PETALS AND THORNS (3 page)

Amarantha could don the stockings herself, but she was dubious about the corset.

When she slipped it on, though, invisible fingers tugged the laces into place.

Tightly.

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Amarantha ended up grasping the edge of the tall table with the washbasin to brace herself. When they released her, she saw herself in the full-length mirror, the thatch of glossy dark hair where her thighs met framed by the red stockings. The scarlet corset that fitted down over her hips, cinched her waist tightly and rising to a shelf under her breasts, cupping them as if they were some sort of pastry, her nipples nearly as red as the satin.

She looked away. Looked for the gown. Only the red heels awaited, mysteriously transported from the other room.

“He promised me a gown,” Amarantha muttered to herself. “Perhaps it's in the other room.”

But when she started toward the bedchamber, the dressing-room door flew closed, even as a chair in front of a vanity mirror slid out invitingly. The shoes slid in front of her.

“Oh, is that the way of it?” She was a bit giddy, perhaps from the wine. Or general hysteria. Just to test, she tried the doorknob. Unsurprised when it refused to turn under her hand, Amarantha obediently stepped once again into the arch of those shoes and sat in the vanity chair, thighs pressed tightly together. A glass of wine appeared on the table. Ah, her reward.

The unseen hands set to work as Amarantha had no choice but to gaze at herself, at her breasts so obscenely displayed. They took down her hair from the knot she'd tucked it in for the bath. At first it was strange to watch the hairbrush floating through the air, but the vigorous brushing felt like any chambermaid's. If she closed her eyes, Amarantha could imagine her maid grooming her for another ball, the corset pulled tighter than she liked, on Angelica's instruction.

Cosmetics feathered onto her face.

When they stopped, Amarantha opened her eyes. The subtle makeup highlighted her violet eyes. However, her hair still fell in a waterfall down her back.

“I need my hair up,” she said.

No response. Amarantha sighed.

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“Very well. Another thing that is not my choice. But you can tell your master that he promised me a gown, and I'm not going downstairs like this.”

The dressing-room door swung open, and Amarantha stood, careful not to look in the mirror again. She looked for the robe to at least cover herself while she sought the gown, but it had, of course, vanished. Self-conscious, she edged out into the windowed dressing room, brightly lit so that anyone might see her from outside.

The forest was uninhabited, she reminded herself.

The scarlet gown billowed across the foot of the bed, and Amarantha sighed with relief that it appeared to be a full gown.

“Likes red, does he?”

The gown floated into the air, the skirts belling out. Obediently, Amarantha raised her arms to slip into the sleeves as it settled over her. The full satin skirts rustled into place as the hands drew the back together, lacing it into a perfect clasp around her waist. The brocaded sleeves fitted tightly against her upper arms and shoulders, the satin a modest sweep across her bosom. The cuffs, however, fit all wrong.

“The seamstress has made an error,” she said with stern disapproval. “The cuffs are sewn closed. This must be repaired.” Indeed the tight sleeves pressed into her skin all the way to her fingertips, ending in a point, almost like gloves. Or mittens, since her fingers and thumbs pressed together. She couldn't bend her arms all that well, for that matter.

Instead of answering, the pink light appeared and bobbed before her, clearly anxious to lead her downstairs.

“You don't understand. I can't dine like this. I can't even grasp a fork.”

The light bobbed urgently, even as the clock chimed nine o'clock.

Amarantha thought again about not going downstairs at all, but her father's tear-filled eyes flashed through her mind. She would have given her life for his.

Playing the Beast's games was hardly worse than death.

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She followed her pink guide through the magnificent house. Lit by candles and torches, wood gleaming and red roses spilling out of vases in every nook, the house seemed more welcoming. She just hadn't seen it before.

The Beast awaited her in a parlor. He stood before a roaring fire, wearing a black satin cloak, the folds of the hood, as always, deeply shadowing his face.

“Amarantha, you look lovely tonight. How fare you? Are your chambers suitable?”

A bit taken aback by his solicitous tone, Amarantha paused. “My chambers are more than suitable. I… Thank you for thinking of my wishes.”

The Beast inclined his head. “Anything you wish for, just ask.”

Amarantha held up her brocade-confined hands. “I'd like a proper gown.”

He chuckled. “In this, you will indulge me. That gown suits my purposes.”

“It will make it most difficult for me to dine, my lord.”

“I shall be delighted to assist you. Shall we? Unless you'd prefer a glass of wine before dinner.”

She shook her head and slipped her muffled hand through his arm.

“The gown suits you.”

Amarantha felt sure he studied her bosom. She glanced down and saw what she had thought a modest drape of satin now rode low over her pushed-up breasts.

The cloth barely clung to her nipples, which stood out, turgid and sensitive. With her hands confined, she couldn't adjust the gown either. The rules of this particular game were becoming more and more clear.

“I might as well be naked still,” she remarked.

“Oh no, my dear.” The Beast chuckled as they entered a formal dining room.

Two places waited, one at the head of the long table and another to the right of it.

Dishes laden with food filled the center of the table. “While you are most lovely naked, there is a certain enticement to a gown that shows your flesh in glimpses.

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Besides, there are specific rules I must follow also. Anticipation, you'll find, is a sweet sauce.”

“Perhaps for you,” she returned.

“We shall see.” The Beast pulled out her chair with a gallant bow. Amarantha sat gingerly, careful not to pitch the gown under her so that the bodice wouldn't drop farther. Uncertain what to do with her hands, she let them rest in her lap.

Indeed, the stiff sleeves wouldn't allow her much else. The Beast sat at the head of the table. He filled her wineglass and began serving her from the various platters, always politely inquiring as to her tastes. Amarantha noticed that the dishes she didn't care for immediately vanished. Probably never to appear again.

“You won't eat?” she asked.

“Doing so would require that I remove my hood. Also, I do not dine…neatly.”

The Beast's voice carried a bit of wistfulness. “It is nothing to subject a lovely young woman to. In anticipation, I dined earlier. Wine?” He held the glass of deepest red to her lips so she might sip from it and taste the smoke and spice.

“And yet you subject me to this indignity. I'm not allowed to feed myself.”

“You may feed yourself at other times. For our first meal together, I prefer this.”

The Beast held a forkful of beef to her lips, and Amarantha had to lean forward a bit to clasp her lips around it. The delicious juices of the meat ran hot down her throat. The Beast murmured in approval, and she blushed to feel the satin of her dress fall off one nipple. She wanted to sigh in exasperation, yet an exquisite sensation ran through her. Shivers of pleasure flowed from her nipple—exposed to the cool air and warm candlelight—down to her groin.

The Beast dabbed her lips with an embroidered napkin, then offered her a small bite of bread, solicitously buttered for her. Sweet and light, the bread carried the sunshine thrill of the butter into her.

“Your dining method will take all night.”

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“We have all night,” he murmured, and she could hear the pleasure in his voice.

Bite by luscious bite, he fed her the meal. Amarantha fell into a sensuous dream. With each tidbit, the Beast murmured to her, telling her how much enjoyed watching her. Both her breasts gleamed bare now, framed by the red satin. The candles burned down. After a last sip of brandy and the final bit of chocolate melted in her mouth, Amarantha declared she could eat no more.

“Then we shall move on to dessert,” the Beast said. The dishes vanished, leaving the glossy wood clear of all but the elaborate candelabras.

“I thought we just had dessert.” She giggled.

“My dessert,” he clarified, and Amarantha lost a bit of the giddiness. A clock chimed midnight, echoing through the house.

“But first I must ask you a question.”

“Oh?” she asked a bit faintly.

“Amarantha, my bride, will you beg me to collar you, chain you to my bed, and fuck you?”

The room spun, not just from the wine.

“No!” It came out harshly. But then, he deserved that, speaking so crudely.

Amarantha looked away, afraid to see his response.

“Very well,” he said, his voice even. Not at all surprised, Amarantha realized.

“I shall ask you again tomorrow night.”

Amarantha turned back to him. “My answer will still be no. Words like that will never pass my lips.”

“We shall see.”

Amarantha shifted in her chair, wishing she could draw up her gown.

“Come here then. It's time for your punishment.”

“You would punish me for saying no?” she whispered.

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“No, this is the punishment for your hesitation this afternoon, recall? It was your first transgression, and I shall keep the punishment light. Now come here, or I shall have to punish you for resisting me.”

All dreaminess gone, Amarantha got up. The Beast slid back from the table and indicated that she should stand in front of him. Taking her by the waist, he lifted her to sit on the table. Drawing a silver chain from under the table's edge, he hooked it into a loop she hadn't noticed, sewn into the cuff just under the tender part of her wrist. The Beast drew the chain tight, pinning her hand to the table. He did the same with the other hand. Then he carefully swept her hair behind her shoulders so none of it hung forward.

Amarantha began to cry. “I'm frightened,” she whispered.

“Are you? You know I won't harm you.”

“Do I know that?”

The Beast settled himself back into his chair, shrugging his cape back and moving up so he trapped her dangling feet between his muscular thighs on the sides, the chair in front and the table behind her rounded calves. His chest, broad under the black suit he wore, didn't appear deformed.

The Beast slipped a black gloved finger into the swag of satin still clinging to the undersides of her breasts. With a sharp tug, the fabric pulled free. He let it flutter to the floor and, from the depths of his hood, seemed to be surveying her naked breasts, now conveniently at eye level for him, offered up by the stiff corset like yet another platter of delicacies. Amarantha tried to still her breath, but her heart pounded, and her anxiety made her tremble. She could see how her panicky breaths only made her breasts bounce for him, but she could not stop it.

“We need music,” he murmured, and it began to play, dark chords sifting eerily up from the depths of the manse.

The Beast raised a gloved finger. Amarantha caught her breath. And gave a little cry when the cool leather touched her skin. With one fingertip, he traced 20

concentric circles around and around her breast, coming ever closer to the nipple.

Then stopped.

He repeated the pattern on her other breast.

Amarantha squirmed, tugging on the little silver chains. The Beast chuckled, then transferred to the other breast again. Incoherent whimpering sounds struggled out of her as he repeatedly tormented one breast, then the other. The music crashed and swelled around them, but the Beast never lost patience with his game. In the distance, the clock struck one.

The Beast seized her nipples in his gloved fingers and squeezed hard.

Amarantha screamed.

She pulled at the little chains, but they wouldn't give. She tried to kick, but the Beast's massive thighs imprisoned her. He simply maintained the pressure, pressing her nipples between his fingers until she subsided.

Then he began to roll them. Amarantha's breaths sobbed out as he massaged the nipples, pinching them until they throbbed. Had her breasts felt swollen from the relentless teasing? Now her nipples seemed as if they might explode from the blood filling them.

When he stopped, she sat quietly, panting. Her nipples stood out, dark crimson arrows.

With one gloved hand, the Beast lightly slapped the side of her breast. Then the other. The next slap bit in harder. Then they began to sting.

The beast would focus first on one breast, slapping it between his hands so that the round globe of it swung between them like a ball. Then he'd switch to the other, leaving the one he'd just tortured to flush and sting in the cool air.

Amarantha wept in earnest. Her sobs and wails rising and falling with the throbbing chords of music, she thrashed under the Beast's hands. It took her a while to realize he'd stopped. Gradually her sobs trailed off. Through the blur of

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tears, she could see her breasts, bright red and trembling with each shuddering breath.

The Beast sat and watched.

“You delight me beyond measure, my Amarantha,” he told her, his voice rough, full of dark chords like the music.

“I can't bear this!” She nearly screamed it.

“Oh, but you can. And more. This is just the beginning, my love, of the games we can play.”

“I hate it! I hate you!”

“You may well hate me. Despise me. Feel horror for my cursed appearance.

But
this
, you love. Allow me to demonstrate.”

The chair grated a harsh noise as the Beast rose and kicked it back.

Amarantha cried out as the Beast flung her gown above her knees and wrenched her legs apart. She flailed, but he ran a gloved finger up her thigh and into her core.

Amarantha nearly convulsed when he touched her.

The Beast held up his gloved hand before her eyes. The leather shone slick with the moisture that frothed between her legs.