Bitsy’s Inhuman Submission Ch. 12

Ass

Note to my readers: This chapter was exceedingly difficult to write, as it denotes a shift in the plot (with the insertion of Tracy Bathory’s evil plan) and a “what on Earth am I supposed to do about Marcos,” as there was never supposed to be an issue of menage with Bitsy, Stuart, and Marcos. Stuart has to deal with the certainty that he will only have Bitsy for a year and that Bitsy and Marcos seem to share a bond that he and his slave do not. For those who like the stories to be sex-heavy, this chapter is about advancing the plot, introducing many elements that will reach a shattering “mid-story conclusion” several chapters from now. For the protagonists, I warn you things will get worse-a lot worse-before they get better. I think I have finally figured out how to be true to the middle of the story (already written) and the end (also already written) and still “deal” with Marcos’s intrusion into Stuart and Bitsy’s relationship. I hope you continue reading and continue to enjoy Bitsy and Stuart’s struggles unfold (and Marcos’s, as well, because he now knows that Bitsy is Alyssa, etc.).

***

“Twenty-eight year old Nadia Viliamich, a member of the organized band of gypsies called the Rom, has disappeared this evening. Sources close to her and her family say that she was abducted, while the police insist that there is evidence of her leaving with a lover. More to come as this story unfolds,” Charles “Chaz” Tsepesh announced from the IPD newsroom.

That pronouncement jolted Bitsy from her canoodling slumber with Marcos.

“What?” She started blindly reaching for clothes.

Marcos came up behind her. “What is it?”

“My sister Katya’s best friend from childhood is missing! We have to get to the Paris office!”

“Shhhh. Slow down. Take deep breaths,” Marcos soothed as he tried to kiss the panicked look from her face.

She sucked in gasping breaths. “Marcos, the ‘police’ would be White Gulfian, in Tracy Bathory’s payroll.”

“You think Tracy had something to do with this?” Marcos appeared grim.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Bitsy watched as Marcos, too, gathered up clothes and began shrugging into them.

Marcos turned to look at her, concern for her evident in his worried blue eyes. “How so?”

“Please,” Bitsy’s response was little more than a snort. “My sentence for her mother’s death had to be merely the opening salvo of her plan.”

Bitsy’s phone buzzed, cutting off whatever reply Marcos would have made. “Yes, Chris? Yes, I’m on my way. Don’t worry; we’ll find her.” The staccato rhythm of Bitsy’s heels on the marble floor could be heard over her words. Marcos rushed to follow.

As they rushed out to their cars, Bitsy to her Camaro, and Marcos to his new red Ferrari, they missed seeing Stuart wearing a similar troubling turbulent expression on his face as he pulled up.

***

One would think that the reason for the turbulence of Stuart’s expression was his worry about Bitsy and Marcos obviously going somewhere together, further shutting him out.

One might also think that his expression was caused by the thwarted desirous fantasy of introducing Bitsy to the spreader bar.

Observers thinking that would be wrong on both counts.

Stuart was worried about nearly the same thing as Bitsy and Marcos, but in a different way.

Unlike his brother and his slave, he knew where the missing woman was. And why she was missing.

It was all his fault.

He thought back to his conversation with Tracy Bathory earlier that evening.

“I have something to show you,” she sing-songed as she tried—and failed—to entice him in a kiss.

In the past, he could at least pretend interest in her seduction. Now, with his uncontrollable desire for Bitsy combined with the love he dare not show or voice, he could no longer bother to struggle to become aroused by the Duchess.

“What’s that?” he finally asked, but not quickly enough to avoid her ire.

Tracy Bathory’s smile was a parody in cruelty. How she managed to convince anyone that she wasn’t the most evil, base creature on the planet eluded him. “I’ve got a tableau for you to enjoy, along with your slave, of course, over the next several months. To remind you of the fact that your slave is only in your thrall for a year.”

“A tableau?” Stuart bit back a curse as Tracy pulled the curtain that covered one wall of her overdone office. When he saw what the burgundy and white plush velvet hid from eyesight, he nearly gagged.

A form of slavery was being acted out before his eyes, for his—and Tracy Bathory’s—delectation?

But whereas the hold that he held over Bitsy had quickly turned nearly consensual and then eager, this one never would.

What made his eyes burn with unshed tears was nothing more—or less—than rape on an unwilling victim by Tracy Bathory’s husband Kevin and his cousin, Kent.

He recognized the woman, to mardin escort his shock. A member of the Rom who had always had laughing eyes and was a close friend of the Count’s missing wife.

Stuart willed his anguished eyes away to look at Tracy. “Stop it,” he ordered.

“You know I can’t do that,” Tracy chortled with glee as her eyes lit with an unholy light. “If I make them stop and let her go, then the Vampirans will ask questions. And that war you are trying so hard to prevent from happening again will be instantaneous.” Tracy paused to take a long slow sip of white wine, probably her trademark chardonnay.

“No,” she continued. “That slut’s fate is sealed. A nice, long, slow death. As a reminder of the vow you made to me when I offered you Bitsy Dracula.”

“What vow?” Stuart put his hands to his ears to try to drown out the woman’s screams.

Tracy Bathory snapped her fingers in his face to get his attention. “The vow you made to marry me and make me your queen after your year of owning Bitsy is up.”

Stuart’s head shake in the negative was emphatic. “No! This—I—There is no way I will be marrying you after this! Consider this the only warning you will be getting about being arrested and executed for what you are having done to that woman!”

“Oh, really? You think I’m doing this because I think you might like watching her? Yes, I know you are depraved, have heard from your own servants, many of whom are more loyal to me than to you, how you have her truly in thrall as your sex slave. But let me warn YOU, if you think to expose me or renege on your deal, I will have Bitsy abducted and her end will be leagues worse than what you witness here.” Tracy Bathory rocked back on her heels, her explanation of her evil plan complete.

“No! You will not—”

“Oh, yes I will. I know that you love her. You’ve loved her for years, your little pristine paragon of perfection that you would never be able to have because she would never sully her hands with you. And now you’ve gotten what you wanted all along, and, surprise, she seems to be equally smitten with you.

“But hear me out, I will never allow her to be happy. I may have—miscalculated—her reaction to you. But, at the end of the year, you will separate yourself from her in a way that is as cruel as possible, OR I will have her abducted and it will be her body behind this curtain raped and murdered. And I will make you watch every moment of it.

“As it is, you will be coming here every day to watch my lovely tableau, won’t you? Because I would see a missed day of the viewing to mean that you don’t want your slave to be alive any longer.”

She saw his sick dismay settle over his face and knew that—for now, at least—she had won. “And after all, kingy-poo, I may choose not to marry you after all. Watching the misery on your face and Bitsy’s at your separation will probably be pleasure enough.”

Now, at home at the palace, Stuart realized that while he knew that his time with Bitsy would be finite, he had been tricking himself into thinking that it wouldn’t be. And Tracy Bathory had stripped him of that comforting illusion.

***

Mere moments before sundown, Bitsy and Marcos let themselves into the palace, empty-hearted and dejected.

“We’ll find her; I’m sure of it,” Marcos whispered in her ear.

She shook her head. “Not if the White Gulfians have her.”

“You’re late,” Stuart’s voice sliced through the comforting passion between his brother and his beloved.

Bitsy cleared her throat, a bit unsure. Before today, she could put the coldness in Stuart’s eyes to pretense or to play, but now the arctic black flatness chilled her, bone deep. “There were some things we had to take care of. Marcos had to go to Paris to the IPD Headquarters, and Chris needed me to start searching for Nadia. Nadia’s missing.”

“Nadia?” Stuart asked, but inwardly he grieved. He remembered now that Nadia was the Rom woman’s name.

“Nadia, my sister’s best friend. She’s disappeared. Abducted, we’re sure, even though the White Gulfian police don’t believe it or acknowledge it.”

Stuart nodded, hoping they took his turbulent expression to mean that he had already known from a source like the news. “I heard something about that; I’m sorry.” He winced as his voice sounded robotic even to his ears.

Marcos, usually able to read his brother’s emotions, realized something serious was going on. “Bro, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go out searching for Nadia. I need to do this tonight.”

Stuart, wishing with everything good within him that he could tell Marc the truth, nodded gratefully. “Take care,” he said, even while dismissing his brother’s efforts as futile in his mind.

He watched as his brother enfolded Bitsy within his arms, kissed her deeply yet tenderly, and turned to leave.

When the door shut behind van escort Marcos, Bitsy approached him. “What is it, Master? And don’t tell me it’s because of Nadia’s disappearance.”

“It’s not. I’m just realizing how close you and Marcos are.” Stuart sighed stroking his tired eyes, eyes that had seen too much horrific imagery today.

Bitsy was confused, no doubt about it. “And that means?”

“That means, had I, and Alyssa Mason, not interfered, you could have been his without guilt.”

His slave almost choked. “Without guilt? I’ve had nothing but guilt. Guilt every time that I kiss him that I’m betraying you. And that every time that I’m with you, I’m betraying Michael.”

He started to talk, but she held up a hand to pause him. “No. You don’t understand. I loved Michael. I love Marcos, for pretty much the same reasons as Michael.” And I love you, her heart ached to cry out, but she bit back the words that would surely be repellent to him. “But I serve you. I am your slave. Regardless of whether Marcos is alpha or not. I kneel before you. Any obeisance I give to him is only under your direct order.”

“It’s not that easy,” he began, but she cut in again.

“It is that easy. I am your slave. That is my place. It’s important that I know my place.”

With effort, he ground out, “You can’t deny the claim of the alpha.”

“Nor will I. I will be his lover, but only serve him as you direct me.” For Bitsy, it really was that logical. That cut and dried.

“His…lover?” Stuart felt a flash of jealousy. For over a decade, he would have killed to have been labeled her lover.

Bitsy nodded, stripping down out of the slinky little black dress she had worn all day. Soon, she stood before him in fuck-me five-inch black stilettos and a lacy peekaboo bra and panty set whose stoplight hue gave tantalizing glances of her nipples and her waxed cunt.

Without being directed, she pulled her “working collar” out of her purse and secured the strap around her neck. Then, she kneeled looking up at him while her nose brushed playfully against his pants-encased cock.

To Bitsy, she seemed unable to stop herself from babbling. “And that’s such a pale imitation of a Master…who really encompasses…so much more,” she finished, her statement sounding lame even to her own ears.

“More?” Stuart nearly croaked.

Bitsy smiled up at him, a tender type of smile that she usually reserved only for her family, friends…and his brother. “A Master is lover, teacher, owner…everything all rolled up into One.”

Stuart closed his eyes and willed himself to focus. For a year, I can be her everything. Let tomorrow happen, but for the next several tomorrows, there is she…and I. And Marc, his inner voice betrayed him.

“I am all of those things, slave, to you.” Stuart unbuckled his belt, then slowly slid it from the loops on his pants. Bitsy watched, mesmerized. “And, as teacher, now, a lesson.”

With a slow and practiced movement, slow enough for Bitsy to realize his intent, he slid the belt halfway in the big D-ring in the back of her working collar. Using his belt as a makeshift leash, he forced her to crawl up the steps to his opulent bedchamber.

Bitsy’s peridot orbs widened when she saw the black bar contrasting with the crimson sheen of the satin-covered comforter. When she noticed the riding crop, she gulped…hard.

Stuart led her to the point where her nose pressed against the slick satin of the bedcover. She remained on all fours, her legs spread shoulder width, as her Master slid the belt out of the D-ring with much more menacing intent. Her eyes remained watching serenely forward, even as she heard the snapping of the heavy leather belt bent double, even as she heard the sharp whistling bringing the belt home to its target.

Eyes immediately gone from serene to painfully clenched shut, Bitsy let out what could only be considered a yowl. Too complacent, she cursed herself. You thought from his pretty words and yours he would forget that you were still late, that you broke a promise to him, a hard and fast rule.

Those same eyes shed pained tears. “I’m sorry, Master,” her voice quavered. “I know how important it is to be on time.”

Stuart stepped back and waited for her to finish, waited for her justification that she was out doing work that she was supposed to do. But no denial of responsibility came. He looked down into eyes truly penitent.

He crushed one hand down into her ebony locks, carelessly tumbled, no longer locked into the tight buns that she often wore. Twisting the silken pools of shiny night in his fingers, his grip cruel as he pulled her up to standing, he held her steady as she rocked a bit on her high heels. By contrast, his lips settled on hers, tender, nearly tentative.

The gentle touch, in contrast with his previous handling of her, brought ankara escort sobs bubbling to her lips. Stuart, in his first show of gentleness and caring to a woman ever, licked and sucked the tears from her face, from her eyes. His own eyes gleamed a crimson that matched the dull fires reflected in the comforter. Master, held in check only by his absolute control. His slave, held in check by every aspect of his personality, every action, gentle and harsh, that branded her as his.

Her still wet eyes pleaded with him for something, and, for a moment, he lost a bit of his confidence. “Please,” her quivering lips begged. “Please, Master.”

Stuart bent his head until his breath stirred the vulnerable skin of her earlobe. “Yes, slave? Please what?”

Bitsy’s eyes closed as she warred with her own indecision. In the end, her desire to serve him won out over her fears. “What is that bar on the bed?”

The king almost whooped in pleasure, but he again held himself back, allowing only a small chuckle. “It’s a spreader bar, my pet.”

“Um, what does it do?” Bitsy asked, her eyes widening still further.

This time Stuart couldn’t hold back an out-and-out guffaw. “It spreads you, slave, for my pleasure. I’ve thought about introducing you to this special toy for a while now.” His tone was conversational, as if he were discussing the weather or another banal pleasantry.

Then, his tone turned commanding. The curt, nearly cruel tone that liquefied Bitsy’s insides. “Put your hands up high over your head,” he directed. He secured them first with cuffs and then attached the cuffs to a hook above her using a length of rope.

Afterwards, he knelt before her, leaving her completely bewildered until he attached her ankles to either end of the spreader bar. And she understood. Spread wide for his pleasure.

With purposeful fingertips he slid down the center of her back, tracing the delicate curve of her spine, teasing along the cleft that separated her two ass cheeks, before testing the wetness that even now began to drip down to lubricate her inner thighs.

Bitsy let out one low moan, audible in the silence broken only by the harshness of their breathing. Master. And slave.

“Tell me, pet. Tell me what you need to tell me, what I want to hear.” A rough whisper in the stillness.

Bitsy swallowed a few times before she could begin speaking. This was not a playful act. With a flip of a switch, what started out as play and experimentation had taken on a new air of reality. Call it Marcos’s presence threatening the fragile construction of their relationship, or the missing Rom woman, or unspoken secrets—on both sides. Things had suddenly become real, and serious.

“You are my everything, Master. Lover, teacher, owner, confessor, protector, disciplinarian. I offer myself up to you as your willing slave, submissive to you and your directives, your desires. From this point on, my loyalty is to you first.”

Powerful words, and the king was fully aware of the force behind them. Her loyalty to Michael and Marcos would be superseded by her loyalty to him; even her loyalty to Chris and all Vampirans would be less than her loyalty to him.

Stuart produced a knife from somewhere; Bitsy didn’t know from where. She looked trustingly into his eyes as he sliced the lacy crimson bra and panties from her body. In seconds, she stood before him wearing only her heels and the symbols of her servitude to him: spreader bar, cuffs, and collar.

“I appreciate your words, slave, and recognize them as my right.” His words seemed fitting for the formality of the moment. “And now,” he continued, a bit lighter in tone, “to consummate this occasion.”

He lifted the crop to her lips. She kissed the braided band of leather, her eyes locked on his. The first whisper of the crop, still a solid thudding thwack, was much more silent than the solid slap of the belt. Her Master wielded them both, with dizzying accuracy, at times simultaneously.

The pain slut, the masochist within, took the dazzling smacks across her tender back, legs, and buttocks as her due and her deepest desire. Far from quiet, she accepted her punishment, with all of the symbolism behind it, amid a volley of shrieks, screams, moans, and a shaking voice pleading for more.

Finally, Stuart could take no more. Again, he twisted his hand in her hair, this time pulling her neck back until her carotid artery was exposed. He savagely bit, twisting his head as his teach tore at the skin of her neck as his cock did the same to her pulsating pussy.

Heedless of any directive that Stuart could have made to forestall her orgasm, Bitsy came instantly, her pussy milking him as her lime green blood poured past his lips down his throat. He slurped greedily, audibly, echoing a similar sound lower where Bitsy’s cunt slurped and squeezed on her Master’s cock.

“Mine,” he growled against her neck. “All mine.” He reached around, first kneading her breasts in his hands and then crushing them together, leaving instant marks from his rough handling. The instant bruises matched the purpling of her nipples from Marcos’s rough treatment earlier.

“Mine,” the king insisted, to himself as much as to her.

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