1. Other Colors -- Ch. 18


    Date: 9/12/2015, Categories: BDSM, Author: mascodagama, Rating: 4, Source: LushStories

    tone was sober, and severe. “I imagine Freud might've called it ‘reaktionsbildung’. I think ‘voluntary commitment’ is more appropriate. Either way, I understand myself better now. I manage. But not because of the rosary.” He broke off, “Realize, Miss Foster—I can be very cruel to the things that I care about.” I shifted tensely in his chair. “I don’t understand,” I moved the phone to the other cheek, "Why are you telling me all this? Why now?" “I’m telling you now,” his words hardened, “so that if you decide to run from me, you’ll have healthy head start. I’m halfway around the world tonight. I promise—you’ll never have a better chance to be rid of me.” Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I wished he was there to watch me roll my eyes. How many times is he going to tell me to run? I tapped my fingers on his desk, anxious, and a little annoyed. After the spanking? After humiliating me at the dinner table? After standing stone still for him in the study last night? Like a statue. Like Galatea, and some perverted Pygmalion. Have I not proven my meddle to you yet, Monsieur? “Samael doesn't scare me, sir,” I folded my fingers into a fist. “Neither do you. So—if you’re trying to frighten me off again, you’ll need to do better. Besides,” I drew a sharp breath, “I really don’t know what more you could do to me.” “Then you're more innocent than you care to imagine, Miss Foster,” he growled at me. “You may find this difficult to swallow, but I’ve been holding back on you.” Holding back? I ...
    shivered again. 'Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow…' I thought of Bouguereau's Première rêverie. 'Men know well what monsters you make of them.' "I think you're bluffing," I breathed. "Think what you will. The fact is, I can’t behave as myself when we’re together. Not entirely, anyhow. Last night—the way you trembled when I made you undress,” his tone softened slightly, “I have every intention of hurting you, Penny. I will. But I'm not interested in giving you scars.” He steadied his breath, “You’re not experienced. And I'm not convinced this is right for you.” I felt my shoulder begin to tingle. I heard him. I did. And what he said made sense to me. It was insane, after all, for him to want to control me—to entrap me, hurt me, and expect me to like it. It was insane, equally, for me to give him leave to do it; offering myself up to him willingly, explicitly. At times, enthusiastically . Perhaps your lapse is more mental than his, Penny. But still, I knew. I knew to listen to reason would have been to lose him. And while deep down I understood we weren't sustainable, it was no small sliver of me that relished our madness; that was beginning to crave it. Antic disposition. Our folie à deux. Like a votive candle, I would leave the thing lit, until either he blew it out himself, and extinguished me, or the flame finally burnt us both to cinders. “Dmitri,” I whispered, “would you like to know something about ‘young Penny Foster’?” my heart quivered in my chest, “Something she’s ...
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