What she did know was that, now, she definitely wasn’t going to schedule those meetings.
Not for a good while.
This was because she had a home. She had pets. She did office work at Dr. Hill’s clinic. What she did was not essential in the aid of the animals he cared for, but it did assist his endeavors. And, regardless of the repetitive quality of the work, it was the only thing at the end of any day that Amélie felt good about in her life, something with more than a small amount of alarm she was allowing herself to realize.
And last, there was the very not insignificant fact that she had Olivier in a playroom on Saturday.
She felt her face get soft at that thought, a coil of anticipation in her belly, both highly welcome reactions.
It had only been a day and her mind had wandered to him repeatedly, and with each time she had that same exact response.
Highly welcome.
She dismissed the email with a clap of screen to keyboard and looked to her phone, still scratching Cleo, who’d hunkered down, eyes closed, purr loud, claws coming out to knead Amélie’s thigh.
More play in the near future? Mira had asked.
That garnered another soft look because, yes, there would be.
And early indications screamed it would be scrumptious.
Saturday evening, she texted back.
Marvelous, my lovely, Mirabelle returned.
Absolutely, Amélie agreed.
She waited for more, even watched her screen, her heart feeling oddly suspended as she did.
It took time, time enough for Amélie to lean forward and take hold of her wine, have a sip, locate the remote that fired up the fireplace and wonder where she’d left the book she’d been reading, thinking about a contented night in for a change with wine, fire, book, and Cleo (and Stasia, if she’d deign to make an appearance).
In her life, she had a number of nights in … alone.
The change would be the “contented” part.
With Olivier to look forward to, that adjective could now be added.
This was also, obviously, highly welcome.
The text finally came and Amélie looked right to it.
Book club at yours?
That made her mouth turn down in a frown for this was not the text she expected, or more aptly, wished to receive.
She’d been waiting for word about what had (or had not) happened with Trey.
And yet there was no word.
Amélie wanted to ask her friend if the subject had been broached after their session last night. If Trey had asked Mirabelle out. Or if, perhaps, Mira brought it up.
What she did not want to do was ask her friend if the subject had been broached if it indeed had and this back-and-forth over texts was a brave face Mira was putting on to hide it had not gone well. For if it had, she would lead with that, not questions about Olivier.
Therefore she did not ask.
She replied, Yes, darling.
Good. And hey, have you heard from Evangeline?
This also set Amélie’s mouth turning down, for she had not.
Evangeline, a fellow Mistress, but more, a close friend, had had the unspeakable happen to her. And unbelievably, the event had occurred at the Honey—the first of its kind, to Amélie’s knowledge.
Aryas had lost his mind when it had happened and still carried guilt it was arguable, in Amélie’s opinion, he should carry.
However it was so much guilt, he refused to speak of it. But there were times, with her relationship with Ary, her skills as a Domme, Amélie saw it show.
She said nothing, also knowing Aryas was doing what he could with Evangeline to see to her healing and not doing this simply to assuage his guilt.
Not surprisingly, Evangeline had taken a break from the scene.
Disturbingly, this was lasting a good long while.
Too long.
Worse, she’d nearly disappeared and not just from the club. Cursory returns of texts. No-show at parties and bad excuses not to make lunch or dinner plans.
Something needed to be done.
It was just that Amélie, unusually, didn’t know what that something was. She’d tried gentle, at first. She’d tried firm. She’d even tried (carefully) insistent.
Evangeline was immune.
Or, knowing her friend, stubborn.
And if someone refused to heal, even a friend who cared deeply had to understand when the time came to leave them to that.
The only thing Amélie knew was that now was not yet that time.
No, Mira. I’ll ask her to the next club meeting and urge her strongly to come, she texted in return.
Excellent. I will too. Right, heading for the bath. Talk soon.
Good night, Mira, Amélie finished it.
She took a deep breath before another long sip of wine, listening to Cleopatra’s purring, giving her scratches down the length of her spine to her kitty-booty.
She did this sending her message to the fates that they’d take care of Mirabelle.
And Evangeline.
Careful to keep Cleo comfortable, instead of going to find her book, she shoved the laptop out of her way and curled her legs under her, now looking about space that was her space and had been for some years.
She was into minimalism, clean lines, modernism, with occasional statement pieces or flashes of color.
Throughout her large home, there were a lot of silvers, blacks, and grays.
There was also the phenomenal fireplace in front of her.
And the masterpiece of colorful glass art that was the chandelier that took over the full ceiling of her foyer.
Further, the five-foot-tall, four-foot-wide curvaceous, faceless goddess structure at the northwestern corner of the back deck—the goddess sitting on unseen calves, the sculpture starting at knees, leading to the juncture of the pubis and wide, rounded hips, back up, globular breasts, eyeless face looking straight on, arms raised up in curlicues.
A magnificent piece of beauty and power and femininity.
As she examined environs that were so familiar to her, she barely saw them anymore, suddenly, she saw them with new eyes.
New eyes wondering what Olivier would make of all of this. If she were to have him there, if he would like it, feel at home, share in her tastes.
And more, Amélie wondered what his home was like, and if he were to ask her there, if she would like it, feel at home there, share his tastes.
Practically the moment this thought entered her head, Amélie pushed it out.
One session and she was wondering if he’d like her goddess sculpture.
Not even one session and she was comparing the blue of his eyes to the hue in a rainbow.
You must be cautious, Leigh, she warned herself on another sip of her wine, eyes now fixed to the fire, hand now fully stroking her purring cat.
It was good advice. She knew it.
And she knew she had no choice but to take it.
But that did not diminish the coil of anticipation that twined deliciously in her belly.
One session. They’d had one session.
And they would have another one.
Her lips curved as she forced her mind to that. Just that. And with her considerable control, she was able to block out the rest and the hope that came with it, wondering about his space, wondering what he’d think of hers, how they’d fit into each other’s lives if they were to do so outside the club.
Hope.
She knew she couldn’t go there.
Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Amélie had to focus only on what there was and what she knew there would be.
They’d had one exceptionally fulfilling session.
And soon, she with her magnificent beast would have another one.
four
Lost and Never Found
AMÉLIE
Amélie entered the Honey and she did it with a carefully modulated gait, concealing her anticipation and impatience.
She greeted
the front desk staff, giving them her purse to stow, forcing her words not to be perfunctory, but also not lingering.
She then moved to the left, from the close, warm confines of the foyer with its muted classical music playing, into the hunting ground.
This was where she should linger. Get a drink. See who was there. Chat with friends.
But it was just after ten. Olivier would have been waiting for her now for over half an hour. She knew how he’d be waiting. And she couldn’t wait to see.
It said a good deal to all who were watching when she moved casually, but unerringly, toward the door to the playrooms.
She did glance around, though, offering nods, a curve of her lips, to Felicia, Romy, and Stellan, who, when she caught his eye, she found his attention on her in a focused way she’d only ever noticed he gave his subs.
She did not contemplate this. She simply lifted a hand to her lips, touching the side of her index finger there, and sending it slightly his way, like she was not quite blowing him a modified kiss.
He didn’t grin at her like he normally would have done. Just kept his gaze steady on her as she moved through the room.
She had no idea what that meant and she had less interest.
She wished to get to her steed.
Moving through the playrooms, the only thing that caught her attention was Mirabelle working Trey.
He was naked, sitting on a plug screwed into the floor, his face stuffed by her hand clenched into his hair into the juncture of her thighs, where she’d completely zipped down the skintight, black catsuit she wore, clearly all the way to the back of her crotch. Her head was back and her beautiful face was flushed and close to coming.
Since texting with her Wednesday night, Amélie had called her friend, mentioning the situation casually, only to receive a quick, uninformative update. But Amélie now knew Trey had not asked Mira out to do something in the ordinary world.
She also knew Mirabelle still held hope.
Amélie would give this some time and attention, keeping her finger on the pulse and hoping her friend’s heart didn’t get broken.
It bit into her admittedly vast reserves of control not to hurry through the passageways to her special room.
But when she finally turned the corner that would lead her to the door, she couldn’t stop a quiet coo of delight from floating up her throat.
There were a number of people, Doms and subs, standing (or kneeling) at the windows, looking in.
Of course, the sight would be one to see.
When her approach was noted, she got attention and gave nods, ignored subs, and walked right to the door.
She opened it, stepped through, and didn’t bother flipping the switch to send the signal the room was in use as it had been now for some time and the employee who’d seen to Olivier would have done it for her.
The truth of it was, Amélie might not have even remembered to do it, for she’d been correct.
Olivier was a sight to see.
She closed the door, eyes to him, and walked on the spike heels of her red pumps to stand two feet in front of him, the wide legs of her cuffed-hem black slacks swaying along her legs, the snug fit of them at her hips suddenly seeming constricting, the choice of a light, loose, black silk blouse becoming a godsend.
His eyes were on her, too, dark as night, and they hit her the instant she entered, never leaving.
Her eyes roved over him, her magnificent beast.
“Hello, Olivier,” she greeted quietly.
“Mistress,” he bit out.
She felt one side of her mouth snag up.
But she took in his tone and studied him far more closely, honing in with keen eyes, seeing his distress.
She’d ordered him collared and bound, straps at ankles and wrists tied to each other at the back, a strap through the catch at the back of the wide band of black leather that circled his thick neck leading all the way down to his ankles. He was on his knees on the floor, thighs resting on calves splayed wide. As tied, he was forced back at a slight angle, but nothing too constricting.
This the staff would have done.
What was happening between his legs, he’d have been ordered to do before he was bound because no one touched her toy’s privates but her.
His cock was ringed, the gold of it gleaming in the hairs at the root. His balls were harnessed, stretched apart by their strap, stretched from his body by another at the base. There was a long strap leading from the back of the ball harness that an employee would have had to deal with and would have been able to do so without touching what was only Amélie’s.
This was tied tight, tethering him by his sac to the ring in the floor.
This meant he was strung back and tethered only at one point in his body, but still unable to move an inch.
He was being very good, his legs spread wide as she’d commanded.
The distress came from the cock ring. She’d worried it wouldn’t fit without more than the pain she’d wish. She’d worried the same about the collar, which she didn’t wish to add even a single twinge.
She wanted his attention between his legs.
It appeared the collar fit.
The ring, although the fit was not dangerous, visibly did not.
And his enormous cock was hard, weighted heavy. Regardless of the slight arch of his body forced with his bindings, it was so large, it was brushing the strap and the tip even hit the floor, the tight fit of the ring meaning in all likelihood he could think of nothing but his dick.
There was a sheen of sweat all over his body, including his thighs, as he struggled to control the pain and as he battled his reaction to his obvious pleasure.
He was beautiful.
She bent over him.
“How are you, my chevalier?” she asked.
Eyes flashed with ire and something else.
Both she liked.
“Peachy,” he gritted.
Oh, how she liked his cheek. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t allow it. Most Mistresses wouldn’t.
But she liked it and she absolutely was not most Mistresses.
So she did.
And furthermore, she could play with it.
She tipped her head to the side. “I may be wrong, but you seem impatient with me.”
“Impatient is a good word,” he agreed.
“My poor steed,” she whispered, letting her gaze trail down his sweat-slickened chest to the spectacular bound meat between his legs. She looked back at his face. “He needs to come.”
“Yeah.” It came as an exhalation. “That’d be good.”
“First,” she began.
Impatient frustration at the obvious delay her word conveyed saturating his hard features, she didn’t fight the curve of her mouth.
When he spotted her smile, that brought more ire.
She smiled bigger and went on, “I think it important to share with you that I came three times after I left you Tuesday night.”
His body suddenly surged up, yanked down by his rein, a suppressed rumble sounded like it came from trapped in his chest rather than forced between his tight lips.
She watched as he slid his knees farther out to give as much slack to the ball tether as he could while his chest expanded and contracted as he pulled in deep breaths through his teeth.
God, could he get any more beautiful?
She shifted closer.
His lips tightened so much, his body beginning to quiver with the effort to remain in place, those lips nearly bared his lovely, strong white teeth.
“Three times hard, chevalier. Very hard,” she said softly, dipping even closer, coming toward his face, veering to his left at the last moment to say in his ear, “I haven’t come that often that quickly in such a swift succession and so hard in years, my beast. Even during sessions, I have not received such pleasure. Just thinking of you, it seemed I couldn’t stop.”
“Amélie.”
That was also forced out, but the grit of it wasn’t anger or frustration
.
It was need.
She lifted her head and looked at him.
Oh yes. Stark. Amazing.
Need.
“Yes, Olivier?” she asked.
“Jack my dick, Mistress, fuckin’ please.”
She held his eyes. “Since you asked so sweetly, once I get you in position to perform for me, we’ll begin. Now, if you would, rest into your bounds, chevalier. Your palms against the ties at your ankles.”
He didn’t delay. He leaned back, which arched his torso even farther. The flinch at the pull at his cock was such she reached out and quickly untied it from the ring.
He blew out an audible puff of breath, his thighs visibly trembling.
She watched and commanded, “Now arch more for me, please. Up on your knees. Round your back and push out your hips. Keep your hands to your ankles. Offer that big brute to your Mistress.”
There came hesitation and she moved her avid contemplation of his body to his face.
As she did, Amélie was worried he’d indicate he was aware of, and was uncomfortable with, the onlookers.
He wasn’t.
He was with her and his battle was within. He knew what she wanted. Hands to ankles, if he lifted to his knees, those knees wide, the position would be one of vulnerability, some discomfort, strain … and full-on display.
“Olivier,” she said gently but warningly.
As he regarded her, she noted a wild to his eyes so early in their acquaintance that she had not yet seen.
It answered her earlier question.
He could get more beautiful.
Before she could open her mouth to reproach his lack of movement, he did as commanded.
It took a good deal to give him the comfort of her close proximity rather than step back and take in the fullness of the spectacle of Olivier lifting, arching, and offering his Mistress his big, hard cock.
“Thank you, my beast,” she said, soft words that drifted around them, words only for them (not that anyone could hear anything unless she flipped on audio), words for him, words that settled the wild in his eyes.
When he gave her that gift, she reached out and took tight hold of his cock.
He grunted and the wild swept back.
“Do not thrust unless you’re told to, Olivier,” she warned. “This cock is my cock. As was my wont, you’ve sweetly offered it to me. Now I’ll do with it as I will.”