Forbidden Desire

4 - The Matriarch's Warmth

Lights of New London flood the corners of my encasement. The silence is deafening. Only the chirping of the birds settled into the tree across the window still evident. The silence that hangs in the air drifts away, a pounding ache taking its place. Such undeserved punishment teases me with the possibility of escape.

Across the wooden planks of my cage are the barless windows. I'm no better than a bird trapped in an open, gilded prison. The air is heavy. It presses against my chest. I'd spend most of my life in the encampment of auction houses. My moaning neighbours of slight annoyance and much amusing company. The room feels less like a granted luxury and more of a calculated surgical isolation.

My first master, the Collector allowed me but a thin line wool covering and a space on the cold wrought floors of his kitchen, where the only warmth came from my distilled uneven breath and the simple ignited fire across my spot, keeping me between malnourishment and death's door. The second, the more sinister and cruel, cared not where I slept as long as it was not in the comfort of his home. I took to the degrading walls of the servant's corners. A house of paradise from its exterior, and wilting walls on the shabby insides.

This is different. The warmth surrounding me shouldn't be a comfort I bask in. Such grandness evokes an unfamiliarity of a mother wrapping her wings over her little one. A sensation of being taken cared for that bubbles to the point of being choked.

Light blue accents and white hues splatter across the room, the window drapes a scheme following the colors. There's a small sitting area for myself, and a few doors, two diverged by a warm fire and a piano forte for my acquired ungifted hands.

It is far more twisted and unkind compared to my previous owners who rather grace their raw neglect than blue duvets and a bedframe. I would prefer the mistreatment allowed to a being of my station to receiving the fake luxuries from these monstrous elites. The table holds the only aliment for my torture, a simple glass of water. Humour me.

Flashes of hot-white spaces continue to plague my throbbing head, the uneasy whiff of lavender and hints of cinnamon vexing me to no end. The door grates open without any permission of word, interrupting the pain.

Two flocks of blue, unified dresses and lace aprons walk along the planks of my room. One possesses sharp fangs, hidden as they may be, and a whiteness to her skin. Her gaze bored, and vitreous, labelled with a slight annoyance. The other is shorter than myself, and the taller, her complexion more kind and human. Only then do I note my discarded rags of tulle and a white ruffle of lace that drapes my skin, the neckline and hem adorned with layers of silk. The thin material leaves nothing to the imagination, accenting my famished, weak-illed frame. My n*****s run along the edge, cold and untouched and wishing to be properly clothed.

The thought that someone, a man, and very least, my master, having undergo the responsibility of dressing me bubbles an anger I cannot explain. I doubt this man, seeing as things has gone so far, would allow a lowly subordinate to touch his expensive good, much less dress me in a state of vulnerability.

Damaged goods weren't shown much mercy. Whether intentionally spoiled or not.

"Get up. Remove your dress," Comes the cold command from the pale one. My gaze challenges her, the spitfire returning. When I refuse to move, the hybrid steps aside. It all blurs in speed. She smacks me with a strength weaker than her employer's. I lunge, beating her with fury, my nails raking against her ghostly skin. The hybrid dares to pull us apart. Her options are limited. She disappears behind the hall and returns with reinforcements. Two male creatures with outmatched strength pulling me off my target.

She steps to her feet, point behind a set of doors adjacent to the walls. It swings open. I'm dragged along the cool tiles of the bathroom, held against the proclaim stainless acrylic, forced to watch as the water rises.

The hybrid pours in mixes of bottles, swerving her hand in the water. She doesn't touch me more than she has to as she scrubs. Her hands find the crevasse below my breasts and follow the path to my c**t, splitting them into an unnatural, unblemished mess.

I don't cry. I won't in front of the likes of them. If there is one thing they do not deserve, it is my tears.

They follow a process similar to the lab rats at the auction house. The vicious warring form of my unfortunate nails pulls together nylon gloves. She swabs the same translucent substance and runs her fingers along my v****a. I'll end her. I promise.

She smiles upon her sufficient task, waving the men away, "You can comply or not. I'm not the one who will be at the end of her master's ruthless ways." She pats my face with her smelted gloves, rises and follows her male counterparts.

Wet drops finally freed stain my nudeness, and I allow it. I want to cower away from the hybrid and as much as I desire to, a strong force keeps my on the edge of the bed, "I'm sorry for her attitude, but she is correct in the sense that you must perform well for Lord Blackwood. He is a kind master, given you do as he instructs."

She presents a handkerchief. I allow myself to take the kindness offered and wipe away my tears, "I-I..."

"It's alright. We don't need to talk."

She continues her memorized routine. A set of lingerie graced. I stand for her to clip the garters, her fingers unwantedly upsetting the base of my cunt. She blushes at my looking away. "Why? Why is there a piece missing?"

Unbothered by the question, she continues to tighten my corset, leaving me some space of breath, "There isn't. It is as the master wishes."

Her results cumulate to the woman that stares back at me. Her reflection a light paleness, her neck adorned in simple pearls the color of her heels. My ensemble is composed of a white linen shirt of few buttons downing the middle and pleated lines. It's tucked into a bell shaped green skirt that flows into white translucent stocking the texture of cotton socks, fitting perfect against the heels.

"What's your name?"

She pretends the answer into the air, directing my hand towards the halls. I don't get a grand tour of the pristine elegance, but I don't fail to take in every detail. Gilded chandeliers, frames painting. Every nook and turn, every blue glamour that seems to be the decorum of the house. The maid leads me down a series of the plush wooden stairs, and we arrive at the bustling dining hall.

My master sits across the hall in the company of him female counterparts as they discuss whatever it is that nobility yap about. Leaned back in a posture of calculated laziness, a teacup of red delicacy at his whim. One foot slacked against his knees and papers masking me from his view. The hall becomes a deathly silence. My heals clinking in repetition as I close the gap betwewn the tedious mahogany table. The hybrid walks ahead, stepping aside for the master to view his new collection.

He shuts the newspapers, placing it down and reaches to touch me. Our electric feel is interrupted by an older voice, "Who is this beauty, Dominic? Won't you introduce us."

My eyes shift to the women, as does my absolute attention from my master. The women reaches to appraise my build, her fingers cascading through my hair. I'm stuck in a trance. One that seeks not to displease this woman. Her bright smile reels me into her warm hug. A contrast between the drowning and backhand of the night before.

"I'd respect it if you didn't touch my art, mother." His glass eyes harden into a scrowl.

She pulls away, finding herself seated between younger ladies, one of whom wishes to be acknowledged, "Lord Blackwood," she grates, her refined accent seeking to stir trouble, "Is your acquired pet to look into the eyes of the matriarch and that of our own? Least not your gracious ones?" Her manicured and predatory gaze found my own. A simple smile sat on her ridiculous beauty.

My master shifts his focus to me as I do my own towards the ground. It lingers, ponders me for a while before returning to lecture, "I doubt you will find a husband before long if it is my pet's gaze that has your attention, Lady Locke." I try to hide my snicker within the ripple of giggles erupting from the other ladies. Lady Locke's complexion blooms a deep red, "The slave isn't yet accustomed to proper ways," the Lord continues, his attention never faulting from Lady Locke. "Don't fret. By your next visit, where her eyes land will be the least of your worries."

Tension hugs the room, broken by Lady Blackwood's authoritative clap, "Let us go ladies, to the drawing room. We have much to discuss, Lady Locke."

The vaulters leave me to the pleasure of my master. He pushes his chair back, a terrible screeching of the legs against the marble floor that only warning I get before the the blow sent to my already throbbing head. A sharp, white-hot jolt of pain that intensifies as I collapse into the hold of the Hybrid. The jagged sounds rumble from the man, cutting the lingering scent of his mother's floral perfume, "I will not allow you to think higher of your status. You are beneath a street rat in my house. Look at me or my people again as if you belong among us, and I'll gouge those precious green things out," he sits back down, returned to his papers, "She is to serve them. Leave me."