The mages master, p.27
The Mage's Master, page 27
part #2 of The Mages Series
Fasta couldn’t quite breathe, couldn’t look at Henrik, but she somehow walked her unsteady, tingling naked body over toward that wall. And then bent herself double, spread her legs, and impaled herself back, slow, onto that thick, hard steel.
Henrik had come over to stand beside her, getting a better view, and gods knew what he saw as Fasta kept pushing back, further and further. Until that cold steel was all the way inside, her wet heated body pressed up firm and flush against the wall’s cool plaster.
“Shame on you, Lady Valgeirr,” Henrik murmured, and his hand had come to hover there, to slide up and down the rest of her too-exposed crease. “Fucking yourself on a damned wall. ’S dangerous, is what it is, ‘cause what if the wall fucks back?”
Fasta had no idea what he meant, and her eyes darted up, uncertain, to his — but he was looking intently at the wall, at her, and — she gasped — the steel inside her began to shift, to change. Growing — wider. Not so much at the base, at the part of her against the wall — but inside.
“Harry,” she gasped, helpless, and she felt it briefly stop, his eyes glancing over toward hers. “What,” he said, husky. “Does it hurt?”
Fasta shook her head, because no, it wasn’t painful — just full, stretched, uncomfortable, and she cried out as she felt it condensing further, stretching wider. Forming itself into something that felt very like a round steel ball inside her, pushing her out on every side.
“Now?” he breathed, and Fasta shook her head, gasping for air. Feeling the hunger surge and swell, needing her body suddenly to move, to thrust or rock or something — but then there was the abrupt, shocking realization that she couldn’t. That the ball was far too big to pull out, and she was — trapped.
She let out a helpless moan — she was trapped to a wall with a steel ball, oh hell — and Henrik actually laughed, his fingers still sliding soft, proprietary, against her. Even slipping down in between to feel it, oh gods, feel where the still-slim part of the hard steel went inside.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word soft, shaky, as he slid his fingers back up, nudged them against that tight, secret part of her. “Say if it’s too much, okay? Or tap?”
But there was no thought of tapping, no thought of anything except this, the sheer overwhelming sensation of it. Of Henrik’s fingers lingering down below, soaking themselves in her now-leaking wetness, and then coming up, again nudging gentle against that tight, stretched-out pucker of heat.
“Think you can take even more?” he whispered, and Fasta desperately nodded, even that movement making her rock a little, realize just how trapped she was, how big that steel ball was inside. How big Henrik’s single finger felt, sliding in slow, oh fuck.
“Got you trapped now,” he murmured. “You’re mine, Fass. All mine.”
Fasta nodded, desperate again, needed this, needed so much more of it. “Yes,” she gasped. “All yours, Harry. Master.”
He gave a low laugh at that, his finger sliding in further, harder, thrilling, everywhere. “You are shit at that rule, Fass,” he whispered, but he almost sounded pleased. “Such a disobedient slave.”
The word came with a light slap of his other hand to her still-tender arse, making her tremble all over, making the ball pull inside her in a way that was almost painful. Enough to bring stars up behind her eyes, but she didn’t tap, wouldn’t, not even when that finger sank in deeper, the ball swelling a little further.
“Look at you,” he said now, his voice hoarse, almost reverent. “Prim and proper ice queen Lady Valgeirr, with her arse still bright red from a spanking, trapped on a wall, gettin’ both holes used at once. You know, babe” — he paused, took a ragged breath, his finger twisting — “never in a million years would I have thought you were actually into all this. Or into me doin’ it to you.”
There was a strange sound from Fasta’s mouth, hungry, choked. “Because,” she said, without at all meaning to, “you were too busy doing it to everybody else.”
Gods, why had she said that, but Henrik’s other hand was caressing her, that single finger so deep, so good. “Wasn’t doin’ this to anybody else,” he murmured. “Not like this.”
“Not even the women at those sketchy secret clubs?” Fasta’s breathless voice asked, damn it, because Henrik had gone silent, his hand still. So she tried to push back on him, ignore the rising pressure, saying please, don’t stop, don’t —
“Not like this,” he said again, finally, his hand sliding slow on her arse. “Not even close.”
Well, that was confusing, not that Fasta could actually think right now, her whole body strung up and trapped like this, her entire brain awash in the warm shocking pleasure of it. “But you’d fuck those women,” she managed, between gasps. “You won’t fuck me anymore. Won’t even get undressed.”
Henrik was silent again, oh gods, that finger still twisting deep inside. “I’ve fucked you,” he said, but it wasn’t an answer, and he knew it, because he let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-groan. “Look, Fass, I need to keep it separate. I have to. We’ve been over this.”
The misery was too powerful, suddenly, too raw and close, and Fasta gulped for air, made to protest — but then that single finger was pulling out, away. So swift and sudden it was almost painful, and the pain jolted again as Henrik came around to her head, tugged it up by her hair with one hand, made her look at him.
“An’ you agreed to it,” he said, low, his eyes commanding, challenging. “Multiple times. Do I need to shut you up?”
Shut her up. Fasta couldn’t think, couldn’t reply, and that hand in her hair yanked her head up a little more, while his other hand went to his trousers. Fumbling with the ties, pulling himself out, his cock huge and hard and hovering before her eyes.
“Will this shut you up?” he demanded, with a gentle shake of his hand in her hair, making the rest of her shudder all over. “Will it make you remember that you’re my slave, Lady Valgeirr, and that’s all?”
The floor seemed to be tilting under Fasta’s feet, her body too stretched, too shaky — but she somehow managed to meet Henrik’s demanding eyes, and made her head nod. Yes, yes, she was his slave, that was all…
His cock thrusting into her mouth was hot, demanding, tasting impossibly strong, sending more tingling frantic shudders all through Fasta’s skin. Her master controlling her, dominating her, his cock pulling out and slamming in again, making her gag this time, his swollen head delving aggressive and unrepentant into her throat.
“Suck harder,” he gasped, and though Fasta couldn’t nod she obeyed, focusing all her spiralling attention on that, on using her mouth her tongue, not her teeth. While staying upright seemed to slip to the periphery, and she had to grab belatedly at him for balance, clinging hard to his strong thighs.
He didn’t push her off, thankfully, but he had both hands in her hair now, holding her head up, while that thick swollen cock pounded merciless against her throat. Telling her to shut up, to suck harder, she didn’t matter, she was his slave, and that was all…
“Learnin’ your lesson, Lady Valgeirr?” he demanded, pulling out slightly, and Fasta’s tilting thoughts realized too late that he actually wanted an answer. So she focused her eyes on his face, gave a sharp nod, that was the right answer, wasn’t it? — and it seemed to appease him, because he groaned aloud, and slammed himself back in, hard.
And it was so good, it should have been so good, the sensation was all there, her master was there. In control, in charge, all his attention focused only on her, just the way she wanted it, she wanted his dick in her mouth, just wanted him to finish, to be pleased with her, please…
But he wasn’t, he hadn’t, and the room was spinning harder, stronger. While Fasta’s thoughts seemed to stumble, slipping sideways, and too late she realized her body had done the same, despite Henrik’s strong hands in her hair. And if she did that again, if she were to fall right now, it would be pain, blood, healers, oh gods —
She almost didn’t feel her hand tapping, three times, against his thigh. And maybe he hadn’t either, that cock gouging one more time into her throat — but then, somehow, it stopped. And his entire body, his eyes, had gone still, his hands tight in her hair — and then the steel inside her was thinning, lengthening back to its normal state, and his hands were on her shoulders now, gentle, pulling her off, away.
“Hey,” he said, and those hands kept pulling her up, trying to make her stand — but Fasta was way too shaky, pitching sideways, and now he was half-carrying, half-dragging her to the bed. Putting her trembly body down onto it, his hands suddenly warm, capable, kind.
“Hey,” he said again, more urgently, and one of those hands had come to her face, tilting her head toward him. But Fasta couldn’t look at him, suddenly, couldn’t stand it, and for some stupid reason her eyes were spilling over, the wetness streaking down her cheeks.
“Please, Fass,” he said, pleading this time. “Look a’ me. Did I hurt you.”
Fasta shook her head, but still didn’t look at him, and she could feel his relieved exhale, the twitch of his fingers on her skin. “Then what’s wrong,” he said. “What did I do. Please, tell me.”
Fasta couldn’t, because she couldn’t even follow it herself, but her traitorous hands were pulling at him, trying to draw him closer. Needing to feel him closer, needed to feel the reassuring strong safety of him — but he wasn’t moving, just standing there over her, suddenly distant, unmoving, a stone.
“Can I get you something,” he said, his voice strained, now. “Can I do something.”
It meant he wasn’t going to touch her, he was going to keep it separate, like he wanted. And Fasta was so close to sobbing, to breaking down and saying please, please, I just need you to touch me, I need you to tell me you care, please —
But she choked back the impulse, and instead made her rubbery body sit up, made her hazy eyes find his pale face. Made herself breathe, find something else, anything else, that was true.
“I need you,” she gasped, “to at least try and find out who’s trying to get rid of you!”
Henrik blinked, his eyebrows furrowing together in obvious confusion, but yes, this was true, and Fasta clung to it, to the safety of it. “You’re about to get fired,” she managed, “and you just keep acting like it’s not even happening! You haven’t even tried! Don’t you want to know who’s trying to frame you?!”
Henrik blinked again, but the look on his face had gone from confused to… something else. Something that Fasta knew all too well, damn him, and she stared at him, felt her shaky body tremble again under her, felt her already-wobbling mouth fall open.
“You don’t,” she breathed, “you don’t care?”
The truth was there, written in his eyes, and it was so shocking that Fasta sagged down onto the bed, and the room was spinning again, too fast. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to find out who’d framed him. He wanted to be fired?
“You know what, maybe I don’t care,” his voice said, and that was shocking too, enough that Fasta’s whole body flinched, her eyes locked on his face. And he was looking back, maybe hearing how that had sounded, and he cleared his throat, let out a slow breath.
“Look,” he said, “I do care about you, Fass, okay? Way more than I should. But I’ve been a second-class citizen in this place for years, and maybe I’m fucking sick of it. Maybe I don’t actually care which one of them is trying to get rid of me, because they all think the same fucking thing. Not a single one of them will be sad I’m gone. Except you.”
Fasta couldn’t follow, wouldn’t, and she gave a hard shake of her head. “But how will you live?” she asked. “How will you pay the kids’ bills?”
His mouth did something that should have been a smile, but was more like a grimace. “I’ll figure something out,” he said. “If I get really desperate, you gave me extra money, remember? You called it insurance.”
The hurt almost felt like a living thing, coiling deep in Fasta’s bones, and she had to bite her lip to keep the lurking sob from escaping. “I thought you didn’t want that money,” she managed. “And now you’re going to use it to leave me?!”
Henrik’s hand had moved, as though to touch her, but then dropped again, like he’d thought better of it. “You know I would pay you back,” he said, stiffly. “With interest. And I’m not trying to leave you, I’m being pushed out. There’s a difference.”
There was not, and Fasta tried to glare at him, through the filmy wetness in her eyes. “So that’s what you meant,” she gasped, “when you kept saying your time here was almost up. Because you want it to be!”
His eyes on hers were hard now, maybe even angry. “Look, I kept telling you where I stood on this, okay?” he said. “You’re the one who’s gonna leave me, and go marry some rich asshole. You said so yourself!”
“I did not,” Fasta shot back. “I said I hadn’t really thought about it! And I said maybe” — she dragged in another breath — “maybe we could just keep doing this!”
Henrik gave that smile again, a slow shake of his head. “And I said I don’t want to keep doing this,” he said. “And if you didn’t listen, or didn’t like it, is that my problem? Or is it yours? Because maybe like every other entitled spoiled noble on this continent, you think it’s only what you want that matters!”
The words were authoritative, dismissive, ringing loud in Fasta’s ears. And with them, too strong, was the shocking, too-certain realization that Henrik thought of her like that. He saw her like that. As an entitled spoiled noble who only wanted to get her way. It hadn’t always been a game, with all his comments about spoiled-rotten Lady Valgeirr. It had been truth.
And at the start of all this — how had Fasta forgotten that? — Henrik had told her he didn't trust her. He'd made that very clear. And maybe that meant she shouldn’t have trusted him, either.
And suddenly Fasta couldn’t face this, couldn’t bear it. Could only fix her eyes past him, hold her head high, try to keep the sobs pressed down tight into her throat.
“Then I beg your forgiveness for my selfish, spoiled weakness, Henrik,” she said, as coolly as she could manage. “And I wish you all the best in your future endeavours. Goodnight.”
And with that, she blindly grasped for her clothes, and went for the water-closet, and slammed the door shut behind her.
25
If Fasta thought she and Henrik could get over this, she was wrong.
It was her fault, maybe, because she stayed in the water-closet for way too long, gulping back sobs, and hearing Henrik’s words repeat over and over in her head. You gave me money. I don’t want to keep doing this. Like every other entitled spoiled noble on this continent, you think it’s only what you want that matters.
Gods, it hurt, and even more so when Fasta finally heard the faint sound of his footsteps, the door-latches clicking shut behind him. And when she went out Henrik was gone, gone alone to gods knew where, where a single step out of line was liable to get him fired.
Fasta should have followed, tried to find him, but she couldn’t seem to stop sobbing, and finally curled up in bed, tried to sleep. But she’d gotten so used to him there, just being there, that when sleep came it was fitful and broken, interrupted by tedious, circling dreams, and it felt like days before the bright morning light finally peeked through the window.
Surely, Fasta thought then, Henrik would come back — but though she waited, and waited, he didn’t. Maybe he wouldn’t. He wanted to leave.
The sobs were lurking in Fasta’s throat again, and finally her shaky hands reached up, and carefully took off Henrik’s necklace, and set it on the desk, with the rest of his stones. He didn't care. He thought she was a spoiled-rotten noble. He wanted to leave.
It took too long to get dressed for work, to dry her eyes again. And even walking out of her room was strangely difficult, what with all Henrik’s latches, and then again when she passed by his own room, and maybe he was in there, maybe.
The need to know got the best of her, and she stopped beside his door, gave it a swift rap — but there was no answer, and Fasta knew he wasn’t there. Knew, somehow, that he wasn’t downstairs either, and was unsurprised when she finally dragged herself to the dining-hall, and confirmed it.
“Have you seen Henrik?” she asked a few people, servants and a few of the air-mages who’d been eating, but they shook their heads, and one of the air-mages gave a grating laugh. “No, and good riddance,” he said. “Though I would like my shit back before he gets fired.”
Fasta stared at him, and he at least looked away, the redness creeping up his neck — but he didn’t take it back, and Fasta turned on her heel, stalked away. To where she very nearly ran into Thora, who was carrying a half-full tray of food, and almost dropped it — but fortunately the tray was metal, and Fasta caught it, just in time.
“Thanks,” Thora said, her too-perceptive eyes seeing far more than Fasta would have liked. “And hey, if you’re looking for Henrik, Runar said he saw him go out last night.”
Out. Maybe to the cottage then, or to an inn, or to one of those secret sex clubs he'd talked about, and Fasta couldn’t think about that, not now. “Right,” she said. “Thanks.”
Thora smiled again, but Fasta couldn’t bear her sympathy, either, and went for the door, for air. For work, she decided tiredly, because tonight was the night of Elgin’s damned party, and the damned ballroom wall still wasn’t done. Which meant maybe Henrik would be there, maybe they could talk, although what else was there to say? He wanted to leave. He didn't trust her. He thought she was a spoiled entitled noble. He always had.
But Henrik wasn’t there at Elgin’s, either, and Fasta nearly sobbed again at the sight of the cavernous ballroom. The servants had clearly continued their preparations into the night, and it looked admittedly lovely, replete with tables and linens and banners and fresh-cut flowers — but there was nobody in it. No Henrik.
