Molly's Lips: Club Mephisto Retold Read Online Free PDF

he asked.
    “Oh, yes, Master. I’m so thankful for it.”
    “What if he grows tired of all the work of controlling you?”
    He didn’t say it cruelly, but he meant to be cruel. To throw her off balance. “You’ll grow old, kitten,” he continued in a low, prodding voice. “You won’t be attractive to him forever, even if he does manage not to grow bored of you. What will you do then?”
    She took a soft breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t know, Master.”
    “Do you speak to your family?”
    “Sometimes. Birthday and holidays. He doesn’t keep me from them, but...we’re not very close.”
    “Hmm.” Mephisto didn’t say anything else, only gestured for her to finish up. She ducked her head, seemingly relieved not to be questioned any more. She washed the silverware at the pace of a turtle and unwittingly scratched the bejeezus out of his favorite non-stick pan. Housekeeper from hell. She wiped down the counters and then spent a good minute and a half hanging the dishtowel just so over the bar beside the sink. Her drive to please, her meekness disturbed him almost as much as it endeared her to him. He crossed the kitchen, stood behind her and brushed a hand across the small of her back.
    “Hold the bar,” he said against her ear. “The one you just hung the towel over.” She hesitated a moment, but obeyed. “Don’t let go.”
    He left her there, stalked out of the kitchen to regain his composure. Knowing that she didn’t play—not like his slaves—it confounded him. She really lived for her Master. She lived under his constant control and even now, when her Master was miles away, she was still his slave. Somehow, that stirred up all kinds of uncomfortable feelings in him.
    He sorted through his implements and selected a small black whip. He stalked back to the kitchen. Clayton’s welts were fading. He was going to put his own marks on her.
    “Eyes forward,” he ordered, putting a hand on her back to brace her. “Don’t let go of the bar.”
    He slashed the whip across her ass cheeks. She jumped but he held her still, delivering a second blow. “Oh, Master. Please!” she begged.
    He ignored her, giving her two more strokes in quick succession. She shimmied and went up on her toes, but he had to give it to her—she didn’t let go of the bar. He pressed his palm harder on her back, held her down and striped the back of her ass and thighs until her panicked cries and squirming turned to resigned tears. Even then he kept going, breaking her down. “Please! Please...” she sobbed. In answer he whipped her right across the middle of her cheeks, over the base of the toy protruding from her ass.
    He was as breathless as she was. He inspected the marks. No blood, but bright red welts that would certainly deepen to purple. She was calming, her sobs turning to sniffles.
    “Hand me that wooden spoon, kitten.”
    At his quiet command, she tensed and looked up at the canister of tools on the counter, and burst into a fresh round of tears. She reached for the broad wooden spoon and handed it back to him. At his nudge, she took a shuddering breath and put her hands back on the bar. Poor hurting slave. He’d do some allover reddening, some shock and awe to give her something to think about at the start of their week. He smacked her hard and fast over the criss-cross of welts from the whip. She groaned and then a scream broke loose, of fear or desperation. He stopped, not because she screamed, but because he was finished. He’d gotten her to that
place
.
    He put the wooden spoon down and watched her cry for a moment, lying limp against the counter she’d so painstakingly tidied up. She still held the bar in a death grip. He put his hands over hers, forced her fingers to open and let go. He lifted her with a hand under her arm, finding her face wet with tears. When she reached to wipe them away he stopped her and impulsively pressed his face to hers. What was it about tears? Especially tears caused by