Other Colors -- Ch. 15 (part 1) - Sex Stories

Other Colors -- Ch. 15 (part 1)

... when he tackled me, and held me down. The second was when he raised his lip at Peter. Neither one I could really hold against him. And Dmitri, admittedly, was himself guilty of several very similar offences. “You’ve been around here a while, haven’t you, boy?” I simpered at him, and scratched the hair under his chin. “Bet you could tell me all about what I’m getting myself into…” I drew my mouth to one side, and left off scratching. “What do you think? Is he… a good master?” The word tasted strange on my tongue. He whined again, and I resumed my caresses. “I know he’s strict. I know he raises his voice sometimes. But does he treat you well?” I knitted my brow, gazing at my convex reflection in the dog’s large, dark eyes. “I mean… he keeps you fed. Groomed. Gives you a nice, warm place to sleep. That must mean he cares about you,” my voice trailed off, “right?” He tilted his head. I ran my fingers through the thick, black fur of his chest, then released him, tucking my hands beneath my chin. “…Do you think he loves you?” À la folie , pas du tout. I stared for a moment, motionless, lost somewhere in the dim, misty labyrinth of my mind. Daedalus designed the labyrinth. Sculpted himself and Icarus a set of wax wings. And built that dreadful heifer for Pasiphaë. The poor girl… I remembered the grotesque Masson series, Dirce being tied to the bull, and that litany of oddly pretty lithographs by Matisse. Maybe. Maybe not. Either way , I bit my lip, and fiddled with the little ...

... silver bit on my belt, I suppose love has looked far stranger than this… “Bonjour, Madame.” I jolted. It was Jules. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed decorously behind him. I scrambled upright, blushing, and smoothed my dress. I wondered if he’d overheard my little tête-à-tête with the dog. “Bonjour, Monsieur. I, um... I didn’t see you there.” “Nor I you, Madame,” he grinned wryly, and adjusted his glasses. “Pardonnez-moi cette intrusion.” I blushed deeper. The way he moved about the house—so primly, so precise—it was easy to forget that Jules was blind. “I was merely wondering,” he stepped nearer, “would Madame prefer her déjeuner here in the parlor?” he dropped his chin over the bowtie at his collar, “Or would she perhaps prefer to adjourn to the salle à manger?” “Oh,” my brow furrowed, “You um, you really don’t need to cook me anything, Monsieur. I’m fine fending for myself.” “I imagine you are, Madame. But I am the majordome of this estate,” he stiffened slightly, “I do not cook. Nor am I inclined to let Monsieur’s guests go hungry. S’il vous plaît ,” he stepped to one side, and gestured toward the hall, “If you will but follow me. We would not want Monsieur Caine to think I had starved you, no?” “...No,” I grimaced, and stepped forward, “I suppose we wouldn’t.” It shocked me a little, how easily I acquiesced at the mere mentioning of him. His name alone, apparently, was enough to overthrow mem as if its invocation were linked to that same imperious spell he always seemed ...