Page 2 of Dance with Death

She’s sad that I took her dance partner from her. But Jamal just wasn’t quite right for her—or for me—so I’d had to take him away. She’s lonely, completely unaware that a new partner will be given to her in just a couple of months. I’m happy to let her think that I am the only place she will ever be able to turn for comfort.

Sheshouldturn to her master to fulfill that need.

I have every intent to take advantage of her fragile state.

Boldly, she lifts her head and slowly meets my eyes. There’s fear there behind the sapphire blue—fear and desperation and longing.

“I want you,moy khozyain.”

I grip her waist with both hands and turn her, backing her up to the marble countertop. She swallows, her eyes locked on mine as I stare and press myself against her. I loom above her, my breath steady but heavy, exhaling my internal flames over her, reminding her that I was born from hellfire.

A reminder that she’s come to the devil asking to be burned.

Her features have softened from her normal cold as ice stare. Her eyelids seem heavier as they droop to hang a sultry frame over her blue irises. Her eyebrows are relaxed from the way they usually slant toward her nose, wrinkling her forehead sternly. Her lips are parted and rosy in color, and I feel her shallow breaths puffing against my throat.

“You want me,” I say slowly, pressing my half-hard cock against her. “You want me…to do what?”

This question is her test.

Will she back down, afraid to speak her truth?

Will she prove herself to be a rebellious slave and demand rather than ask?

Or will she tell me what she thinks she needs and sweetly ask her master to oblige her?

I tilt my head, watching her carefully as she decides how to respond. I run my finger through a single strand of her dark brown hair, dragging it all the way down to the end. She presses her eyes shut as her breath catches in her throat.

“I want you to…to make me feel like I’m not alone. To share pleasure with me. Will you please,moy khozyain?”

She opens her eyes and I capture her chin in my hand. I gently tilt her head upward so she’s forced to look at me. I’m happy with her response because she’s acknowledged her subservience. She must ask without expectation, knowing that her master will decide the answer. Eventually, I will have her trained to know better than to ask me for anything, but I’m feeling generous.

Perhaps because my violent rage has so recently been released upon the now decommissioned commodities from the Budapest factory.

I bend over her slowly, seductively, inch by inch, lowering my lips until they touch hers. It’s hardly a brush of my lips on hers, but it melts her. She slinks and I let go of her chin, letting my hands drift down her chest. As my fingertips drag over the peaks of her nipples, they harden instantly. She whimpers and I smile.

“Do you feel lonely, Anya?”

She swallows. “Da, khozyain.”

“Do you want to feel cared for?”

“Da, khozyain.”

My hand falls between her legs and I cup my hand over her cunt. “Do you want me to make you come?”

Her whole body sinks against my grip. “Da, khozyain.”

I take off the towel, letting it drift to the floor as I bare my hard cock. She gasps, surely expecting me to bend her over and fuck her hard, as I normally do. But instead, I lower to my knees, seeing the opportunity in this.

I drag my fingers along her folds, teasing and testing as I watch her face. She’s dripping wet with need for me. While I intend to enjoy watching my slave finally submit her will to me, I also intend to learn. I study as I touch her, cataloging every twitch of her features, every gasp, every whimper, every moan.

But something interesting happens in my study—I lose myself in her pleasure. As time ticks on, as my fingers work faster, harder, testing the pressure and speed she needs to make her come, I find myself in awe of the look on her beautiful face.

Could she be more?

She comes on my fingers, hard and sated, with a drawn out “oh” falling from between parted lips.

Sheismore.

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