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My body trembles.

My shoulders aches.

My palms burn.

My breath is labored.

I concentrate, trying to ignore the weakness in my body.  I stare intently into the flickering flame of one of the candles sitting in my upturned palms.   As my arms shake, the flames dance about wildly and the wax slides down the candle to burn then cool in my palms.

I want to snuff the candles and lower my arms.

I want to wipe away the large bead of sweat that is trickling its way down my neck.

My body aches so much that I want to weep.

But all my wants do not matter right now.  All that matters is that my I do what my Mistress desires and what she desires now from me is that I hold these two candles before me and await her return while she entertains her guests.

I clench my teeth and struggle to keep my arms from dipping.  I cannot let any wax drip on the rug.  Any wax on the rug, my Mistress warns, will result in punishment.  I do not fear punishment but rather her disappointment in me which I feel is far worse.

Even though the night is cool, perspiration beads on my naked flesh as my body exerts itself beyond its limits.  I whine and whimper as that one bead of sweat fast becomes the bane of my existence.  It is sliding slowly down my chest, over the top of my left breast.  Ever so slowly, agonizingly it slides down until it reaches my erect nipple where it is trapped by the silver ring I have pierced there.

I shudder.

I moan.

I cry.

I choke back my despair for I know that if I try to move back one of my arms, to bend my elbow so I could flick the sweat away, my arms would go limp and fall to my side.

I would fail my Mistress.

I do not want to fail her.

I love her.

*  *  *

It seemed like an eternity had passed when she finally returned.  The breeze that blew in with her as she passed through the pavilion flap made the candle flames dance about wildly.  I bow my head but my eyes look about frantically for her.  I see her dressed in her finery, garb of dark red and gold, fit for a queen of any period.
I say nothing, waiting for her to acknowledge me in some way, but she doesn't.  She places her lantern on the table, stifling a yawn.  She is teasing me.  Torturing me.  She knows I am staring at her from the corners of my eyes.  I try very hard not to whimper as my arms tremble, threatening to fall at any moment.  I bite my lower lip as a tear as a tear squeezes out from my tightly shut eyes.

"Oh, my dear pet," she coos.  I open my eyes and she is standing before me.  Her pale skin bathed in pale candlelight.

I try to answer but I cannot articulate the words.  My throat is dry, my arms weak and they start to tremble more.  She sees my distress and her face softens.  She stretches out an arm and cups my cheek.  Her hand is cool against my straining flesh.  So cool it burns.

I whimper as I lean my cheek into her hand, so desperate for any sort support.  I look at her with pleading eyes.  She looks back at me calmly, so deeply I don't dare look away.  My mouth move but my throat still does not allow me to speak.  Her hand moves down my neck, her finger wiping away the lines of sweat.

I choke as her fingers slowly, one by one leave my flesh until only her index finger remains.  I tremble underneath that single finger, for it is the only thing that is holding me up.  She slide that finger down my breast, where light as a feather she circles my areola.  My Mistress barely flicks my nipple and trapped bead of sweat falls loose... and I follow it to the ground.

I feel like a feather falling to the ground as my body finally surrenders to weariness.  Her hands are quick and graceful as they cup my own to keep the candles from falling to the rug, as she kneels down with me.  On my knees, I’m panting, as she lifts my hands and softly blows out the candles.

“You did good my pet,” she whispers as she takes the candles from my hands.  I weakly smile at her praise but groan as I feel my arms begin to burn.  She cradles my head in her lap and slowly strokes my hair as I sob uncontrollably.

My Mistress is kind.  I do not know how long she let me lay there crumpled and crying.  At times she indulges me whenever I perform greater than her expectations.  This must’ve been one of those times.  Swallowing hard, I struggle to get up.  My arms feel like leaden weights, but I manage to sit back on my knees, back straight and head bowed respectfully.

“Thank you, Mistress” I manage to say with a strained voice.  “I live only to serve you.”

With the grace of a dancer she rises to her feet to stand majestically over me.  Even in the pale light of the single lantern, she glowed, so much so that my heart sang with excitement.

With longing.

With love..
Another story in my ROMANCING THE WAR Series.
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Submitted on
September 8, 2007
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Mature Content