveled, entertaining strangers and saving money until he could pay to change his name from Leveille to Lemaitre.
From the youngest age he had lived a calculated and careful life, free of strong emotion, because the alternative—blood and screaming and terror—did not suit him.
Never
, he had told himself as a seven-year-old boy. For many years, it was the only word that kept him sane. Now, nothing thrilled him like taking an uncontrolled situation and making it neat and controllable.
He gave another rueful laugh and studied the green-tinged monitor. Valentina Sancia, a raw, shrieking, crying, emotional mess of a headstrong woman, his newest slave. Had he felt this need to corral her, to control her, from the very moment he met her in Naples? He had denied himself her charms because he feared chaos, but Valentina needed him, pure and simple. She lacked control and he had it in spades.
And she’d be worth the struggle, he knew. She was strong and yet soft and sensual, an erotic combination he found intoxicating. She gave herself over to hedonistic urges with no qualms or inhibitions, another necessity in a good slave. She was beautiful too, with her flaming red hair and porcelain smooth skin. He would enjoy training her and transforming her, teaching her to control her impetuous passions. Perhaps best of all, this arrangement solved a problem for him. Keeping a slave at his home would offset his urges to go to the Citadel, and allow Jason and his daughter to come and go as they pleased. They were newly engaged and needed time to explore one another and be with their friends, without the worry of running into dad in the back rooms.
It was all well and good. He fell asleep with a sense of satisfaction, a sense of everything being exactly as it was meant to be.
*** *** ***
Valentina awakened in the bare, white room, sun peeking through slatted white blinds. It took a moment for her to remember she was at Mr. Lemaitre’s house. Her Master’s house. She lifted her head, her eyes focusing on the black words on the wall, then on the small, blinking camera mounted in the corner across the room.
Was he watching her? Observing her like some animal in a zoo? She resisted the urge to pull the covers over her head. Her back stung worse today than it had last night, and her ass... She felt the faintest twinge of soreness. It was more of an ache, a physical memory of pain and intrusion that made her whole body tense.
A wave of horny response swept through her. He had fucked her ass last night, pressed her against the wall and thrust into her over and over with no thought to her wants and needs. He’d used her and hurt her and then put her in a cage and walked away as if she meant nothing to him. So fucking hot. She slid her hand down between her legs, only meaning to soothe the tingling there, but her light touch added fuel to the flames. She sought out her clit, rubbing it to life with gentle stroking. With her other hand, she squeezed her nipples under the covers, first one, then the other...
The door crashed open. Well, it didn’t crash. It opened wide, and Mr. Lemaitre stood there naked as a Roman statue, providing the mental crash in her brain. Instinctively, she curled her hands away from her pussy and her nipples.
“No, continue,” he said. “Our conversation can wait.” He crossed to the bed and unlocked the cage, and threw the covers back so she felt stripped. Attacked. His light blue eyes seemed dark as he put his hands on her legs and spread them open. “Continue. Masturbate for me until you come.”
She stared at him, still half lost in horny fantasies and daydreams, until he leaned down and slapped her across the cheek. It wasn’t a hard slap. It didn’t send her flying—she’d slapped men much harder, many times. No, this was a delicious, kinky slap, meant to tell her who was in charge. She put
From the youngest age he had lived a calculated and careful life, free of strong emotion, because the alternative—blood and screaming and terror—did not suit him.
Never
, he had told himself as a seven-year-old boy. For many years, it was the only word that kept him sane. Now, nothing thrilled him like taking an uncontrolled situation and making it neat and controllable.
He gave another rueful laugh and studied the green-tinged monitor. Valentina Sancia, a raw, shrieking, crying, emotional mess of a headstrong woman, his newest slave. Had he felt this need to corral her, to control her, from the very moment he met her in Naples? He had denied himself her charms because he feared chaos, but Valentina needed him, pure and simple. She lacked control and he had it in spades.
And she’d be worth the struggle, he knew. She was strong and yet soft and sensual, an erotic combination he found intoxicating. She gave herself over to hedonistic urges with no qualms or inhibitions, another necessity in a good slave. She was beautiful too, with her flaming red hair and porcelain smooth skin. He would enjoy training her and transforming her, teaching her to control her impetuous passions. Perhaps best of all, this arrangement solved a problem for him. Keeping a slave at his home would offset his urges to go to the Citadel, and allow Jason and his daughter to come and go as they pleased. They were newly engaged and needed time to explore one another and be with their friends, without the worry of running into dad in the back rooms.
It was all well and good. He fell asleep with a sense of satisfaction, a sense of everything being exactly as it was meant to be.
*** *** ***
Valentina awakened in the bare, white room, sun peeking through slatted white blinds. It took a moment for her to remember she was at Mr. Lemaitre’s house. Her Master’s house. She lifted her head, her eyes focusing on the black words on the wall, then on the small, blinking camera mounted in the corner across the room.
Was he watching her? Observing her like some animal in a zoo? She resisted the urge to pull the covers over her head. Her back stung worse today than it had last night, and her ass... She felt the faintest twinge of soreness. It was more of an ache, a physical memory of pain and intrusion that made her whole body tense.
A wave of horny response swept through her. He had fucked her ass last night, pressed her against the wall and thrust into her over and over with no thought to her wants and needs. He’d used her and hurt her and then put her in a cage and walked away as if she meant nothing to him. So fucking hot. She slid her hand down between her legs, only meaning to soothe the tingling there, but her light touch added fuel to the flames. She sought out her clit, rubbing it to life with gentle stroking. With her other hand, she squeezed her nipples under the covers, first one, then the other...
The door crashed open. Well, it didn’t crash. It opened wide, and Mr. Lemaitre stood there naked as a Roman statue, providing the mental crash in her brain. Instinctively, she curled her hands away from her pussy and her nipples.
“No, continue,” he said. “Our conversation can wait.” He crossed to the bed and unlocked the cage, and threw the covers back so she felt stripped. Attacked. His light blue eyes seemed dark as he put his hands on her legs and spread them open. “Continue. Masturbate for me until you come.”
She stared at him, still half lost in horny fantasies and daydreams, until he leaned down and slapped her across the cheek. It wasn’t a hard slap. It didn’t send her flying—she’d slapped men much harder, many times. No, this was a delicious, kinky slap, meant to tell her who was in charge. She put
Similar Books
