A Scotch for the Road - Part 16

[flighty_dreams]

TITLE: A Scotch for the Road - Part 16
AUTHOR: flighty_dreams
WARNINGS: Slavefic. NC-17.  F/m.
WORD COUNT: 4,730 (this chapter)/ story so far (over 40K)
SUMMARY: A slave enduring a party encounters more than he bargained for.
NOTES: Thanks to aurila for her assistance.
FEEDBACK: Always welcome, even if it's just to say that you read it.

 

Part Sixteen

 

Jenna was livid.

How no one else could see it, he didn’t know, but Brett supposed he was especially attuned to the slightest change in her body language. She continued chatting with other guests as if nothing were wrong, convincingly enough to fool them. The only exception was her mother, who tossed him a smug look before turning back to her conversation partner. Briefly he’d thought it was actually her Jenna was furious with—it usually was, and he'd seen her standing beside his mistress when he went to return to her—but the way Jenna was ignoring him quickly told him otherwise. Throughout the party, even when talking to other people, he’d felt her awareness of him, the occasional glances she sent him and the subtle, protective stance. Now it was as if a wall stood between them, even though he was just behind her.

Brett struggled to control his panic. He wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong, but there was no mistaking that she was angry with him. The knowledge created such a huge, painful knot in his stomach that it was a wonder he could walk.

That this had something to do with the kiss was obvious; she’d become furious just after it. But he’d been obeying her. What had he done wrong? Not that he hadn’t been punished many times by owners even when he was obedient, but Jenna had never been that way. Maybe she regretted giving the order, though it was too late to change anything, and he was paying the price. The slave always paid. But he would’ve sworn Jenna wouldn’t blame him in a situation like that. So what could it be?

Not knowing what he’d done was almost worse than knowing, because his imagination was frantically supplying him with possible answers. Had her mother told Jenna he'd done something? Said something? He no longer knew what to think.

Finally she made her goodbyes to the other guests, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Once they were alone, surely she would tell him how he’d angered her so, and he could beg for her forgiveness. But the cold fury that filled the close confines of the car left him far too scared to dare speak, and he huddled closer to the passenger door, as if he could somehow escape her disapproval. Part of him wished he were in the back seat, farther away from her, but he knew she would’ve been even angrier if he’d tried sitting there.

She showed no inclination to talk, and as the heavy silence remained his hands clenched in his lap. He couldn’t stand knowing he’d disappointed her in some grievous way. Better that she berate him at home rather than in the car though, where he could prostrate himself properly.

She parked the car in the garage beneath their building, and he followed her into the lift with trepidation. She didn’t even fidget during the ride up, while it took him strenuous effort to stay still, her unnerving quiet increasing his anxiety.

Once they were inside the apartment, he threw himself at her feet. But she didn’t acknowledge him, turning away and leaving him kneeling there in the darkened entryway. As she walked away, it felt as if she’d shoved something straight into his heart.

“Mistress,” he choked out in anguish. If she heard him, she showed no sign of it.

He slumped forward, leaning his head against the floor between his balled fists. The slam of her bedroom door made his stomach clench tighter. At the party he’d thought he couldn’t possibly feel worse than he already did, knowing he’d upset Jenna. He’d been wrong.

This was always going to happen someday, that hateful voice inside him said, you didn’t actually think you were worth all the attention she gave you, did you? He’d done his best to silence it these past weeks, but he couldn’t now.

Shaking, he told himself that this was temporary. She wouldn’t ignore him forever. Soon she’d be yelling at him, making him feel guiltier than he’d ever felt in his life, and he’d be wishing for less attention. No, somehow he doubted that last part. Better that she cared enough to punish him.

He considered moving, either to the opening to the hallway or to just outside her bedroom, to await whatever punishment she decided on. If she deigned to give him one. But he stayed where he was, because he couldn’t bear her walking right past him again.

How long he remained there he didn’t know, but eventually he heard her door open and the soft tread of her feet. Trembling, he pressed his head into the hands he flattened against the floor now. He listened to her walk from the hallway to the living room and then the kitchen and out again, pausing in the dining room. Then her footsteps moved directly towards him.

“Brett?” There was shock in her voice as she flipped the switch, flooding the room with light. Something loosened in his chest at finally receiving acknowledgment of his presence. “Why are you still here in the dark?”

Uncertain how to answer her, he stayed in the same position. He heard her sigh. “Sit up.”

Obeying, he shifted up from the floor, his shoulders slumped and head bowed at first, before he reminded himself he should strike a more respectful pose. He lifted his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor, and moved his arms behind his back, tension running through his body.

She muttered something under her breath that sounded like a curse. He hoped it wasn’t directed at him, but he was afraid it was.

“Brett,” she said, and he caught the sharp edge to her tone, “go make me some tea.”

“Yes, Mistress.” His voice shook a little on the words, but he rose, glad for the familiar task. The habitual movements steadied him, and by the time he brought the cup of tea out to the living room, his panic wasn’t quite so overwhelming.

Something in the way she was sitting told him she was still angry though. That knot of anxiety in his stomach hadn’t gone away yet, and it tightened as he offered her the tea and then knelt before her. Gripping the fingers of his other hand behind his back, he kept his gaze lowered.

A few minutes ticked slowly by, the occasional scrape of the teacup against the saucer the only sound breaking the silence. At last she put them down on the coffee table.

“Brett, care to tell me what you were thinking?”

He bowed his head, his hair sliding forward to hang in midair. Still unsure what he’d done to displease her, he grew flustered. He had no answer to her question.

“Say something, Brett.” Her tone was all the unhappy Mistress, his kind Jenna still gone.

Afraid he would anger her even more, he gathered his courage. Better to know than to remain confused. “Please tell me what I did wrong, Mistress.”

A thick silence fell, and though he kept his eyes on the floor, he felt the weight of her piercing gaze. “You don’t know? You’re acting guilty enough.”

His face heated. “Because I know I did something to upset you, Mistress.”

She sighed, and her hand lifted toward his face. He flinched at the sudden movement, and her hand dropped away. “Brett,” she gasped, and the shock in her voice had him cringing again.

“Look at me,” she said, and he raised his head. “Did you really think I was about to hit you?”

Gazing into her eyes, seeing the horror and fury there, he felt even worse. “No, I-” He paused, giving himself a moment to think. It had been instinct; he’d displeased the mistress he adored, and a slap was the least he deserved. But Jenna had never raised a hand towards him in anger. He’d never made her so mad before though, and if she were ever going to, it would be now. Still, it didn’t seem like something she would do.

“Brett,” she said gently, and he realized he’d paused for too long.

“No, I didn’t think so, but…” But he’d had his hopes for kinder treatment dashed repeatedly over the years. Often disappointment had seemed the only constant in his life.

“But you were still scared,” she finished for him. He nodded. “I know you’d never upset me on purpose. What are you so afraid of?”

He hadn’t thought it out, the why behind his panic, too caught up in the feeling itself, but it hit him then and he trembled. He ducked his head, his insides chilled by renewed fear.

When he didn’t respond, she reached out slowly this time to touch his hair, brushing it away from his face. “Brett, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

It was the same thing he’d always feared, that had come true before. “That you won’t want me anymore,” he told her, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What! That’s-” she stopped mid-sentence, her fingers raising his chin. She studied him, a sad, pensive look on her face. At last, she said, “Foolish of me to think you’d believe in my promises so quickly, considering the way I screwed up last time.” Her tone firming, she added, “Brett, no matter what you do, or how upset I may be with you at a certain moment, you’re mine, and I’m not letting you go. Ever. I know it will take time for you to believe that, but I’ll keep saying it.”

You’re mine. He could hear her say those words in that wonderfully possessive tone a hundred times and never get tired of it. He wanted so badly to be hers, forever.

But at the moment he felt guilty, thinking his uncertainty had disappointed her. “I’m sorry, Mistress.”

“No need to be sorry about that,” she said, pulling him flush against her knees. “I knew it would take time for you to trust me again, but I guess with everything else happening, I forgot to keep that in mind.”

“But I should-” he began hesitantly, before she shushed him.

“What you feel is what you feel.”

He clung to her, relieved she was willing to give him more time, even if he didn’t understand why she would so easily allow it.

A minute later, her next words pushed all thought of that aside. “Now would you like to know what upset me today?”

“Yes, please,” he said, his stomach knotting with worry again.

She pulled him backwards a bit, so their gazes met. He watched her anger return, the Mistress replacing Jenna again, and he bit his lip.

She glared at him. “You kissed my cousin as if you were kissing me.”

He gaped at her, only now seeing how the kiss had looked to her. He’d been too busy following orders to think about it, but if he’d been forced to watch her kiss Jason like that… it would be unbearable. No wonder she’d been furious.

“Mistress, I’m so sorry, that’s not how I intended it to seem. It meant nothing, it was nothing like kissing you,” he hastened to reassure her.

“Then why the show?” she asked, an angry frown marring her lips. “I thought you’d give her a quick kiss and that would be the end of it.”

Now he understood her displeasure perfectly. She’d resigned herself to a tame kiss, and been shocked when he made it far more than that. He struggled with how to word the conclusion he’d come to. “My actions reflect on you,” he said, “and I was afraid that if I didn’t do it well the others would question why you value me. I didn’t want to shame you, Mistress.”

“I don’t base your value on how you kiss or your bedroom skills!” she exclaimed, outraged.

He sent her a sad smile. “I know, but the others, like your sister, do.”

She sighed, an unhappy expression on her face, not bothering to deny that truth. An edge to her voice, she asked then, “So you kissed Teresa until her head spun, for me?”

Wincing at how that sounded, he still replied, “Yes, Mistress.”

Jenna scowled. “And how was it?”

This time her displeasure was a boost to his weakened confidence. She cared. He still chose his words carefully though, wary of the obvious trap. “Your cousin is nice, certainly preferable to say, Bianca,” he began, Jenna making a face at the mention of that woman, “but she’s not you, Jenna. I didn’t want to kiss her, but since I had to I thought I should make it look good.”

Kissing Teresa hadn’t been torture, but when he so thoroughly wanted to be Jenna’s—and didn’t want her kissing anyone else either—why would he have any desire to kiss other people? Didn’t she know that since the day they’d met, it had always been her? Even when he thought she’d abandoned him, he’d wanted desperately to be safe in her arms again.

His answer seemed to satisfy her, her anger dissipating. “All right,” she said, patting the couch beside her. “Come up here.”

He stared at her, wondering if he was hearing her right. Did she think that was the end to this? “Mistress, I hurt you. I deserve to be punished.”

Her brows rose. “I won’t lie and say I like it, but I understand why you did it now. That’s enough.”

“But Mis-”

“Brett,” she said, cutting him off. “What do you want me to do, pull you over my knee and spank you?”

The sudden image of himself across her lap, his backside exposed to her, made his face burn. He’d felt the sting of many different implements, but oddly enough he’d never been spanked. It couldn’t hurt as much as other things—or so he guessed—but it wasn’t the pain that interested him anyway. He’d felt more than his share of pain already in his life. No, it was the idea of being so vulnerable to her that both scared and excited him, the way being tied up for her used to, before Donovan ruined it.

Jenna cleared her throat. “Well, that’s something to explore later.”

His face seemed to get hotter, if that were possible. When she patted the couch again, this time he obeyed, though in his embarrassment he couldn’t look at her yet.

“Are we past this idea that you need to be punished?” she asked.

He shook his head. His wayward thoughts had given him an idea. “You could tie me-”

“Brett!” she exclaimed, appalled by the suggestion. “I am not going to punish you. And even if I were it certainly wouldn’t be that! We already talked this out and cleared everything up.”

Somehow he only seemed to make everything worse. “I just want to make it up to you, Jenna,” he said, meeting her eyes again.

Now she smiled. “That sentiment I can get behind. But first,” she added, her finger pointing to the corner of her lips as her smile vanished, “you have a little lipstick left, right there.”

He blushed, ashamed that any evidence of the kiss remained. “Apologies, Mistress, I’ll go wash it off,” he told her, rising from the couch. He went to their bathroom, removing all traces of Teresa. When he returned, he joined her on the couch again.

She cupped his cheek, examining his mouth. The curve of her lips told him she was pleased even before she leaned in to kiss him. “Mm, you even brushed your teeth.”

Anything you wish, Mistress. Anything to stay with you, he thought silently, before he lost all capacity for higher thinking, Jenna filling his senses.

“I’ve decided how you can make it up to me,” she said after they parted, capturing his attention.

Rapt but uneasy, he wondered what she would require of him. How would she discipline him for this? She might not have any taste for physical punishment, but there were other methods for teaching a slave to behave better.

“I want to be pampered,” she announced, as he stared at her in confusion. “For the rest of the day, until I go to work tomorrow, I want to be showered with attention.”

“As you wish, Mistress,” he responded obediently. “What sort of pampering?” Perhaps she meant in bed?

“All kinds of things. I don’t want to do a single thing for myself for the rest of the day.”

He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. While he’d love to give Jenna that sort of treatment anytime she wished for it—he adored her, after all—he knew she hated being fussed over like that. Even his insistence that he be the only one to do minor tasks like making the tea or setting the table sometimes still exasperated her. This seemed more like a punishment for her, and not at all one for him.

So he wasn’t fooled, but who was he to question his mistress? He did everything she wanted in the hours that followed, such as cook her favorite meal, arrange pillows and a blanket for her on the lounge chair on the balcony, bring her drinks and chocolates, endure her online shopping patiently, and massage her feet, which were sore from her high heels. He might admire how they looked upon her feet very much, but the discomfort they caused her was not nearly so pleasing.

When he offered to massage other parts of her next, she declined. “No, I want a bath in a few minutes. We’ll do that later.”

He was kneeling at her feet in the living room, enjoying the touch of her fingers carding through his hair. “Shall I start running the bath for you then?”

She looked up from the magazine in her lap. “Mm, yes. Come back when it’s ready.”

Letting the water fill the tub, he hummed to himself as he added the bath oil she most preferred. Although she appeared to be enjoying his enthusiastic attentions today, he still didn’t understand how this was a punishment for him—besides the shopping, perhaps. He would gladly do much more for her.

A short while later he undressed her and helped her into the large tub, kneeling outside of it, ready to supply anything else she wished. Laying her arms along the outer edge of the tub, she told him, “Take off your clothes and join me. You can’t wash me properly from out there.”

He stood, bowing, not needing the order repeated. Washing her hair first, he combed it and gently massaged her scalp. Afterward, when his hands drifted to her shoulders, rubbing out the knots there, she sighed and murmured, “Feels so good. Like all the stress is leaving me.”

He paused for a long moment, his mind finally making a connection, before continuing. No, this wasn’t punishment at all, that was what she’d been trying to tell him. Punishment was about making the slave pay for his offense, and she’d wanted no part of that. This… this was about making her feel better.

He turned it over slowly in his mind, deciding he liked Jenna’s way better. Besides not liking punishment—a selfish, improper consideration that he discarded—he liked it being about her instead of him. That was how things should be.

Her hand covered his. “You can do the rest after we get out.”

So guided, he returned to bathing her. As he washed her back, she said, “I love how much room this tub has.”

It was rather large. He hummed in agreement, following the curves of her back.

“It was one of the few things I liked about this place.”

“One of the few?” he asked, puzzled by her statement.

She sighed, leaning against the side of the tub, her head cradled on her arms. “I bought this place shortly after I failed to get you back.” Her voice had a forced evenness to it as she said the rest. “I couldn’t stand living in the old apartment, not without you there.”

He stilled, picturing it: her alone in their old home, seeing memories of him everywhere. No, he couldn’t have borne it either.

“My mom picked this place out, and I didn’t care at the time. I just needed to move. She—or her decorator, whoever it was—even picked out a lot of the furniture. I couldn’t bring myself to care about much of anything back then.”

That explained a lot of what he’d wondered about upon first seeing her new home. But none of those details mattered. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him. “Pampering includes comforting,” he murmured into her ear.

His words drew the laugh he’d hoped for. She relaxed into his embrace, her body tucked against his.

“I was weak before,” she said, disgust with her past self roughening her voice, “afraid of what others would think. That’s not going to happen ever again. I won’t let anyone get between us,” she added, the steel in her voice unmistakable, “not while I have anything left in me to fight them. I know you still don’t trust that I mean it, but I do.”

He was too much of a pessimist to believe her determination would be enough, but how to tactfully phrase that? Hesitantly, he said at last, “Anything I ever dared to care about, I lost.”

Now it was her turn to comfort him. She twisted in his embrace to face him, one arm curling around his neck, and she didn’t make any broad promises this time. “Brett, if something did happen, it won’t be for lack of trying on my part. Not this time, and never again. I will do anything in my power to protect you.”

“I know, and I’m so grateful,” he said, burying his face against her neck. “Life just has a way of shitting on me.”

Sighing, she placed a hand on his nape, her fingers curling into his hair. They stayed close like that for a few minutes, before he gently pulled away, regretting the looseness of his tongue. This evening was supposed to be about her. “I’m sorry, Mistress, I am lapse in my pampering.”

“It’s fine,” she said, giving him a quick kiss. “The talk was needed.”

He finished washing the rest of her before cleaning himself off. She insisted on washing his hair herself, laughing as she pushed his head under the water to rinse him off. He smiled, glad to see her at ease again.

He got out first, wrapping her in a thick towel and drying her off attentively before removing the water from his own skin. Amusement gleamed in her eyes as she allowed him to dress her, although they knew the nightgown wouldn’t stay on for long. He fetched the lotion and brush she asked for, rubbing the cream into her skin for her, and brushing her hair with the latter. Drying her hair straight afterward, the auburn strands tumbled about her shoulders appealingly. Naked still—she’d given him no order to dress—he knelt beside her chair in front of the vanity, awaiting anything else she might ask of him.

“It’s time for the rest of that massage,” she announced, to his mingled pleasure and hope. He retrieved the massage oil before following her to the bed, attempting to keep his pace sedate. Removing her nightgown, he placed it on the nightstand while she laid down on the bed. Turning back to her, he paused to admire the curves before him. Serving her for hours had left him both at peace and needy for more.

Curbing the latter feeling, he took his time with the massage that followed, releasing the tension from her limbs before starting on her back. He worked on her front as well, his hands wanting to linger in certain places, but he restrained himself. By the time he finished, she was a very sleepy, contented mistress. Wiping any excess oil from her skin, he lifted her with care, sliding the sheets out from beneath her. He tucked her into bed, placing a kiss on her brow before curling onto his knees beside the bed, head cradled on his arms as he watched her drift off to sleep. The ache between his legs he left untouched; it was the least he could suffer for distressing his mistress.

The events of the day floated though his mind. After watching him kiss another woman today, she’d needed the extra attention. He still felt ashamed of himself for not considering how she would feel witnessing the kiss, but her complete contentment now eased his anxieties.

Still, he didn’t join her in what was normally their bed. He’d hurt her today, and part of him felt he didn’t deserve the comfort of her presence beside him. Considering she’d just comforted him in the bath earlier, he knew she wouldn’t agree, but he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling.

After a while he left the room. A chill played along his skin, but he didn’t dress. He’d seen the pleasure it gave her to watch him serve her naked, and this night was still especially hers. He tidied the kitchen and the living room, placing the magazine she’d been looking at earlier back on the stack on the coffee table. Everything was dark and quiet in the apartment. His arms and hands ached from the long massage he’d given her, but it had been worth it.

Out of things to do, he gravitated back towards her bedroom. She didn’t stir as he came in, still deeply asleep. He sat down on the floor, his back leaning against the foot of the bed. Used to her softer mattress, it wasn't very comfortable, but it wasn't the worst place he'd ever slept either. No, definitely not; he could still hear Jenna's soft breaths. Eventually he dozed off there, the soft call of his name jarring him awake sometime later.

The bed creaked as his mistress shifted. “Where are you?”

The footboard was blocking him from her sight, so he rose to his feet. In the darkened room he couldn’t see her expression, but he could hear the confusion in her drowsy voice. “What are you doing there? Come here.”

Something loosening in his chest, he obeyed. It was where he’d wanted to be anyway. He stayed carefully away from her as he got under the covers, but she slid next to him regardless.

“You’re freezing!” she yelped, suddenly sounding more awake as she jerked away from him.

“Sorry,” he whispered, burrowing deeper under the covers to warm up faster.

She faced him across the mattress, her voice more suspicious now. “Why were you next to the bed but not in it?”

At least she couldn’t see him blush in the poor light. “I still felt guilty about today,” he admitted. “Until you allowed me back in, it didn’t seem right to just slip into bed with you, Jenna.”

She cupped his cheek. “But you couldn’t stay away either.”

“No,” he whispered.

She let out a breathless laugh that had little humor in it. “And my family thinks I’m the fool.” Shaking her head, she seemed to brush the thought aside. “Brett, unless I have explicitly said otherwise—which I can’t imagine a reason why I would, short of some fit of insanity—you are always welcome in my bed.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said, sliding closer to her.

She closed the rest of the distance, ending up cradled in his arms. As they lay there together, drifting closer to sleep, she murmured, “Maybe I should have bought that leash that day at the mall.”

His response was for her alone to hear. “I’m always on your leash, Mistress. ”