“Thank you, darling, I’m fine.”
Mirabelle nodded to Amélie. Given his unspoken order, Trey moved toward the bar.
He shifted away walking backward for a few steps so as not to show his Mistress disrespect by giving her his back, but as Mira’s attention was on Amélie, he eventually turned toward the bar.
When he was well away, Mirabelle’s attention turned to her toy.
Part of Amélie’s allure to a sub being that it was known widely in their circles that she’d gone above and beyond the traditional training, including painstaking hours manipulating devices, flogs, paddles, cats, switches, crops, straps, and so on, Amélie had also perfected the art that was, in her opinion, the single most crucial skill a Mistress or Master could hold.
Observation.
This being so, she easily saw that Mirabelle’s eyes were on Trey’s backside.
“Did you come with him or order him to meet you here?” she asked, and Mirabelle looked to Amélie.
“He’s been waiting for me in the foyer for twenty minutes,” she answered.
Amélie allowed her lips to curve in a small smile as she again lifted her drink.
Mirabelle, a large-chested, slim-hipped, dark-headed goddess with the dauntingly effusive and equally well tended beauty of a professional football team cheerleader, leaned forward and her eyes flashed with exhilaration, even in the subdued light.
“He’s exceptional,” she whispered.
Amélie felt something stir in the pit of her belly.
As mentioned, in the past, Mirabelle had fallen for many a sub, however one of those subs had gone very wrong. She’d come to the Honey in order to avoid him at the other clubs, only able to afford the membership at a pinch.
But regardless of this failed relationship, Mira had not lost hope.
It was certainly not unheard of that a Master or Mistress would enter in a lasting relationship with subs that would lead to them becoming spouses or life partners, including the minivan and the kids. In fact, it happened regularly.
Mirabelle wanted this.
As did Amélie.
Unlike her earlier reaction to understanding she was growing jaded in regards to pretty much all aspects of her life, the acknowledgment that she wished for a lasting union was not a shock to Amélie. She’d known it since she was a little girl. It had grown alongside her understanding of the side of her nature she would begin to research in her late teens. Find opportunities to observe. Form relationships where she would be afforded opportunities to train and gather experience.
Through this, she knew all along she held that delicate, pulsating hope many women nurtured that there was someone out there.
Someone you’d know you wanted to go to sleep next to every night. Argue with about whiskers in the sink. Plan vacations with. Have everything feel better when something terrible happened and his arms closed around you. Watch his features soften with delight when you told him you were carrying his child.
Someone you could tie to a bed and make perform for you, forcing mind-scrambling orgasm after orgasm, him needing that in all the forms you could imagine, unashamedly gifting you with the trust you’d give them to him.
And then the memory of each and every single one of those precious moments when time wore on and age made this no longer something you both could share.
Until you both quit breathing.
This was what Amélie was beginning to face with a sense a grief.
Grief for the loss of something she wanted desperately but was coming to terms with the fact that she would never have.
Grief for something she saw as hope that was budding that she’d found in Mirabelle’s eyes.
The sub who had shattered her heart wanted Mirabelle to force mind-scrambling orgasms from his ringed cock and strapped balls.
What he didn’t want, and shared with her with some revulsion, was to spend his life and make children with a woman who could do that to him.
Trey, Amélie could not read for certain. She’d not played with him. He’d also not accepted even club ownership from a Mistress in his tenure at the Honey. He wasn’t a submissive whore (not that there was anything wrong with that), bouncing without any real connection from Master to Mistress thoughtlessly. But what he wanted, Amélie couldn’t fathom.
She just hoped it was what Mirabelle could offer.
But more, if he wanted that, he could offer exactly what Mirabelle wanted in return.
“Mistress Romy had shared he was unusually enjoyable,” Amélie noted cautiously in response to Mirabelle’s assertion of Trey’s talent.
She watched her friend’s face carefully.
What she expected to see, she saw.
The slight tightening of her perfectly lined and filled lips.
Jealousy.
This happened.
Most checked it at the door. It was their world.
In play, subs were frequently shared, borrowed, ordered to serve another, and Doms, as was their nature, partook of whatever they fancied (if a toy was owned, for the night or longer, they did this with the Master’s or Mistress’s permission, of course).
Mirabelle’s reaction was thus telling.
If this happened for her and Trey, she would not share. It was even doubtful she’d do so in social play. Exhibiting him, undoubtedly. Allowing touch or further, not a chance.
This, too, happened.
And this, too, was something Amélie craved to call her own.
It was, in fact, already part of her repertoire.
Not jealousy. Alas, she’d never felt that.