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Safe Words 3-12: Gems
🕑 Added 2024-01-11 02:00:03 +0000 UTCGrace said, “Stop chewing your lip.”
“I’m not,” Angel said with a little too much defiance. She was chewing her lip, but the anxiousness blared at full volume now, screaming in her ears. Why had she lied to Grace? No, I wasn’t outside your window.
Grace knew she was. Grace didn’t suspect she’d been outside her window; no, Grace knew. Security cameras. Someone saw her. It wasn’t possible to know how she’d been found out, but she’d done the stupidest thing she could’ve. She’d lied to Grace.
And Grace knew she’d lied.
Now she stood, massaged, shaved, oiled, made up, hair done, manicured and pedicured, showing off the dress that Sarah Jasper had crafted for her in only a few hours. A few dreadful hours in which Angel had lied to her Mistress’s face.
Sarah’s custom made couture was comfortable and silky against her skin. But, wow, was the skirt short. A bouncy umbrella of satin and taffeta in black that ended somewhere just above mid-thigh. And the skirt didn’t cling; no, it floated around her thighs without touching them. A white cummerbund went around the dress’s waist, a fold-over top that left her collar and shoulders bare, hanging over her breasts in a white swath. At least the top (where she hoped most people would keep their gazes) showed modesty. Then there was the flair; the accoutrements that brandished most of Sarah Jasper’s fashion. A rose and vine in gold, made from satin and taffeta, the rose the size of a grapefruit and adorning her hip, the vine clawing the air around her hips and tummy, smaller golden roses blooming here and there. And the shoes: beautiful high heels—but there were straps that criss-crossed her ankle and calves to just below her knees. All attention in this dress was drown downward, down to her sexualized legs. Her legs waxed and gleaming, barely looking like flesh anymore, just lurid objects for the male gaze. Yet the attire’s purveyors were not men. Both involved were high-class, high-powered women.
They waited for the man.
The man was late. Baron was in the air, his private plane subject to the whims of the FAA (as Grace had put it), and had been detoured somewhere above Newfoundland. Angel and Grace killed time in a luxury suite in the back of the spa, served tea and slices of mango with ginger-honey, and the clock ticked ever forward to the time of the gala.
They sat in silence, neither of them tasting the mango or drinking the tea, only seated in comfortable chairs and waiting, waiting, waiting. The quit had built up in her mind to a portent balloon that seemed ready to pop. The lie, the lie, the lie.
No, I wasn’t outside your window.
Grace stayed silent on purpose. The silence was punishment.
Heat bloomed on her cheeks and across the back of her neck and she could suffer no longer. It had been forty-five minutes of maintaining a rampart of composure.
Very quiet, very timid, she opened the door a smidge, saying, “Is Baron ever too rough with you?”
Grace faced her, sitting in her usual elegant charm, one shapely leg over the other. She showed no expression, but her eyes showed compassion and consideration. Grace thought the question over, but instead of answering, said, “You were outside my window.”
The point blank statement shone a bright light on her, one she hadn’t expected. It lit up all the shame she’d felt. Shame for seeing her Mistress so exposed without permission, the shame for lurking the mansion’s gardens and peeping into windows, but most of all she felt the shame for her lie. Her mouth opened and closed, trying to find words of explanation, and nothing materialized on her tongue that would describe her humiliation.
When no words came, the tears came easy. She folded forward, her eyes swelling like they would burst. She hadn’t felt such a body response to silent scolding since she was a kid.
Grace crossed the space between their two identical chairs and lifted her to sit upright. She squeezed her eyes closed and turned away, fighting the childish emotion.
Grace said in her commanding tone: “Angel, don’t ruin your makeup.”
She nodded and sniffled, the tendons standing out in her neck, trying to sit up, turning her face to the high ceiling so tears wouldn’t run. Grace dabbed at her eyes with a cloth.
“Stand up,” she said, and Angel did, the two of them facing each other close. Her lips trembled and wiggled, and she could see it displeased her mistress—but that only encouraged more wet to her eyes. Grace stepped closer till they were almost touching, hands going to Angel’s waist, then down the skirt—
Then, under the skirt, Grace’s right hand grabbing Angel’s cheek. It got her attention, got her resolve in gear. She nodded, jaw set firm. But Grace wasn’t satisfied, pressing thumb and first knuckle into the flesh of her buttock, then pinching down until bright pain burst, spreading hot, agonizing sheets across her whole bottom before shivering up her back.
Angel cried out and stepped into Grace, trying to escape it. Out of some strange attraction, her nipples hardened and ached. Grace relieved the pinch, coddling her bottom, saying now, “Baron will be here soon and we’re going straight to the gala. We’re not redoing your makeup. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Grace patted her bottom, showing a hint of a smile that finally relieved her—though the pinch had already chased the tears far, far away. Thumbs slipped down the backside of her panties, and Grace began seesawing them down her ass.
Angel gasped at the surprise but bit it away, standing on her toes and allowing her Mistress to peel the panties down as she wished. But Grace didn’t just bare her bottom. She shimmied the panties down to her thighs, pushing them lower and lower. Removing them. When they crested the widest swoop of her thighs, they fell to her knees and stuck there.
“Step out of them, please,” Grace said, stepping back.
Angel's brows raised and her neck prickled. But she complied, moving her feet on the floor to free the panties, letting them fall to her ankles. She stepped out of them, standing now in only her custom dress and the handmade shoes.
Grace stooped and retrieved the panties, curling them in her grip. She eyed Angel, studying her, and Angel composed herself, glad to be helped past the tears, but fearful of what Grace may do next.
Grace cocked her head and a slow, warm—but guarded—smile appeared. “I’ll arrange your amende honorable. It will put us both right. Your subjugation will serve as apologia.”
Angel gave quick nods. “What’s that? An amende honorable?”
Grace cupped Angel’s cheek. “An alternative to execution.” Then she raised the panties to her mouth and nose and smelled them before tucking them into her clutch, set on the chair where she’d sat. She turned again, surmising her supplicant, head corvid-cocked. Her makeup was in shades of rust, but her lips still painted in that familiar blood red. Grace was clad in monotone silver-oyster; a high Edwardian collar in water-lily layers of fine taffeta, the collar becoming a sheer, elegant cape; underneath, a slim-fitting dress in silk and layered tulle, a broad, braided gold belt around her thin waist.
Angel looked away, then down. “My skirt is so short,” she whispered.
Grace smiled—coming as a surprise. She said, “My advice to you, young Angel: don’t bend over.” Then she chuckled, as if amused by her own joke. It was a rare glimmer of humor from her mistress.
Angel snuffled a small, quiet laugh, then looked up to meet Grace’s gaze. “I wasn’t spying. I swear I wasn’t, Mistress.”
But before Grace replied—in a grand misfortune of timing—her phone chimed and Grace turned away to check it. She said, “He’s landed.” Her posture showed relief, and when she turned again, she showed a relaxed smile. “I have something for you.”
Below a bursting bouquet blooming in a vase on a side table, Grace removed a satin cloth and revealed a black leather case the size of a paperback. Grace told her to come closer, and Angel did. Grace held the box in one hand and opened it with the other. The box’s interior was red satin, and laying in its shimmering bed was a length of gold chain with a golden pendant; a shield set with seven oval-cut diamonds that sparkled in the lamp light.
“This is for me?”
Grace said it was, told her to take it, and Angel lifted it from the box and held it in her palm. A truly stunning piece of jewelry she couldn’t believe was her own.
She asked again. “This is for me?”
Grace chuckled once more, returned the leather case to the side table, and told her to turn around. She swiped the necklace from Angel’s palm and draped it over her collar, doing up the clasp at the base of her neck, Grace’s touch and the extravagant gift making her heart beat funny. She didn’t even have to ask. Those were real diamonds. That was real gold. And not something you would buy at the mall. This would be something special.
“Thank you,” she said, bewildered, Grace’s hands circling her neck, touching her collar, her throat, before setting the shield pendant in place on Angel’s naked chest.
* * *
The flight’s delay put him behind schedule. They were running late, and it was a night of such great personal importance, he feared the frustrated rage would ruin his mood. So much was happening. So much was at stake. All he and Grace had ever wanted arrived on their door step and put her beautiful and naïve tummy over his knee. This kind of perfection could never be replicated. Plus, his beloved was smitten.
But all angst dissolved like a muddled sugar cube at the sight that met him arriving at the spa to escort his women to tonight’s gala in Boston. First, he saw his wife. Grace dressed in sheer couture, a sculpture of poise, culture, intellect; hair pulled back, lips painted red . . . It had been days since he’d fucked her and the vision brought his heart throbbing with love, and his stomach tightening with dark sexual need. The beauty beside his wife, upon second glance, was their pupil, a postulant of pureness that defied belief; he hadn’t recognized her in her extravagant dress, her hair done up—and lightened, too, he thought—blush on her cheeks and coral on her perfect little mouth. Grace had groomed her; manicured and pedicured. Angel had been prepared.
“Grace,” he said, beelining to his wife and taking her in his arms. He kissed her, pressed his cock into her belly, breathed her talc-musk in and dreamt of later tonight when he’d rut into her, fill her with days and days worth of desire. They’d find some way to involve the little naïve one, but he wasn’t sure yet what his wife had in store for her. Grace melted to him.
When the moment grew too tense to bear (his cock had hardened and he thought for a second of rationalizing taking his wife right now in front of the girl, letting the girl witness the supple tiger that was Grace).
They didn’t have time. Cooler heads must prevail and Grace would push him away soon, she always of the cooler head. He stepped back from his wife, rubbing knuckles over his lips, still smelling her scent swirling around him, clinging to him. He smiled slyly at her before turning to their Angel.
He smiled and sighed, shaking his head, taking the young girl in. Her legs were exquisite; an impossible mix of youth, muscle, suppleness, fullness, shapeliness. Skinny knees, swooping thighs; a runner. An athlete. Once again: too good to be true. The young thing didn’t know her own bounty. The girl’s mouth twitched, and she looked sheepish and perturbed, not knowing where to cast her gaze, unsure of how to accept a man’s point-blank, lecherous stare.
He said, “Oh, my. My little lady. You look so gorgeous. So grown up,” taking her chin point and guiding her eyes to his.
Her mouth struggled. Then: “Thank you, Sir.”
He smiled, seeing so much in her youth and innocence, so much in the way she spoke and behaved and held her posture. Angel feared him. Angel was enamored with his wife, felt safer with Grace than with him. Things would change, though. And for now, he would revel in keeping her flat-footed and unsure.
He let go her chin and traced fingers down her throat to touch the medallion Grace had gifted her. “You wear my symbol.”
She sucked her lower lip for a half second, then said, “I do?” Her eyes were upturned and full of wonder, and it reminded him how special Angel Parker was to his life.
“You do.” The pad of his thumb caressed the pattern of seven diamonds. “Angel, there will be other men at the gala tonight.” He waited for her to nod before continuing. “Some may want you for themselves, and this pendant will tell them I own you.”
The adorable little thing nodded again, her eyebrows furrowing to understand his cryptic statement. This young farm girl—smart and athletic and so, so pretty—would have no measure of comprehension for his intricate world.
He put his hands in his pants pockets and stepped back again to admire her perfection. If this one got away from them, they would never, ever recover. Grace stepped close behind him, caressing his back. He said to Angel, “Are you wearing anything under the dress?”
The girl’s eyes widened, and he witnessed a pink bloom spread under her blush. She whispered, “No, sir.”
“Show me,” he said.
The girl’s eyes widened further, then she touched the hem of the bouncy skirt, hesitated a moment before raising it slowly, revealing she indeed wore nothing under the extravagant dress.
“Sarah is a wonder,” he said aside to grace who practically purred, watching Angel with the same intent as him. “But that dress is nothing without you, Miss Parker. You might be the most wonderful thing I’ve seen in quite some time.”
Grace said, “I agree,” her long fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.
“A little higher, please,” he said now, and Angel did what he asked, raising the skirt up to her sternum, showing off her tight tummy and the cloven mound shorn completely bare.
“Wonderful,” he sighed. “Turn around.”
Angel shifted where she stood in her grownup woman’s shoes, feet shuffling, her ass cheeks jiggling as she turned and showed him her naked bottom. It was such a perfect thing, begging to be smacked right now—but he had other priorities. “Put your hands on the edge of that side table and bend over.”
The girl stepped forward, letting the skirt go, resting hands on the hip-height table and looking over her shoulder, brows furrowed in questioning.
He smiled to placate her, withdrew from his pants pocket his own custom jewelry gift, crafted just for Angel by his jeweler in Vienna: a solid platinum plug, three inches long, and less than an inch wide. An anal plug, not too large because Angel was a young, uninitiated thing, surely a virgin in both pussy and ass, and he wanted her primed, not punished. Not yet, anyway. Set in the butt plug’s base was a large, heart-cut ruby, sparkling in the low lighting. Angel didn’t know what the hell it was, and his heart swooned at the cherished gift of the girl’s complete innocence.
He presented the platinum point near his shoulder, eyes on Angel, knowing his wife would follow his lead. And, yes, Grace closed her mouth around the small bulb and warmed it and wetted it, sucking it while rolling her head on her neck. Angel looked like she might faint.
“Bear with us,” he told her.
Grace snuffled a rare laugh and pulled her red lips from the plug, reaching around him to raise Angel’s skirt.
He pressed a thumb into one of Angel’s ass cheeks and plied them wider apart. “Tilt your bottom up, please, little Angel.”
Below, Angel’s feet pointed inwards, toes curling against the shoes’ footbeds, and she raised her ass. She had a delightful tawny and pink anus, a perfect little back hole, and from this angle the sight of her pink labia engorged—and even glistening—had his cock throbbing harder. It took great resolve not to haul it out and push it up into this perfect creature, fuck her hard and deep while Grace sucked his balls and managed the girl’s clitoris.
He pressed the tip of the plug into Angel’s winking hole and eased it inside her. She whimpered and bowed her neck, turning her chin up in exquisite ecstasy.
Fuck, this would be a long, long night before they could play.
But the magnitude of pleasure grew in extended meditation and discipline.
He tapped the ruby heart with the pad of his index finger and watched Angel’s strong legs tremble. Grace joined in, caressing the gem, then tracing the girl’s labia, up and down, slow and easy, spreading Angel’s sexual shine across her sexual membranes, painting their virgin in her own gloss.
“Such beautiful jewelry,” Grace said, and he turned and kissed her again, holding her long, swanlike throat and feeling his heart swell with the unbridled joy of his return to her love.
Before them Angel straightened, her features concerned and troubled, shifting her hips and learning to accommodate his plug. Her neck and collar showed a broadcast of rosy blush.
Grace said, “Can you walk, Angel?”
The girl looked at them with fearful resolve. “I think I can.”
He took Angel’s hand, saying, “Then let’s go. We have a helicopter waiting for us.”
Comments
KT Morrison
Grace is definitely Bizarro Carol—I knew that when I created her!
Donkatsu
I love Angel! Does strait-laced Carol know about her long lost cousin, Grace? Just askin’.
Tracey52
Can you walk? Not for long I’m guessing.
