Single White Submissive Page 10

  A neatly folded, padded drape sat on the chair nearest the piano. The instrument was normally covered, then. Rikard had removed the drape in preparation for her visit.

  Cold chills collected in her stomach, and she stopped dead in her tracks. “I can’t do this.”

  “You can, and you will. While I wear this mask, I am your master, and you are mine to command.” Rikard’s voice was cold and implacable, then gentled as he brushed a gloved finger across her cheek. “Come, we will make a game of it. You will sit with me at the piano, and I will pick out the tune with one hand. See if you can sing along with me.”

  Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she nodded. “Yes, Master Rikard.” He wasn’t expecting perfection. It was just a game.

  He pushed the piano bench to the left, so that he could sit on the end and still be centered in front of the keyboard. Placing the score on the music rest, he accidentally hit the corner with the trailing sleeve of his poet shirt, sending the pages flying.

  Gayle bent and grabbed the music, then arranged it before him, no longer worried about needing to be perfect. She suspected he might have fumbled the pages on purpose, to put her at her ease. If so, it had worked. Rikard took his position on the bench, shifting bench and music slightly until everything was aligned as he desired. Then he patted the bench beside him.

  “Join me.”

  She slipped onto the bench, her leather skirt sliding smoothly across the glossy mahogany. Rikard wrapped his left arm around her shoulders, holding her close, then proceeded to “pick out the tune” with his right hand.

  He played the melody line flawlessly, interspersing it with accent notes from the accompaniment, his fingers dancing across the keys. She frowned. If he was this good, he should be playing professionally, not composing music for other people to play.

  “Now sing,” he ordered, as he began the piece again.

  Gayle breathed deeply, cleared her mind of everything except the music, and sang. When she finished, she turned to face him, eagerly anticipating his reaction. She’d nailed it.

  Rikard’s head was bent, his hand curled loosely in his lap.

  “You sang every note as written, no easy task in a Sondheim piece.”

  “So why do you sound disappointed?”

  “Music is not about getting the notes right, any more than poetry is about spelling the words correctly. It’s about freeing your soul.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Listen.”

  He began the piece again, his voice light and wistful as he described a love who was with him every single day. Then his voice broke on a ragged inhalation, and shook with agony as he cried, “And you won’t go away!”

  His love would not leave him alone, no matter how much he wished she would. Gayle’s heart ached for his pain. Then his voice shifted again, turning flat and toneless as he revealed if she ever did leave, it would kill him. Dull and hollow with hopelessness, he whispered, “Dying day after day after day, as the days go by.”

  Gayle blinked her blurry eyes, focusing on Rikard’s bent head, the fall of his blond hair screening his black mask from her sight. His right hand was fisted on the keyboard, the leather of his glove stretched taut across his knuckles.

  “Did you love her so very much?” she whispered.

  “With all my heart and soul.”

  “What happened?”

  “A car accident. Four years ago. A truck’s tire blew, and the driver swerved out of control, jackknifed and skidded across the highway. A minute later or a minute earlier, and the road would have been deserted. Instead, I got there just as he crossed into the oncoming traffic lane. The truck’s fuel line ruptured. The dragging chassis struck a spark. My windshield blew out, glass everywhere. The doctors were afraid I was going to be blind. I wish I had been, rather than—”

  His jaw clenched, his entire body going rigid as he fought the demons in his memory. He breathed deeply, then again, and slowly relaxed. His fist uncurled.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “I’m alive, even if it’s not the life I intended.” He turned to face her, then smiled sadly as he wiped her cheeks with his gloved thumb. “It’s I who should apologize to you. I’ve made you cry.”

  She bit her lip, good manners warring with turbulent emotions. Emotion won. “Would it be too hard for you to play it once more? I’d like to try it again.”

  Rikard straightened, his fingers returning to the keyboard. After a deep breath, he began playing the song from the beginning, although this time, he played only the melody line, without any of the embellishments.

  Gayle couldn’t match the strength of his loving and losing, but she’d experienced her own losses over the years. Her beloved aunt, dying of a lung infection. Her dog, Tiger, who had been her inseparable childhood companion. Even the slow corporate death of spending more and more time on the road, until her life became a series of disconnected hotel rooms with no goal beyond reaching the next assignment, the next contract, and her hobbies, interests, and existence outside of her job faded away.

  She put all of that emotion into the song. And when it ended, she sat, stunned, as the last notes faded. She’d heard the difference. It was unbelievable.

  Rikard brushed his gloved fingers across the keys in a caress too light to sound them, then closed the piano with a snap. The music fluttered to the floor.

  “Yes. That time you let me hear your soul.”

  He stood, gracefully sliding off the bench in a well-practiced move. Offering his hand to her, he said, “Come. It is time for that lunch I promised you.”

  Gayle slipped her hand into his, and allowed him to pull her off the bench and out of the music room. She felt somehow lighter than she had before, yet at the same time, her heart was weighted by what she’d learned of him. It explained how come such a dishy guy wasn’t already taken. Another woman had won his heart, a woman he’d loved so fiercely that it had taken him four years after her death before he was able to reenter the dating scene. No wonder he was only interested in scene play, at first, rather than a relationship.

  That was okay. They’d go slow. It would be better for both of them that way.

  Chapter Three

  The eat-in kitchen boasted a glass-walled breakfast nook that overlooked the back deck with a panoramic view of the well established orchards. The round table and chairs were of white-painted wrought iron, the table topped by a thick piece of beveled glass and the chairs cushioned with pale blue and white striped pillows.

  Blue- and white-striped placemats were already set kitty-corner on the table, the matching linen napkins folded in graceful fans beside them. Condensation frosted the chilled white china plates resting on top of pale blue chargers. Swirls of blue glass patterned the water goblets, already filled with ice water and a thin slice of lemon. Condensation frosted their sides as well.

  Gayle shook her head. This was not what she was expecting.

  “I was just filling the water glasses when you arrived,” Rikard told her. He released her hand and walked over to the stainless-steel refrigerator, opening it and withdrawing a pale blue salad bowl. From what she could see over his shoulder, the refrigerator was well stocked, but neatly, rather than filled with things stuffed haphazardly where there was room.

  “It’s more Martha than Marquis de Sade.”

  Rikard laughed, the sound wrapping her in warmth that made her stomach flutter. “But I told you, the goal for today was to get to know each other better, and establish trust. There’s plenty of time to torture you with food later.”

  She stood awkwardly next to one of the chairs. “Do you want me to serve you?”

  “No. I’m not one of those dominants who equates submission with household service.”

  He held out a chair for her, giving her the better view of the apple trees to the south, and leaving the eastern view of the deck and kitchen for himself. Once she was seated, he grabbed salad tongs and served the mix of field greens, sliced strawberries, and a ba
lsamic vinaigrette dressing onto her plate.

  After helping himself, he returned the bowl to the refrigerator. Then he set a covered platter, no doubt the second course, on the counter to warm up to room temperature. Finally, he returned to the table and claimed his seat.

  He snapped his napkin open with a sharp crack, making Gayle jump. A hint of a smile played about his lips, although his mask made it difficult to read his expression.

  She spread her own napkin, waiting until he picked up his salad fork before reaching for her own. “What kind of a dominant are you, then?”

  “I enjoy caring for my submissives, surrounding them with elegance and comfort, so that they may give themselves completely to the moment, with no petty worries to distract them. Skin that has grown accustomed to fine silks and velvet, redolent perfumes and exotic oils, will feel the contrast of a loving lash far more than one dulled and deadened by overwork and uncomfortable clothing.”

  Gayle stopped with the first forkful of salad halfway to her mouth. She could almost feel his gloved hands stroking and caressing her body, smoothing massage oil into her skin, and trailing wisps of silk across her sensitive breasts and between her legs.

  She jumped, certain she’d felt a light swat against her ass. But that was impossible. She was sitting in a padded chair. Unless he’d hidden some sort of spanking device under the cushion?

  Rikard’s low chuckle swirled around her. “You’re very responsive. Are you that responsive in bed, too? Are you a moaner or a shouter?”

  Gayle licked her lips, her gaze locking on his blue eyes glimmering in the depths of the black leather mask. “I like to beg.”

  He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, as if she was a fine wine and he was sampling her bouquet.

  “Eat your salad.”

  Obediently, she slipped the forgotten forkful of greens into her mouth. Her eyes widened in surprise. It was unexpectedly good, with a hint of…was that ginger? And something sweet besides just the strawberries—brown sugar or maybe honey.

  “This is great!” She forked up another mouthful.

  Rikard had already regained his composure after her confession, and turned his attention to his own plate. “Thank you. It pleases me to know you enjoy it.”

  They ate in silence for a brief interval, giving the delicious salad the attention it deserved. Then he asked, “What things give you pleasure?”

  “You mean, in bed?”

  “In bed or out. What warms your soul?”

  She considered. “Well, I like performing, singing onstage.”

  “What exactly about performing do you enjoy? The adulation of a crowd? Making a public act out of your private emotions? Touching their hearts and minds?”

  She blinked. “I never really thought about it. Are those some of the reasons the performers you know like performing?”

  “Don’t dodge the question.”

  “Yes, Master Rikard.” She bent her head, staring at the half-eaten salad while she puzzled out what she enjoyed about singing onstage. “I think it’s the challenge. I like working hard to get it right, and the audience reaction is like a grade, telling me how close I came to doing it.”

  “Ah. So as your Master, I should set challenging tasks for you, and provide feedback so you know whether or not you succeeded.”

  The flesh between her legs began to pulse, hot and wet with arousal. Her breasts tingled, the nipples tightening, and her breath came in short, quick gasps. She loved to learn new things. The constant training was the best part of her job. But it had never occurred to her that a skilled Master would want to train her.

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered. “Please, Master.”

  “Very well, then. Here is your first task. Finish your salad.”

  A muffled sigh escaped her lips as Gayle picked up her fork.

  “You don’t think it’s a challenge? Perhaps if I tell you, you aren’t allowed to make any noise while you eat?”

  She looked up at him, her mouth opening to ask what he meant before she realized that would be disobeying his instruction. Instead, she shook her head.

  “I’ll just have to make it more challenging, then. You eat, and I’ll tell you all the things I plan on teaching you.”

  He began with the simple things, that he would teach her how to speak to him with proper deference yet still giving him all the information he needed to care for her, and how to sit beside him so that he could touch her at his leisure. He would teach her how to remove her clothes so that each item stroking across her flesh enflamed her desire. He would teach her how to position herself so that she was completely open to him, her hot, wet pussy his for the taking, and how she would beg him to take it.

  Gayle felt the moisture growing between her legs, instinctively spreading her legs as wide as her tight leather skirt would allow. She wriggled against the cushion, struggling for relief. At least, if she’d been wearing underwear, the friction of the cotton or lace against her swollen clit and wet lips would have offered some pleasure. But she was bare beneath her skirt, with nothing to rub against.

  A soft whimper broke from her lips.

  Rikard’s hand slapped the glass tabletop, making the plates bounce. “No!”

  She jumped, her wide-eyed gaze locking on his face. Was he angry? No, he was smiling.

  “You made a noise,” he said. “Perhaps this is a challenging task after all?”

  She nodded vigorously.

  “Finish your salad. We will begin again. And since the task is more challenging than you expected, I think you deserve a reward if you complete it. What reward shall I give you?”

  His blue eyes glittered with desire, and the ambrosia of power, as he pondered his answer out loud.

  “You seem to be having trouble sitting. Perhaps I should investigate, and do a thorough probing between your legs to determine what is causing the problem.”

  Gayle bit her lip to keep from moaning. Hot liquid ran down the inside crease of her thigh, to pool beneath her ass on the supple leather of her skirt. She wriggled her hips, imagining his gloved fingers pressing between her folds, slipping inside her, stretching her opening as he slowly added fingers, until his entire hand forced its way over the ridge of muscle into her vagina.

  Her vision was blurring, her breath coming sharp and fast. Her nipples were so tight they hurt. And all she could do was shovel strawberries and lettuce into her mouth as fast as possible, to end this torture.

  “You’re not savoring your food,” Rikard warned her. “If I think you’re not appreciating it, I’ll have to give you a second helping.”

  Gayle wanted to scream in frustration, but she didn’t make a sound. She slowed the pace of her eating, her trembling hand making it difficult to carry the salad to her mouth, and slowing her even further.

  She’d never felt so turned on in her life.

  “Very good.”

  She glowed, warmed by his praise. All she wanted was to please him, to make him happy. Then he would reward her. But pleasing him was its own reward. He’d gone to so much trouble to put together a nice lunch for her. The least she could do was enjoy it properly.

  Her tongue swept out, licking the dressing from her lips. Looking deep into his eyes, she opened her mouth and sucked the dressing from the tines of her fork.

  His eyes darkened, and she could hear his labored breathing in the silence of the kitchen.

  “You seem to enjoy that salad dressing,” he said, a rough huskiness marring the smooth fluidity of his voice. “Perhaps I should anoint you with it, drizzle it on your breasts, let it drip onto your thighs. Then I could lick it off you.”

  Gayle fisted her free hand, her nails digging into her palm. The sharp pain distracted her from phantom sensations of liquid running across her skin, followed by a warm, wet tongue.

  Triumphantly, she popped the last slice of strawberry into her mouth, and laid her fork down with a clatter.

  “Excellent,” Rikard purred. “You have done very well. And that was a challenge, indeed.
Come here.”

  He held out his hand. Gayle rose, unsteady on quivering legs, and tottered over to his side. He drew her onto his lap, her leather skirt squeaking softly as it slid across his leather pants. His gloved hand cupped her hip, anchoring her yet burning her with the heat of his banked passion.

  His velvety voice was low and strained as he asked, “I know I said I would not touch you sexually until we’d established trust, but am I right in thinking that’s what you want me to do now?”

  She nodded.

  “You may speak now. Your challenge is completed.”

  “Yes, Master. Please. Touch me.”

  “Where?”

  “Put your fingers inside me. Make me come in your hand.”

  He smiled tightly, recognizing his own words. Then he reached beneath her skirt, his gloved fingers trailing lightly up the inside of her thigh. They were soft, and warm, and everything she’d dreamed of.

  Gayle’s head tipped back and she moaned, arching against his supporting arm behind her back, lifting her hips and spreading her legs. His fingers brushed her clit, and she gasped, jolted by a sharp rush of pleasure. He worked his way between her folds by touch, guided by her breathy moans. Then his fingers slid over the edge of her opening, and she cried out, “Master!”

  He pressed two fingers inside her, thrusting up to the second knuckle.

  “Yes! Yes! More!”

  A third finger joined the other two on the next thrust, stretching her to the edge of pain. His thumb worked her clit, sliding over and around it, his glove wet with her fluids, as his fingers stroked in and out. He found her nerves and pressed them against the bone, wrenching a scream of ecstasy from her.

  “Beg me,” he rasped, his breath hot against her neck. “Beg.”

  “Please, Master. Please. That feels so good. Touch me. Deep. Deeper. Ahhh.” A rush of pleasure blanked all thought for a moment.

  “Beg!” he growled.

  In a flash of insight, she knew what he needed her to say. He wanted to fist her, the way she’d imagined earlier, but he wouldn’t risk hurting her unless she gave her permission. “I want you. All of you. I need your whole hand inside me. Please, Master. I’m yours. Take me. Take me now. Please. Make me scream for you. Only for you.”