Ice Queen

That sense of reassurance was the thought that first hit her when she woke. In the manner of coping she'd used for a long time, she turned it around. This whole weekend was about suspending her natural reality. She'd been reluctant to do so and yes, Tyler had masterfully, no pun intended, made her accept it. She'd known he was a powerful Master, capable of taking over a sub's will. Well, perhaps most women's wills, bringing them to higher pinnacles of pleasure than they otherwise ever would know. Kudos to him for that.

Why not enjoy the benefits of being his "play" sub for a weekend? When it was over, she would reflect on it as a truly enlightening experience that would help her achieve a deeper connection with her own submissives. As he'd said.

She was untied. Someone had cared for her, cleaned between her legs, cleaned the evidence of his desire off her back and buttocks at last. She'd been so exhausted she'd slept right through it. She, who was hyperaware of the casual brush of a passerby on the street, had slept through him intimately touching her. For she was certain Tyler would entrust her care to no one else.

She rose slowly, her muscles aching, and managed to get her feet angled toward the floor, her head in the upright position. Though sore, she felt alive, energized, aware of her surroundings and his scent. Not allowing herself to think about the compulsion, she leaned back, her hand finding his pillow. Hesitating only a moment, she brought it to her face and inhaled. He'd slept with her, she remembered. Waking up in the middle of the night, she'd felt his body against the side of hers, his arm on her waist, palm on her hip, idly stroking her buttock, his breathing even, deep.

Appalled at the fact she was lingering over memories of him, she dropped the pillow and noticed the chair set up near the bed. The robe she'd worn was draped over it. On the pool of silk in the seat were the nipple clamps, a brush and a note.

Leave your hair down. Put on the clamps and adjust them the way I had them, one turn before they're too tight. Wear the robe or not. Your choice.

And under those last two words he'd drawn a small likeness of a cartoon devil grinning at her.

Moving into the hallway a few minutes later wearing the robe, she took in some of the details she'd missed the previous night. The eclectic though sparse style of his home reflected that he chose only things that interested him. Intriguing, individualistic pieces lined the walls, drawing her attention as she made her way down the landing and out onto the open stairwell. A bronze sculpture of a dancer had been placed on a pedestal.

A landscape painting, showing a sailboat tacking off a rocky shore, was under a small spotlight mounted on the hallway wall. A trio of photographs showing her scenes of third-world children with simple pure smiles and mountain vistas in the background, was at the top of the stairs.

As she looked over the railing, she noted that the living room designed for male comfort with its sectional sofa and widescreen television had colorful area rugs that looked handwoven. Probably from some lovely South American village where the women who had made them couldn't imagine what a widescreen television was, let alone that their handiwork would soften a room with one in it.

But it was as she walked down the staircase that she found the pieces that gave her a more personal glimpse of the man. There was a black and white photograph of Leila, one of the submissives who frequented The Zone and who had been an item with Tyler at one time. In this photo, the woman was sitting at a vanity completely naked. Her back was to the camera, her hands bound behind her back, her eyes studying the photographer by reflection in the mirror. Though he had taken the photo at an angle, standing clear of the shot so as not to mar its perfection, it was obvious from the avid look in her eyes, mixed with a quiet joy and tranquility at being where she was, who it was who took the picture.

Down another few steps were the family shots. Tyler's parents probably, an old black and white of their wedding as they stepped out into a new life together, rice scattered over their head and shoulders. It was positioned diagonally with a more recent photo of the couple. She saw Tyler's bone structure and height in his father, his complexion and nose in his mother. Some of his implacability was in his mother's face, his tender side in his father's.

If she was right about the way he did his decorating, these photos all had significance, important memories or relationships stored behind each one. Nothing in this house had been randomly chosen. And that, she realized, included her.

When she heard the sound of a pot clanging into a sink, she drew in a breath. Her nipples tingled in the grip of the clamps, reacting to the evidence of his close presence.

Bemused, she continued down the stairs, though she trailed her fingers over the pictures as if she were absorbing his life through her touch.

Stepping into the kitchen, she found Sarah absent and Tyler her chef for the morning meal. He wore a pair of drawstring cotton pants, a natural undyed fabric that was long enough that the back cuffs were worn from his bare heels stepping on them.

He wasn't wearing a shirt and he'd not yet shaved. The muscles along his back shifted with smooth grace as he moved around the kitchen. Unlike most of her subs, Tyler had a light mat of silky dark hair over a powerful chest and sectioned stomach muscles. She liked the definition there, a man who kept himself in good shape.

Desire didn't rise, it roared up through her as if it had not been sated again and again less than a few hours before. She wasn't going to be the way she was yesterday, immature and embarrassingly intimidated in the face of their undeniable attraction.

She'd given herself permission to indulge it, contingent upon her belief that she could enjoy this reality without censure for two days. So she found herself moving into the kitchen, only one thought in her mind.

He turned at her approach. Whatever he had parted his lips to say never came forth as his gaze registered her expression. When she reached for his waistband, he caught her hands in a firm grip, causing her to stumble mentally.

"Do you want my cock, Marguerite?"

His eyes were vibrantly gold, filled with her, helping her find herself again.

Nodding, she shifted her gaze away, remembered and brought it back just before he brought his hand to her chin to make her meet his eyes. And then she did what her mind told her unbelievably that she wanted to do. Keeping her eyes on his, she sank to her knees, the silk pooling around her like a queen's mantle.

"Open your robe, Marguerite. Take it off your shoulders." He would have her serve him naked, as a slave would.

Even knowing that, she slipped the belt free without protest and let the robe fall behind her. She moved her attention now to his hands as they went to his waistband.

Loosening the drawstring, he let the pants fall, showing her at close range a cock that was already becoming erect despite the fact she'd stepped into the kitchen less than a minute ago. She was actually salivating, and it wasn't for the breakfast he was cooking.

Reaching down, he used the nipple chain to tug her off her heels onto her knees. He dropped the chain over the top of his cock and curled one of her hands around the base, which served the purpose of keeping the chain anchored there.

"Suck me, Marguerite. Suck me hard."

He was a big man all over. She reveled in the need to stretch her lips to work her way down to where her hand held him. She made a noise of pleasure as she took him in, her whole body reorienting her to the position, the moment.

At the first touch of her mouth, he let out a feral growl. Wrapping his fingers in her hair to better control her movements on him, he held her there, aiding her greedy sucking and licking of the hard organ in her mouth. She liked the salty taste of him. The nails of her free hand curled into his upper thigh, marking him.

"That's right," he said, his voice low, dangerous to her sanity. "Dig your claws into me, angel."

As he drove her up and down on his shaft, the nipple chain drew taut, tugged and released, creating an excruciating sensation that built in her chest and belly. With him keeping her on her knees off her heels, there was no friction or relief for her pussy.

Every stroke of her mouth on him felt like a stroke deep in her mind.

She'd never felt so single-minded, so untroubled by anything else in her world. His heat was in her pores, her mouth, her nose. She realized she was making animal noises of need as she went down on him, her hair brushing her back, his harsh breaths the most beautiful song she'd ever heard. She wanted to be closer. Hoping he wouldn't deny her, she moved that free hand up his leg and around to his buttock to find hard, flexing muscle. The movement changed her angle so he was driving more deeply into the back of her throat. The jerk on the nipple clamps grew more insistent. Her eyes watered, her lungs burned for air but she didn't care. She used her teeth, scraping him, her nails now digging into his buttocks, her other hand stroking him, her thumb rubbing his silky underside.

His voice was strained. "Take me into you, Marguerite." His hand convulsed in her hair and then he was pumping hard into her mouth, yanking on her nipples with the force. Pain and pleasure came together as he jetted, spraying the back of her throat with liquid heat. She worked him with her mouth, growling, only gagging once as he plunged so deeply into her. He kept going and she wanted him to, wanted his desire to override all else.

When he finished, he was still hard and she didn't want to let go. She slowly took her mouth off him. Rubbing her cheek along his length, she felt the sturdy wetness of him, the life pulsing beneath her face. What would it be like to have that pulsing inside her, ramming into her pussy with his overwhelming strength?

"Angel." Reaching down for her, he brought her to her feet. Before she knew what he was about he'd lifted her, set her bare bottom on his kitchen counter, leaving the robe on the floor. He readjusted his pants and took a warm washcloth from the sink to wipe her tears, her running nose and the remnants of his come from her lips and chin.

"You keep this up and I'm never going to let you go." She told herself it was just the mood of the moment, but why did it feel so inviting, the idea of staying in this world forever and never having to face her reality again?

Stop it, Marguerite. Don't make it more than it is.

But it made her tremble, the way he could hold her on her knees and make her service his cock, and a moment later he stood between her knees wiping her face and caring for her as tenderly as a woman could wish. She'd never allowed herself to experience a lover's powerful passion or tender nurturing. Both held equal dangers for her.

"Come here." He scooted her off the counter into his arms, further turning her world upside down by holding her in his embrace. A hug. He was hugging her, holding her naked body close to his nearly naked one, her head tucked under his chin. She raised her own hands, skimming over his buttocks and the small of his back, holding him as well.

"You hungry?" It was a soft murmur against her hair.

She smiled, despite herself. He felt it, chuckled. "Well, we satisfied that appetite already. I'm thinking we need to get something else in your stomach." He released her to pick up her robe, put it back on her. When he re-belted it, he arranged the sides deliberately so the chain was revealed, as well as the curves of her breasts almost to the nipples. "God, you are a beautiful woman, Marguerite. You're wet for me. I can smell it.

Tell me you are."

Her lashes lifted, eyes dwelling on that ruthlessly sensual mouth a moment before rising to meet his gaze. "Yes."

"Good. I like keeping you that way. Go sit at the table and I'll bring you some breakfast."

She stopped beside the small bistro, noted the lovely blue and rust mosaic tile design on it now that the tablecloth and candles had been removed. The early morning sun coming through the surrounding windows made the tiles gleam, bathed the area in sunshine. "So, do you keep pictures of the others around, or just Leila?" There was a pause. "I have pictures of some of the others."

"Are they trophies? Will you have a special photo of me?" Tyler met her challenging gaze and thought her moods were as mercurial as the sunlight haloing her pale hair. "If you're trying to bait me, angel, I'd rethink that course."

"I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid of anything."

"Yes, you are, on both counts. You're afraid of everything. In England there are castles with stone walls that go up over a hundred feet, built during a time when it was the strength of your fortress that won battles. Each time I look at you, I marvel at the feat of organic engineering that's allowed you to create such a fortification within a perfect composition of female flesh."

"How do you do that?"

He sprinkled chopped tomatoes over the omelets he'd placed on plates and carefully arranged a sprig of greenery alongside. "Do what?"

"Compose words in the air like you would on paper. It's remarkable." She looked back out at the landscaped grounds, the live oaks beyond them framing the view of the water.

He could have demanded that she look at him but chose not to at this moment.

Instead he brought her breakfast. Let her sit with her head tilted at that angle, the lips that had so cleverly brought him to a ripping climax simply sipping juice now. It made him hard again, knowing that his taste was still in her mouth. Thinking about how she had walked into the kitchen with that hunger in her eyes, her desire to take him down her throat so obvious.

Her emotional and physical reactions were all over the map right now. She'd probably figured a way to rationalize her reaction, chalking it up to a temporary insanity that would retreat into nonexistence the moment she drove back down his driveway. If that was the case, he was going to have to make damn sure the experience was impossible to confine to this weekend.

"Are they trophies?"

The question was so soft, he almost missed it. Tyler tenderly cupped her face, brought those unsettling blue eyes back to his face. "No, angel."

"Don't... Why do you call me that?"

"Because." He leaned forward, his hand slipping up her back to unerringly trace the scar tissue of the design burned there, now concealed under the robe. "Someone drew you wings a long time ago and you've been trying to decide whether to fly away ever since." His hand moved to her waist, up to cup her breast, his thumb toying idly with the nipple chain. "And because when I look at you, I think you're a gift from God."

Before she could think too much about either explanation, Tyler directed her attention to her plate.

"Go ahead and eat. We're going to do a few less intense things this morning. At least that was my plan until you came in with other ideas."

"I don't know why I did that." She stared at her food, a flush rising on her cheeks.

"I do." He put a fork in her hand, got his own plate and joined her at the table.

He enjoyed the way she examined the veggie protein links, picked one up, sniffed, raised her brows.

"Mac turned me on to them. You know, Violet's Mac?"

"He's a vegetarian? He looks like he eats raw meat for breakfast." Tyler grinned. "That's an understatement. But yes, he's a vegetarian. I'm suffering from the typical high cholesterol of too much good living, so he's been giving me some tips."

She ran an appraising eye over him, a Mistress's look, so much a part of her she was probably unaware of it, or how it made his blood heat. "You don't look like a person with high cholesterol."

At the sudden flare of desire in his eyes, Marguerite quickly lowered her attention to her breakfast. Whole wheat toast spread with fresh blackberry preserves, a vegetable omelet sprinkled with Gouda cheese and cut tomatoes, three wedges of pink grapefruit arranged in a fan shape alongside and the protein links. He'd put it all on an aquamarine plate sitting on a linen placemat. A tiny bundle of wildflowers in a small water glass was the table centerpiece. Simple, pretty, everything placed for maximum aesthetic effect. She wondered if it came naturally to him or if it had been an attempt to please her. Both possibilities made an impression and she wanted to look at him again, so she raised her lashes to do just that.

He was leaned back in the chair in the casual posture he seemed to favor, his leg straightened out so it flanked her, the other crooked. It drew her eyes to the part of him that she'd so recently had in her mouth, a nice curve of testicles, a cock of impressive shape and size. The view stayed as pleasing as her gaze rose, covering the well muscled chest and abdomen, the dark hair of his head gleaming with threads of silver at the temples. Those broad shoulders, long arms, the capable fingers holding the coffee cup to his lips, taking a sip as he watched her watching him. The shadow of a beard.

She'd had some beautiful men at her mercy and she'd appreciated that beauty.

Their smooth muscles and unscarred bodies, most not yet showing any of the effects of age and experience. But she couldn't tear her gaze away from Tyler's. He had scars.

Such as the one on his chest, a jagged cut near his abdomen. Another round scar just over his right pectoral. His hand rested on the table next to his plate, and now she tapped her finger on a small half-inch white ridge on one knuckle. "Where did you get that?"

"You just looked at every scar on me. If you ask about the one most likely to be a childhood scar, how am I going to impress you?" She cocked her head. "Do you want to impress me?" She had trouble swallowing her mouthful of eggs at the flash of teeth, at what a true, boyishly mischievous expression did to that face.

"I think I'm succeeding." He ran a finger down her wrist, with a raised brow to tell her he registered her increased pulse. "You know why you're fascinated with me, when you've had so many pretty boys at your beck and call? Because you've never trusted yourself with a man."

She withdrew her hand, lifted her cup of juice. "That's a very arrogant statement, assuming a great deal about me you don't know." He circled her wrist with his hand when she put the cup back down, drawing her hand back out to the center of the table. "I'm a very arrogant man," he agreed. "Why don't you tell me more about yourself, then, so I don't make assumptions?"

"I'm eating."

"So talk and eat. Have you thought about why you begged me to touch you earlier?

In your own sessions, you don't seem to think a sub needs to touch you to experience the fullest pleasure."

When she pulled against him, he simply tightened his grip, holding her fast.

"I didn't beg," she said. Not exactly. "But even if I did, that's part of what it's about.

Denial increases pleasure and in order for denial to work that way, you have to be aroused to desperately want what you're being denied."

"So if I'd been a better Master, I would have denied you." She gave him a sweet look. "That's up to you. I would never presume to tell a Master what to do."

"Smartass." His teasing surprised her but then her tartness vanished as he leaned forward. Despite herself, her gaze was drawn to his mouth. To its inexorable progress toward her, until it hovered just above her lips. She couldn't form the words to remind herself of her rule, let alone him.

"Anticipation is not a bad thing." His breath caressed her lips. "But a memory keeps you warmer longer."

He sat back, just as slowly. From his satisfied gaze, she realized she'd parted her lips in anticipation. She pressed them together, closed her fingers into a fist by the placemat, trying to tamp down the annoyance that he could pull this from her so easily.

Anger that came from his manipulation, his ridicule of her resolve.

"Tell me why you didn't touch Brendan after you finished branding him. I could tell you wanted to."

"I can't tell you that."

"Yes, you can. Marguerite, the way you feel inside about things isn't a matter of national security. Just tell me. Why are you so afraid of emotional intimacy with your subs, angel? That's where you can find the real Nirvana."

"Why don't you answer the fucking question about your hand first?" Tyler's gaze snapped to her face. Not by any vocal inflection did she indicate the heat behind the crudity she'd injected into the sentence, but her eyes were hard and bright, the set of her shoulders tense, danger signs he was beginning to recognize. He'd pressed on a nerve. Casually, he laid his hand down on her forearm, tightened his grip when she began to draw back, held her there, felt the heat spread under his palm.

"I was in a knife fight," he said mildly. "My opponent swung wild, I had my hand up, he clipped my knuckle, took a flap of skin off. Didn't have time to treat it for several days, so it didn't heal very pretty. Why do you avoid intimacy with your subs?"

"I'm not looking for that. I don't crave that."

"Don't you? What's so bad about it?"

She stood up, her hand still in his grasp, so she pulled against him. "You promised I could have my two hours for tea. I want it now."

"Sit down, Marguerite." When she didn't move, he reached up, feathered a hand on her face. "Please sit down."

"We covered this last night. Don't play me, Tyler. I'm not a submissive you have to crack open to teach her to find fulfillment under your Will."

"Aren't you?" He saw the shock course over her features, a remarkable tremor. She firmed her jaw.

"You know why I prefer boys to men? Because boys haven't learned to be bastards who take and take, who think they have a right to your secrets. They're just grateful for what you can give them. Let go of me." She snarled it this time and raised her other hand. He caught it, neatly twisted and tumbled her into his lap in the chair, her arms crossed over her chest, his arms bound around her.

"Let go of me."

"Tell me why you wouldn't touch Brendan."

"You son of a bitch, I want you to let me go." She struggled, kicked out at air, loosening the robe so it fell off her shoulder.

"Answer the question."

When she tried to bite his arm, he caught her hair in his hand, his grip unshakable, stilling her. "I won't hurt you, Marguerite. You can have as many tantrums as you want. In your own words - answer the fucking question."

"Why can't you leave anything alone? What do you want?"

"I want an answer to the question, that's all, angel. A Master asks a sub a question, she's expected to answer."

The training. This was supposed to be about the training. He was remembering it but she couldn't even figure out what her purpose for being here was anymore.

Marguerite closed her eyes, a shudder running through her. "Please let me go.

Please."

"Just say the words. They're there, on the tip of your tongue. You know the answer."

"I can't hold him." She forced it out of a raw throat.

"Why?" He asked it after a quiet moment, his breath close to her ear. Somehow his grip had eased her back, so instead of being rigid against his embrace she was sinking into it, into the curve of his body, how they had spooned together through the night.

"What's wrong with holding a man in your arms, Marguerite?"

"Because once I start touching them, holding them, I won't stop, they'll end up holding me. They'll take. I can't let them take..."

"Ssshhh..." He let go of her wrists, pressed one hand to the side of her face, shifted her so her body was turned, cradled in his lap. He urged her head down on his shoulder, stroked her hair, ran his fingers soothingly up and down her sternum, revealed by the open robe. When his fingers brushed the nipple clamp of the right breast, she winced. He stilled, registering that he'd felt the reaction. Pressing carefully around each one, he released the clamps. She drew in a breath at the rush of tingling pain.

"You did it too tight, baby." He bent his head. Brushing the robe out of his way, he covered her right nipple with his mouth. Cupping her breast in his hand to increase the sensation, his fingers traced idle circles on her flesh as he suckled her with soothing pressure. His other arm held her body close, his forearm warm against her back.

Marguerite closed her eyes. Her hand found its way to his head, threaded through his short hair, stroked it. He held all of her easily, the same way he'd carried her and overpowered her just now. The devastating tenderness he was lavishing on her breasts, soothing her sore nipples, drained her protective anger away, left her with no desire but to be quietly there, docile. Raising his head at last, he brushed his lips along her chin.

"When they go back on, I'll do it. I won't let you hurt yourself, Marguerite. It's a Master's job to take care of you, protect you. Now, is this so bad? Being held?" Yes. Because it makes things break inside. His tenderness was like a single operatic note, shattering the delicate stems of wineglasses.

"Relax." He kept her in the span of his arm but adjusted himself back alongside the table so he could pick up his fork, scoop up some egg and bring it to her lips. "Take a bite. I rarely slave over a stove and I want my efforts on behalf of a beautiful woman to be appreciated."

"This is...difficult." She took a deep breath, thinking that was the understatement of the world, the way he was keeping her rolling over from one emotion to another.

Automatically she opened her mouth, took the bite, chewed, swallowed.

"A Master doesn't just take, Marguerite. He gives, too. Care as well as pleasure. I like holding you like this. Not just because I like the way your ass feels rubbing against my cock." He smiled that quick smile. "But because I like holding you in my arms, feeling you relax. Which, though you haven't done that yet, you're more relaxed than you were."

"Are you instructing me?" She sounded cranky, even to herself.

"Maybe I'm reassuring you that this is normal. The way you're feeling. And I won't abuse your trust. Whatever you need to be or do to get through this, to figure it out, I won't shake off and I won't judge you or share with others what happened here."

"You like it when a woman bares the darkest parts of her soul to you? So you can have power over her?"

"I like it when she gives me the gift of her trust. When a woman like you eventually does that, I know I've earned it. The power comes from giving a woman pleasure, watching her become helpless to me, hearing her beg for more." His eyes lingered on her in a way that made her feel anything but annoyed, but she tried to hang onto it anyway.

"But why do you want her trust? What do you want to do with it?"

"If not abuse it?" He tightened his grip on her when she tensed. "Sshhh. Be still.

That's the only reason you can think of for a man to want a woman's trust? So he can take advantage of her? Marguerite, think about why you do what you do at The Zone.

What is that about? What did you tell me?"

She refused to answer, staring out the window. Rather than press her to look at him, he reminded her of her own words. "Everybody tries to make a connection to someone else. And I don't mean acquaintances, friends. We look for a connection to a soul."

He ran his fingers through her hair, tangling there idly. "Good friends, lovers, subs, even sometimes with family... We enjoy time with them but usually move on after a while. But when we find that one person whose heart we want to win, we'll pledge everything we are or ever will be to get it."

"Sounds like a marvelous fantasy. An adult fairy tale."

"Sounds like hard work, the kind of hard work for which the reward is ten times worth the effort."

Her radar picked up something different in his tone. Her gaze flitted up to his face.

This time she was intrigued to see his eyes turn away from direct contact with hers. "I think you relax more when you argue with me," he said abruptly. "You're not sitting like you've got a flagpole up your backside any more." She was in fact sitting quite comfortably now. While he was talking, she'd settled in, so her arm was threaded under his, touching his waist through the slat of the chair, her fingers hooked loosely in his waistband. His body was strong and solid beneath her, the bare muscle of his stomach pressed against her silk-clad hip.

"Do you usually spout this much bullshit to your subs?" She wanted to pursue those shadows she'd seen in his eyes but they were gone as if they'd never been there, the moment lost.

He laughed, apparently enjoying her peevishness. "Yes. They're naive and impressionable, fawning on my every word. Do you play tennis?" She blinked. "Yes."

"Are you good?"

"Yes."

His smile broadened. "Good. It's time to exercise, loosen up the muscles I abused last night. There's a tennis outfit in our room. Skirt and sports bra, socks and tennis shoes, your size. That's all I want you wearing. No panties." He boosted her out of his lap, stood with her, his hand caressing her hip.

"How about you?" she asked. "Don't I get a preference of what you wear?" He touched her bottom lip. "I'm pleased my slave has a preference. Tell me what you would like for me to wear and I'll consider it." She was used to telling subs how to dress, so the reminder that she didn't have that status this weekend set her back on her heels. She did like looking at him, though. She wanted to deny it. Instead she watched in amazement as her fingers took it upon themselves to reach out toward his bare chest.

Perhaps because he knew how astounding a thing it was for her to want to reach out, he didn't stop her and demand that she ask to touch him first as she knew a Dom had the right to do. As he'd done when she first came into the kitchen. A wealth of spontaneous physical responses were apparently unleashed in her where he was concerned. She laid her fingertips over his pectoral, moved over the soft hair, fingered the nipple as she felt his eyes on her face, his body hot under her touch.

"Keep doing that, angel, and I'll have you down on your knees again." Sensual promise gave his voice a husky tone.

She kept doing it. "Shorts. Just shorts. Please."