The Marvelous Michelle Polaris

October 4, 2067 New Denver Post web service. President Corrigan reflected on the seventeen-year anniversary of the cataclysmic gravity well explosions that changed our world during today’s ceremony, opening temporary housing units. The units are designed to address crowding in New Denver. In a solemn voice, he reiterated that this was a time when we must come together to face the greatest adversity and triumph over it.

Mira leaned into the precious man, the restraints attaching him to the St. Andrew’s cross squeezing his toned muscle and pale skin. Allowing little movement. She visually checked the buckles holding his body, making sure none damaged him as he struggled. His breath came in heaving gulps. Sweat and tears ran down his face, neck and chest in streams to glisten in the ginger hair nesting his genitals. The musk of the male animal, pushed to the point of exhaustion, smelled pungent in the room.

Mira pressed the stem of her crop into the red stripes covering his ass, eliciting another gasp. Her nipples tightened, the pulse of her pussy and the contractions popping inside her a constant reminder of how aroused the work left her. But today was about Eric, not her satisfaction. She was angry with him, true. But he’d wanted this from her. And she was worried about his recent behavior. As she released the buckle of his cock harness, she feathered a light breath against his ear, pressed her mouth flush to his lobe. Even over his groan of agony, she knew he heard her. “Come for me, Eric. Now!”

His body jerked, spasming under her grip on his cock. As he released, a long spewing of ejaculate made longer by the denial she’d forced on him, he cried out. “Mistress,” the plea and prayer as much a sweet song to her as the symphony of his contorted features lost in that high of sub space, that transcendent bliss that blew away all of the barriers of his soul. His eyes fluttered back in his head as his limbs lost all coordination in the little movement the bindings allowed. Finally, as his cock twitched with the final drops of semen, now dripping off his belly, he slumped into the straps securing him to the cross.

Mira kissed the wet bend of skin behind his neck, smiled up at him as she stroked his cheek. “Good boy, Eric. I’ll release you and that fine body of yours will rest.”

She undid the restraints, assisting him off the device as he leaned against her. Her strength allowed her to support his weight although he stood inches taller and weighed more. Mira gently wiped his body with a cloth dipped into the basin beside her four-poster bed. She feathered another kiss on his cheek and tucked him beneath her patchwork quilt. She’d sat for hours sewing together those squares, one designed by every client she’d allowed into her life since moving to New Denver. A labor of love. Now Eric strained to sit up from under it, grabbed her hand as she adjusted the covers.

“Mistress, forgive me?”

“You are forgiven, dear one. But if you ever go outside without your breather again, I’ll cane that ass of yours so hard and fuck it with a dildo so large you won’t be sitting for weeks. The hours I worked you today will seem like nothing.”

He smiled up at her in relief and she faked her own smile in return. Damn it, but why’d he taken such a stupid risk? She suspected she knew. A call for her attention after months of distancing herself from him and every other sub client she saw at The Marked Tree. He knew she’d be forced to punish him. He’d approached her today, craving it. Not once used his safe word to stay her hand. She hated the part of her that drew away from her subs. The last thing Mira wanted to do was hurt any of those under her care. They trusted her, and she betrayed their trust each and every day her bruised heart kept her from giving them her all. And time only made it worse.

At a tap on her door, Mira left Eric drifting off to sleep in her bed and she escaped into the hallway, grabbing her black silk robe and tying the sash around her waist to cover her corset. The light cream leather molded against her body, well broken in from years of wear.

Joanne faced her in the hall, creases marring her usually placid expression. “Moore is here,” she said.

“He’s early. Tell him to wait.” Irritation tightened Mira’s nerves.

Joanne had pleaded with her to talk to this man, one Randolph Moore, some stick-up-his-derriere government official from Joanne’s description. Ten years of working in this private D/s house, and not once was anyone allowed to meet here for business. That is, other than the business of gratifying the soul’s need for honest sexual expression. But this guy held enough clout to have Joanne shaking in her sleek, thigh-hugging boots. Seeing fear in her boss-cum-friend’s usually hard-edged eyes pissed Mira off. She protected her friends, no matter what.

“You said you’d do this,” Joanne answered with a spark of annoyance. Did she think Mira was backing out? “This house stood by you for years. We’ve made it through a lot. You owe me.”

Mira did owe Joanne. Guilt weighed down her shoulders like lead. Mira had backed out of her promise to take over The Marked Tree with little explanation.

“Fine. Give me ten minutes to change my clothes and get Eric settled in a free room. I wrung him dry and he needs recovery time.”

Joanne’s trademark grin was back. It relaxed Mira’s shoulders to see it. “Thank you. I’ll show him up after ten.”

Now Mira only had to keep her mouth shut and listen to this Moore before biting his head off whole.