am I allowed to masturbate?” he asked.
She opened her mouth to ask, “Is that my decision to make?” but stopped herself before she uttered the question.
Instead, she looked at him pleasantly, so she could feel the hot wave of his submission when she told him:
“No. You may not masturbate. And have my clothes sent up.”
“They’ve been confiscated,” said Andrew.
Belle frowned.
“Then clean my boots,” she said. “For real this time.”
“Thank you, Madame. I shall wake you in the morning.”
“Just try.” Belle laughed, and went to sleep.
Belle slept deep and long, and refused to be roused when Andrew came to wake her in the morning.
“The Master wishes to lunch with you, Madame,” said Andrew.
Belle sighed, yawned and cast aside the blankets. She slipped her legs over the edge of the bed, spread her legs and crooked a finger at Andrew.
“Madame, he’s waiting.”
“Let him wait,” she said, and grabbed Andrew’s hair. She pulled him onto her, then threw him on his back, riding him with excruciating slowness. Each time he bit his lip and struggled not to come, it made Belle’s excitement sore higher.
Three hours later, she still had not granted Andrew leave, and she laughed as she bade the poor man lace her boots up, seeing his trembling from head to toe as his desperate sexual need pulsed through him.
“Just a stroke or two of my hand, wouldn’t it?”
“Madame?”
“That’s all it would take.” She sighed. “Just a soft little stroke, and I could give you everything you ever wanted. Or maybe—” she bent down low and ran her fingers over the back of Andrew’s neck “—I could use my mouth. Would you like to come in my mouth, Andrew?”
The servant let out a faint, desperate squealing noise before he finally managed to rasp, “As…Madame…wishes.”
Belle laughed.
When she finally let Andrew lead her into the banquet hall, it was very late in the day. Sitting at the head of the table was the man whom submissives from France to Russia called the Beast, his face red with anger.
Entering the room ahead of Belle, Andrew announced her. Then he said, “I’m sorry for the delay, sir, Madame Belle—”
The Beast cut him off with a savage wordless growl and slammed his fist down on the table. Andrew paled and stood stock-still. But then Beast rose as Belle entered the room, and his face was transformed into an expression of gentleness.
He hurried to greet Belle, going down on one knee and kissing her hand as she extended it. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Madame Belle,” said the man they called the Beast. He was not a bad-looking man, though Belle had always preferred those without the long bushy beard the Beast favored. Her own Master was clean-shaven. In just the last twelve hours, she’d come to very much appreciate the long hair of Andrew—it provided quite a useful handhold when she wished to direct the location of his mouth. Beast had the same long hair, though he was not nearly as blond—gray shot through his hair even more than through his beard.
Belle took a long moment to savor the Beast on his knees; were she to remain here, it would be the last time she saw it for quite a while. She did not withdraw her hand or respond for a time, and the Beast remained on one knee looking up at her in growing irritation.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Master. Your servant has been showing me quite evident hospitality.”
She saw the color come quickly to Beast’s face, and felt a sudden charge. She took her seat and the Beast returned to his, his eyes shifting nervously back and forth, as if he were stealing glances at Belle’s naked body. Certainly a Master like him had to be quite accustomed to taking his pleasure with a slave, both visually and otherwise. But here, before the final negotiation had taken place, the Beast was like a sneaky schoolboy, stealing clandestine looks at Belle’s perfect tits. Not a week before she was nothing more than a slave whose breasts were on display whenever her Master wished them to be; now, this Beast seemed almost ashamed to look at them.
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