“What a good girl,” I praised.
Slap!
Her eyes clenched shut, a tear sprinting down her cheek.
I raised my hand and paused.
“Look at me, dear,” I instructed sweetly.
She opened her eyes; they were red but not distressed.
“You’re doing so well. Can you take one more?” While this was entertaining, and putting me at my own limit, I needed to know if she wanted it.
She swallowed thickly, a silent nod with eagerness.
The last slap cracked through the air, my hand maintaining contact with her skin before slipping between her legs.
I glanced over her backside, completely red; it would certainly be bruised tomorrow. As my fingers slipped between her legs, I smirked.
“Ah, it seems like you claimed your reward before we finished.” My fingers played with the wetness between her legs.
I let go of her hair, brushing my fingers through to undo any knots I may have created, rolling her over in my lap.
She slumped with her head on the decorative pillow, her face and chest as red as her behind. Even her breathing was deep and therapeutic, like she was recovering from some great undertaking.
“Did I tire you enough to retire to bed early?” I pulled her gown over her legs, shifting beneath her into a more comfortable position.
She simply nodded, unable to open her eyes any longer. Even as I held her, she trembled slightly, charged from the shock of orgasming on her own. She seemed comfortable enough here, so I didn’t move. I reached to the side, grabbing a sketchbook from the small pile on the floor, then dug between the cushions for my pencil.
If I would be stuck serving as her sleep cushion, I may as well take the time to relax too.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Performer
Attendance for any of my mother’s events was mandatory. No negotiation.
Her gatherings were the place to be, and if you weren’t there, it was a laughable offense. Anyone who thought they were anyone important would be there. In her defense, this cruel sense of entertainment and social engagement wasn’t for naught. The couture we wore would be auctioned, along with the other art pieces on display for the evening. The proceeds from the gala today were going to the orphans of Saint Lucia’s in Hudson Valley.
In the receiving room, people would arrive and be greeted before entering the ballroom. The entertainment room was cleared of any furnishings to make room for a full band, the piano, and small banquet tables for a champagne tower and a display of sweets. An auctioneer placed a podium at the base of the grand staircase. On the plateau joining the twin staircases leading down to the first floor were various items laid out for buyers to prepare their wallets: five sculptures, twenty paintings, and a few miscellaneous showpieces.
The gathering was more formal than her last few, with full catering that had had the staff holed up in the serving kitchen since morning. Many of her friends attended—from editorialists to the press to socialitesto Mother’s tearoom birds—as well as Father’s business partners. They all came, no matter what. Though, by the way people dressed, I would have assumed this was a gala for some sort of royalty, which we were not, despite my mother’s ambitions.
My dress for the evening was a rich cream silk with layered sleeves that hung just off the shoulder, collarbones only serving to complement the accessories around my neck, choking me. The earrings dangled, tickling my skin as they swung. A pattern of dusty-pink flowers was embroidered into the dress, real blossoms pinned in front of my bodice. A matching fan in my hand and white lambskin opera gloves covered me up to mid-forearm. At least if I felt silly wearing something so extravagant, I remembered that my sisters would be wearing dresses similar in extravagance and color somewhere within the gathering.
It was so much, too stuffy, though that could just be the flowers. At least if I cried from overstimulation, I could blame it on the pollen.
“Ah, how fitting for a blooming flower!” a voice sounded from behind me. I tore my attention from my mother beside me to an older gentleman confidently approaching. He cupped my hand and kissed the knuckle of my glove. “It feels like ages since I’ve seen you,” he said, his smile making him appear red in the face as he greeted my mother next, touching cheeks.
“Blooming just in time for spring,” my mother piped up, shooting me a look as if to remind me of my manners.
“How generous a compliment.” I could feel the tension in my jaw.
“And now I hear you are a wife!” he exclaimed, then turned again to my mother. “Congratulations.”
Something about the way my mother received congratulatory remarks instead of myself always sat a bit sour in my stomach. Though it suited her, and she accepted them like a gluttonous hen picking at someone else’s dough.
Like flies to sweet cream on a summer’s day, the initial greeting invited more to our midst. People nudged their shoulders so they could physically participate in conversation with my mother. Offering sweetwords of gratification and awe for whatever they could notice, to fluff her ego like a staff to her pillow.
