Mistress of Redemption (17 page)

not to be distracted by it.

“
Because it’s your right to use me

as you wish
.” He’d known that part

of the answer, but he didn’t realize

there was another part to it.
Because

a Mistress takes care of her slave.

Because he could trust her to get him

through anything, anything she

devised to heighten his pleasure or,

in this case, to force him to face

things he didn’t want to face.

She almost missed her cue when he

took a deep breath and let it out,

relaxing his muscles.

Her fingers still resting on the curve

of one buttock, she guided the

device’s broad head to the proper

position. His ass was already well-

lubricated and conditioned by

Fiona’s earlier invasion, so it did not

take much effort to get the phallus

pushed through. When his body

stiffened, she teased the opening with

her fingertips. His thigh muscles

were cords that stood out,

encouraging her to rub her leg against

his, move her hand up the middle of

his back, tracing a path back down

the spine. She wanted to lay down on

him, curve her hips over his and add

pressure to the invasion, as if it were

attached to her body and she was

fucking him, making him feel

pleasure.

It gave her some interesting pictures

and ideas, but it also warned her that

she was getting too caught up in this.

As a mortal Mistress, her focus could

be on bringing him pleasure while

she pleased herself. A Mistress of

Redemption’s goal was different. She

needed to remember that.

Stop fucking with my head, Lucifer.

As the device went even deeper,

Nathan jolted at the searing wave of

arousal that stroked through him

when the flexible substance went to

work on the sensitive channel.

66

Mistress of Redemption

It felt as if it was squeezing his

prostate. The snakes at his nipples

were increasing the strength of their

tugs. Suddenly terror was mixed with

spiraling, roaring, intense lust.

He shuddered, his ass pumping

against the side of the bar in a

shameless humping he couldn’t stop,

his breath rasping hard out of him.

“Mercy, he has a fine ass,” someone

murmured near him. Perhaps Mariah.

He didn’t know. Dona had not let him

come earlier, had driven him near

insanity, and here she was doing it

again, bringing him into a realm of

sensation more intense than any

orgasm he’d ever experienced. So

close and yet he couldn’t release, the

vise of the two extensions on his

balls and the cock harness keeping

him helpless.

“Please, Mistress…” he begged.

“Please let me come for you.” No

artifice or calculating, just raw male

need, a growl of desire, incoherent

words. Glasses on the bar shook, fell

over as his frenetic movements

became more powerful, the muscles

in his thighs bunching as he slammed

against the bar again and again.

Her hand brushed the opening to his

ass, her hand wrapped around the

body of the surreal sex toy, letting

him feel how stretched he was,

letting him feel her touch.

“God, please… Goddamn…” He

pumped harder and several glasses

tumbled to the floor, shattering as he

wished to do.

“Now,” she murmured at last,

reaching beneath him to loosen the

harness at the same moment the vise

on his balls eased, even as the head

deep inside increased the fervor of

its stimulation.

He roared with the force of the

climax that crashed over him. Hot

seed jetted from his cock in such a

thick stream it was almost painful,

splashing against the side of the bar

and onto his knees. Warm cum ran

down his legs and over the bodies of

the snakes on his thighs, making their

slight movements on him even more

slippery.

Even if her teasing hadn’t goaded him

to such a high pitch, his body had

been ready for this for five long

years, saving up. He came long and

hard, groaning, continuing to pump

against the wood as her touch goaded

him, an aftershock almost as hard as

the orgasm taking him as she gripped

his buttocks in both hands and

kneaded them as he moved. The way

she would if he was driving into her,

her arms wrapped around him…

As he came, as his release poured out

of him, something else rose in him, an

emotional response bound to the

physical, the way that chain was

bound to his cock.

“Please…” The pitiful supplication

was coming out of his mouth, but he

didn’t know what he was begging for.

Or maybe he did. Oblivion. Peace. A

chance to go back to the beginning

and become the person a Mistress

would truly want, not one who

crafted a way to use her. But he had

no clue how to do or be anything else

than what he was now. How did he

exorcise or heal a part of himself that

seemed beyond his control?

A part that seemed stronger than any

other part of himself?

67

Joey W. Hill

Chapter Seven

The snakes were gone, as was the

surreal sex toy and all his bindings.

He slid down the side of the bar, only

it wasn’t a bar at all now. It was a

tree. A tree in a quiet glade in the

forest, the place he used to go when

he was a boy. He’d buried a box of

treasures in the roots, tangible things

that could never be taken away,

unlike hopes and dreams.

Those types of illusions had been

taken away from him by masters at

dream stealing.

He’d learned well, becoming exactly

like them.
Do unto me and I shall do

unto you, unto
everyone that crosses
my path.
If he dug into that box,

would he find the dreams he had

stolen from Narcissa, Lady Jane and

the others? At the lifting of that lid,

would those dreams fly away like

souls, back to their Mistresses?

He tore away the grass covering and

dug his fingers into the earth, the dirt

pushing under his nails. Grunting at

the exertion, he clawed deeper,

flinging aside the handfuls of soil he

dislodged.

It wasn’t there. If he dug to China, he

knew it still wouldn’t be there. When

he felt Dona put her hand on his back,

the sobs rose up as hard and fast as

the orgasm. He didn’t cry. He was a

man and men didn’t cry. He turned,

pressing his forehead into her legs,

not daring to wrap his arms around

her as he wanted to do. Dona had

shaken everything loose with the pain

and pleasure and he had nothing but

despair now, despair at what he was.

For so long, the only emotions he’d

shown to others had been calculated.

The faces necessary to get what he

thought he wanted. Now he knew

why dolls were so often hollow

molds. Nothing of substance inside.

At this moment, he thought he’d never

wanted anything more than to belong,

to be loved by a woman like her, but

he had become something so far from

that he had no hope left for being

anything of worth at all.

Dona knew she didn’t want to hear

his raw thoughts. She’d had her heart

shattered once before by a man. Her

response at that time had been to pick

up the shards and stab him with them.

She knew everything Jonathan had

done and the road and choices that

had brought Nathan there. She knew

the difference between repentance

from cowardice and true remorse.

His soul was reaching out, groping

for what he’d once thought he could

be. The kid in the Superman cape

standing on the street curb, imagining

it was a building’s edge, the world

below depending on him to save it.

Just as once she’d dreamed that she’d

be the princess in the fairy tale,

deserving of love, living happily

ever after with the prince who would

always adore her.

Or at least she and other lucky kids

had believed in that. Nathan had had

the dream snatched from him much

earlier. Like her and the shards of her

heart, he’d turned the 68

Mistress of Redemption

dark landscape into the setting for

nightmares to inflict upon others.

While causality didn’t absolve him,

the soul of that little boy with the

cape made her bend now, hold the

shaking broad shoulders that were

capable of shielding and offering a

woman so much. Of being any

woman’s own private hero.

She was so much smaller than he

was, Nathan had to wrap his arms

around her legs after all to keep her

upright when his sobs rocked them

both, but she kept embracing him.

Making soft crooning noises until it

ebbed away, leaving him weary but

too numb to sleep. He was in Hell,

after all. Sleep wouldn’t be possible

here. No form of escape.

He’d never expected there to be a

Heaven, so he realized Hell wasn’t

really all that surprising to him.

Except Dona. Dona was the surprise.

Tearing up his ass one moment,

merciful the next, never letting him

get away with anything, so that in a

remarkably short time she’d made

him abandon the instincts of a

lifetime. They were useless with her,

leaving him only with himself. His

horrible self.

“Where have you been? When I’ve

been so lost…” He had to be

babbling, because the words made no

sense to his brain, but they felt right,

coming from deep inside him.

Some part of him wanted to keep

repeating them, hold the words to him

like a child’s security blanket.

Where were you? Why weren’t you

there to help save me from myself?

Who
are
you?

She touched the side of his face, her

thumb caressing his lips. “You’re not

alone. We all get lost.”

“I’m weak.”

“No.” She knelt before him now, an

odd choice for a Mistress, for with

his greater height it made him taller.

But as she gently pressed him back

on his haunches so they were knee to

knee, she felt far larger than anything

he could ever imagine being. She

reached up, brushed his brow with

her fingertips. “This isn’t the

forehead of a weak man. Not this

strong jaw, or these wonderful eyes.”

She put both hands on either side of

his neck. “You’ve made some

terrible choices. But you’re not

weak.”

“You don’t know what it’s like. You

haven’t fucked up the way I have.”

She blinked, a harsh chuckle coming

from her throat. “You want to know

why I’m here? I’ll show you, so you

don’t have any illusions.”

The world began to swim around

them, that sense of disorientation that

was like being swept along in a vast

ocean. He wished there was

something to hold on to, but when he

reached out, his hands met

nothingness.

* * * * *

He and Dona sat in an empty theater.

The stage was the only illuminated

area. He couldn’t see aisles or walls,

as if their platform of chairs was

suspended over an abyss.

He was in a tuxedo. Apparently she

could dress or undress him from

moment to moment as easily as she

could a paper doll, a highly unsettling

comparison.

69

Joey W. Hill

A glance to his left showed his

Mistress in box seat finery, a copper-

colored dress that glittered and

flowed to her ankles. Wearing an

amber choker on her throat and

matching teardrop earrings, she

complemented him as if they were a

well-to-do couple out for an evening

of upscale entertainment. He wanted

to reach out and touch her, but it felt

as if there were a thin but

impenetrable field between them,

forcing him to keep his hands to

himself.

“Watch,” she whispered. The lights

of the stage and the movement of her

mouth showed a dusting of gold

glitter on her cheeks. It was also on

the slopes of her breasts, visible in

the generous low cut of the dress.

He lingered on her face. Perhaps it

was habit. A woman’s face, her eyes

and her body all held clues to her

emotions. Once he’d been a master at

translating that mysterious feminine

language. He was probably the only

man in the world who could

comfortably translate all the

meanings of the word “fine” when it

came from a woman’s lips.

Therefore, he sensed her tension, at a

level so high she was almost