1. Other Colors -- Ch.16


    Date: 12/23/2014, Categories: BDSM, Author: mascodagama, Rating: 3, Source: LushStories

    “But we’re nearly done here. And I promise you, Penny—I derive no pleasure from this part,” he kissed me softly on the forehead, “Only peace of mind.” I didn’t especially want to believe him. I wanted to be sullen, and resentful. I wanted to think that he felt no greater glee in life than in the chance to make me miserable. And yet very clearly that wasn’t the case. Even in his more humiliating directives—‘ bend over and touch your toes, Penny... Now open wide, and say ‘ah’…’ —he spoke them more warmly, more gently, and without any trace of that cool causticity that colored his more recreational abuses. He really was just making sure I was healthy. But then, I suppose the only reason he was taking such pains was to determine how cruelly I could be handled. He took up the stethoscope once more, warming the bell this time before he laid it on my breast. I blushed, realizing he could hear it when my heart began to beat a bit faster. He held it there, listening for what seemed like an eternity. And when he finally looked up, there was a mark in his brow. “You have a murmur.” “I know,” I breathed. “I’ve always had it.” His lips tightened, “It’s odd you haven’t grown out of it. You could be anemic,” he took hold of my hand, inspecting my nailbeds, and shook his head. “You know, I forget sometimes,” he released my wrist, “how young you really are, Penny.” He removed the earpieces, and held them out for me to hear. “There,” he pressed the bell deeper. “…It’s syncopated. Almost ...
    musical.” I wasn’t sure what I supposed to be hearing, but it definitely didn’t sound like music. I nodded anyhow, and flushed. His hand was firm and warm on my chest. My breaths were shallow beneath it. In whatever ways he’d helped to unearth the memories of those two men whom I preferred to keep buried, I was fully ready to forgive him for it. All he needed to do was leave his hand there a little longer. And of course, it wouldn’t hurt if he kissed me. “It’s called an ‘innocent’ murmur…” he raised his eyes to mine. “Did you know you have an innocent heart, Miss Foster?” I flushed deeper. … Not by the time you’re done with it, Monsieur. I turned away, catching a glimpse of the crop again, still lying at an ominous diagonal across his desk. He followed the line of my stare to it, and smirked. “Not to worry,” he took his hand away, “I doubt we’ll be needing that tonight.” He left me to put his instruments away, and tossed the crop into a little wooden crate on the floor. My eyes grew wide. Poking out between the slats, I spotted Madame’s Schiele palette, as well as the sleeve of what was perhaps my oldest, shabbiest, and most beloved pair of flannel pajamas. But before my hopes were even fully formed, I felt them begin to fizzle, and dissolve. Having been denied basic footwear that very morning, I figured my chances of getting back anything that belonged to me were little more than nil. I didn’t care though. I had to try. I nodded apprehensively to the crate. “So…this is the stuff ...
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