Page 22 of Demonic Delights

“I think I was clear about what would happen if you were ever not ready for me, wasn’t I?” My voice could cut through steel.

I release her and let her straighten up.

She looks up at me and nods curtly. But the sight of her upturned face tugs at something raw inside me. There is that thrill in her eyes that I so like to see, yes, but also more than just a hint of very real fear in the soft lines around her eyes and mouth.

Why don’t I like the sight of her scared? I thrive on terror!

As often is the case, these thoughts make perfect sense to me in the dream, and none in waking retrospect.

“Well, what did I say would happen?” I prompt her, and I run my thumb over her plump lower lip, smearing her deep red lipstick a little and wanting to do it a lot more.

“You said you’d punish me.” Her breath hitches, excitement clearly taking over in her conflicted expression.

“That’s right,” I confirm, tracing her neck and then her cleavage with my fingertips. “Two things can happen now. You can either do as I say and earn some pleasure to go with the pain, or you can resist me and get nothing but pain. Which is it going to be?”

Roxie frowns a little, chewing on her cheek. She looks ready to plead with me, which again reassures me that the whole thing must be nothing but a confused dream. The real Roxana would whoop with joy.

“I’ll do what you say,” she concedes finally with a determined set of her jaw.

“Good girl,” I praise her, the need to reassure her circling me like an annoying fly I am unable to swat away. “Go upstairs. Change into something black. That is your colour, the only one that truly suits you. You may as well throw out all that pink shit. Then come back downstairs and bring the cane with you.”

Her eyes widen, and her nostrils flare with a sharp intake of breath.

“Go,” I urge her, and she obeys, turning on her heel and hurrying up the stairs, the soft patter of her feet strangely ... cute.

While waiting for her, I pull the curtains closed in the living room for privacy. It is dark, bar the fire crackling in the fireplace, and I leave it so.

The living room runs parallel to the antechamber and the kitchen, the large dining table connecting the two open-plan areas. There’s no TV here, which is something that Roxana protests on a semi-regular basis. Instead, a fireplace serves as the centrepiece of the main long wall opposite the dining table, lined with bookshelves on either side and with a sofa and a coffee table in front of it.

The seating arrangement is like the eye of an oval loop running around the whole room.

There’s a small standalone bar by the large front window, made of three narrow shelves lined with glasses and bottles of liquor. I walk over to it and pour a glass of whiskey, but don’t drink it. Instead, I wait for Roxana to reappear.

10

SILAS—OR IS IT?

Roxana doesn’t take long. And when she steps into view from around the dining room table, all air evaporates from my lungs. The whole world goes still and quiet first, and then it roars deafeningly as I take her in, my eyes trailing over her form and lingering on every detail, from her rich, freshly brushed raven hair to the black-painted toes of her small feet.

The shadows accentuate her cheekbones and jawline while the light from the fire emphasises the excited sheen on her face and the glow in her eyes. I hold out the glass to her, and she walks over to me with uncertainty in her step.

Her fingers close around the offered glass at the same time as mine do around the cane she brought with her as instructed.

She downs the whiskey in one go, tossing her head back.

“Where do you want me?” she asks, her voice a little tense, and she twirls a strand of hair around her finger.

Tucking the cane underneath my arm, I pour another generous shot of whiskey into the glass.

“On the ground. On all fours,” I reply to her, and she lets out a surprised, strangled huff, but obeys.

Not taking her eyes off mine, she lowers herself to her knees, biting her lip before placing her palms on the floor as she faces the expanse of the living room. Her hair falls down her shoulders in waves. The black teddy leaves the upper half of her slim back exposed. I badly want to run my fingers down the depression of her spine before hooking them underneath the delicate lace to rip it off her. But I resist the impulse. Instead, I place the glass just above the border of the fabric, and she gasps as it touches her bare skin.

Something inside me flutters at the way she reacts to me.

“We’re going to play a game,” I tell her, my voice raspy. “A simple one. All you need to do is complete a lap around the living room like this without the glass falling off. That’s it. If you can manage it, I’ll fuck you in any way you’ll want me to. My tongue, my hand, my cock, not at all, it will be your choice tonight.”

I walk to stand slightly behind her as I speak, and my eyes are drawn to the smooth globes of her arse like to a magnet, my throat constricting and my erection so acute that it’s painful.