The Runaway Bride - A Captive Flame Book One (11 page)

When I stepped
out carefully into his office, I couldn’t see Krystopher anywhere.
I smoothed my hair, looking around and wandering idly—his office
was so incredibly huge, even without taking the rooms attached to
it into consideration. I shook my head, once more stricken by the
implications of the wealth and power that Krystopher had at his
disposal. I sat down on the couch and almost moaned at the supple,
soft comfort of it. Part of my mind was still on the disciplinary
session that had just finished; I had almost wanted to earn a
punishment from my Master.

I realized that I
wanted him to bring the whip down on me, like he had at our first
meeting. I wanted—I craved—to absolutely be possessed by him. The
thought of it scared me a little; I had always been my own woman.
After all, I had abandoned my own fiancé simply because the thought
of being married to him—or to anyone—had been a kind of bondage I
couldn’t make myself agree with. And yet, there was something
deeper and more elemental about the kind of ownership that
Krystopher exerted over me that didn’t scare me at all. He had made
me tell him—made me tell myself—that my pussy, my ass, my breasts,
my whole body, were his. I shivered as I remembered him taunting me
with the notion of fucking me anally, that I had nodded absolute
agreement with the fact that if he had wanted to do it to me, I
would give in completely to his pleasure.

I was startled out of
my reverie by the sound of the elevator chiming. I sat up straight,
smoothing my skirt, thinking that maybe something had called
Krystopher downstairs to one of the other offices in the building.
Instead it was his personal secretary; she strode through the
elevator doors and her eyes widened at the sight of me sitting
there. I knew my cheeks were still flushed, my makeup was probably
smeared from the sex I had just enthusiastically enjoyed, but I
tried to maintain my composure the way that Krystopher wanted me to
do. “Where’s Mr. Danes?” the secretary asked abruptly, her eyes
narrowing and her lips pursing slightly.

“He had to take a
call, so he stepped away,” I said. The urge to rub at my makeup
came over me and I suppressed it. The woman looked me up and down,
scowling slightly.

“So, you’re a… a
business associate of his.” I nodded, straightening my shoulders
slightly and holding her gaze. Something about the way she looked
at me, the hesitation in her voice before she said ‘business
associate’ rankled. “Just tell him that the paperwork for the
Linfield acquisition just came in, and it needs his signature.” She
shook her head slightly and turned on her heel, clattering quickly
out of the room. I watched her punch at the elevator button with
her fingers and scowled at her back, thinking that even if she
suspected something, it was far from her place as a personal
secretary to be rude to me.

I put it out of my
mind and waited as patiently as I could for Krystopher to return. A
few moments later, he came through the door to the roof, greeting
me with a smile. He came and sat down next to me, letting his hand
fall to my knee in a carelessly possessive way that I had to admit
to myself I liked. “Since you did such a good job in our discipline
session, and proved that you can indeed handle pressure—and that
you are capable of being an obedient little slave,” his voice
dropped low at the compliment, the sound of his accent caressing my
ear and sending a frisson of delight down my spine. “I am going to
give you a reward.” My eyes widened. The sex hadn’t been my reward?
That had been all I could think about. “We’re done for the day
here, Rhonda; anything else I need to do can be done on the fly.” I
thought about what the rude secretary had said, and decided
abruptly—and spitefully—not to deliver her message. “Have you ever
been to the opera?” I shook my head. Krystopher grinned slowly. “In
that case, this will be a very nice reward for you. Come on, little
slave—we have to get you ready.” Krystopher stood quickly, taking
my hand and leading me from his office.

Chapter Eight

~

Before we could go to
the opera, Krystopher informed me that I had to be “immaculately
dressed.” He took me straight from the office to a high couture
boutique; I was surprised at the fact that while I still felt
strange in such a rarified atmosphere, I didn’t feel quite as
awkward as I had just the day before. He told the attendant who
rushed to greet us as soon as we stepped through the doors that we
had tickets to the opera—to the opening of La Bohème. I had heard
of that opera, but never had a chance to do more than know that it
existed; the woman attending us nodded importantly and walked me
quickly to an area with priceless gowns. I knew that the opera was
typically a black tie sort of affair; but I had never thought that
I’d have to think about an event like that as anything more than an
idea.

Once more, just as he
had previously, Krystopher waited for me, following in the wake of
the attendant who picked out five different dresses for me to try.
“I think you’ll really like this one; the deep green will
complement your skin tone beautifully, and set off your hair.” I
felt almost like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman as I slipped into
the different dresses, stepping out of the changing room to show
Krystopher, to get his approval. My body was still humming from the
sexual interlude, my mind still in the space of subtle obedience to
my Master’s commands. When I stepped out in the deep green dress,
Krystopher’s eyes widened and a faint smile curved his lips as he
took in the sight of me. It was the only dress without a huge
skirt, instead modeled on sleek lines, hugging every curve of my
body and falling to my feet. It was made of real velvet, with a
vines and leaves motif pressed into the fabric, slithering up along
the skirt. The neckline darted down almost to my navel, and I was
worried at the very real possibility of a simple movement exposing
me—but it was obvious that the gown delighted Krystopher. I told
the attendant that we would take it.

When she left us
alone, Krystopher slipped his hands underneath the folds of fabric
that barely covered my breasts, cupping me and stroking my nipples
with his fingertips teasingly. “Hm, yes, this will do very nicely
indeed,” he said, approval rich in his voice. I changed back into
the clothes I had worn to the office, and Krystopher took me back
to his apartment. “While I trust to your taste, my dear,” he
commented as he led me in, carrying the garment bag that held my
gown draped over his shoulder, “I have professionals coming to do
your hair and makeup—this is the kind of event that you wouldn’t be
experienced with.” While I felt strange—and for a moment my pride
stirred up in me, making me want to defy him and insist on doing my
own hair and makeup—I held my peace and let Krystopher pull me into
the shower with him to “get clean” before the arrival of the
professionals. I was starting to learn that my Master would take
any and every moment to impress on me the virtues not only of
discipline and reward, but attention; the shower caught me
off-guard less because of the fact that he pressed me onto my knees
and commanded me to worship his cock with my mouth, and more
because he pulled me onto my feet once more and began to touch me
everywhere, scrubbing and massaging me with his hands lathered with
soap.

We barely had time to
finish up before a chime from the living room announced the arrival
of the hair and makeup artists that Krystopher had somehow arranged
to work with me. I wondered just how he had managed to get them
together—how he had made so many fast plans. Did he have these
people on retainer? Had he called upon them to work on some other
girl who had been his slave? The questions filled my mind as the
two professionals went to work, transforming me from a clean,
slightly stylish businesswoman and into what I could only describe
to myself, looking in the mirror at myself, as a princess. I looked
elegant, I looked striking. When I slipped into the gown, and into
the shoes that went with it, and twirled in place, I thought that
even in my wedding dress, with my hair and makeup done
professionally, I had never looked more thoroughly beautiful in my
entire life.

There was
another surprise waiting for me; I stepped out of the bedroom to
find Krystopher in a stylish, pared-down tuxedo, waiting patiently
for me with cocktails at hand. He gestured for me to join him on
the couch, and I sipped a cocktail while he told me what would be
expected of me while I was in the opera house with him. “I want you
to blend in absolutely seamlessly with the rest of the audience,”
he explained, holding my gaze. I felt myself falling into a kind of
hypnosis as he spoke, listening and understanding, but unable to
argue with his instruction or consider disagreeing with it. It was
too easy for me to fall into the habit of obedience already, and
part of my mind whispered that it was just a little bit scary that
that was the case; but another part of my mind was thrilled with
the opportunity, absolutely bowled over by the kind of lifestyle
that living as the slave of a billionaire opened up to
me.

“We’ll have dinner
after the show; while you were being so wonderfully made up and
coiffed,” Krystopher smiled slightly, his gaze flitting from my
cleavage to my face and my deep red hair, piled into an intricate
chignon. “While you were being attended to, I made our reservation
personally.” It seemed like the man I had submitted to knew someone
in every single industry in the world—as if he had personal
contacts with every major restaurateur, every design boutique. I
supposed that being as wealthy as he was came with that level of
privilege; instead of having to make contacts, Krystopher could
just wait for a person to come to him, wanting him to show up to a
restaurant and encourage more wealthy clientele.

I felt only mildly
nervous as we got out of the car at the opera house; I knew well
enough, even without Krystopher’s instruction, how to conduct
myself in a situation like this. The points he had made to me over
the cocktails were simply particular to opera—how to keep up with
the acts while looking at the libretto, when it was appropriate to
clap, and the myriad of things that, if he hadn’t forewarned me,
would have led to me making it obvious that I was new to the
pastime. Our seats were—of course—amazing. I was more surprised by
the fact that Krystopher left me more or less in peace throughout
the opera; he asked me how I liked the story, what I thought of the
voices. “This isn’t the best production of La Bohème,” Krystopher
whispered to me as we sat in the box, watching the people leave and
come back during the intermission. “For that we’d have to go
outside of the country. There are some stunning sopranos in Japan,
and tenors in Russia. But this is a good introduction.”

The opera dazzled my
eyes, and my ears were unable to find any fault with the
performances; it was difficult to keep up with the Italian-language
dialogue, but I managed to gather most of what was happening from a
combination of my own common sense, watching the action on the
stage, and glancing at the libretto that we had been given as we
moved to our seats. I would never have thought that I would be the
type of person who would enjoy opera, but the passionate story and
drama got to me, and I found myself sitting forward, totally
forgetting the man who had brought me, wrapped up in the unfolding
tale.

For a moment,
Krystopher held me back when the lights came up. “We’ll wait for
the crush to die down a bit.” He pulled the curtain on the box,
plunging us into darkness and privacy, and took advantage of the
moment to wrap his arms around me. I trembled slightly, my body
reacting immediately to the press of Krystopher’s. He brushed his
lips against mine and looked down at me in the gloomy darkness.
“Did you enjoy it?” he asked me lowly. I nodded eagerly. “So now
you see what kind of rewards you earn when you are an obedient,
well-disciplined slave.” I nodded again, almost breathless with
anticipation. I was absolutely naked under the gown; the plunging
neckline made a bra of any kind impossible, and Krystopher had
insisted that just like before, I wasn’t to wear any panties. I
knew—I absolutely knew—that there would be more discipline, and
maybe even punishment, when we were in private once more.

We stepped out into
the flow of traffic leaving from the auditorium and into the main
lobby of the opera house, and I felt women’s gazes on me—men’s as
well—with undisguised envy in the women, and carefully veiled
arousal in the men. Krystopher whispered in my ear, “All of these
men wish they could have you for their own little slave; but you
and I both know who you belong to.” I blushed slightly, feeling my
body heat up at the reminder, hearing his voice in my mind, asking
who my ass belonged to, who my pussy belonged to, who my breasts
belonged to. I nodded.

As we left the
theatre, I saw a flash and turned in surprise in the direction it
came from, just within my peripheral vision; a photographer was
bringing his camera down, and hurrying onto a motorcycle. I started
to ask Krystopher about it—but he paid the photographer no
attention and I decided that I might as well follow his lead; after
all, if he didn’t think it was worth paying attention to, then who
was I to argue?

When we went to
dinner I started to wonder idly whether I would be able to maintain
my figure in such a lifestyle; the tasting menu, while the portions
were appropriately tiny, was full of rich, fatty things—foie gras,
butter, cream, velvety reductions and deep, aromatic broths,
hand-rolled pasta, delicate greens. I commented to Krystopher that
I had never eaten so sumptuously in my entire life as I had in the
past couple of days we had been together. He smiled slowly. “I
enjoy watching you taste things—you have such a lovely little
mouth.” His gaze dropped to my lips and I blushed, seeing the flare
of lust in his eyes. “And your reactions to things are wonderfully
unguarded.” He leaned in closer to me, resting his hand on my
thigh, reminding me subtly of the fact that I was his—absolutely
his.