The Color of the Wheat Fields

Part 3 of 4

 

For Jessica Elwood (jessicaelwood.deviantart.com)

By the Muse of Caprice and Whimsy (mocaw.deviantart.com)

 

 

Disclaimer: The “Jessica Elwood” fursona and its distinctive likeness is the property of Jessica Elwood and is used with permission from the creator.  Everything else, including the Starlight setting, all other characters, and their distinctive likenesses are the property of the MoCaW and may not be used without prior consent.  This story may be distributed freely as long as it is distributed in its entirety without editing, and with this disclaimer block intact.  In other words: please give credit where it is due, it’s the decent thing to do.  Thanks.

 

 

- * -

 

Time passed.

 

. . . Jessica continued to suckle at my manhood, her warm, pink lips wrapped lovingly around my shaft, making me moan in pleasure as I ran my fingers through her soft, blonde hair.  “I love you, Jess,” I whispered as I gently stroked her behind the ears, thrilling at the sensations from her skillful blowjob.  She turned her eyes upwards, eyes twinkling with satisfaction as my thick shaft slid in and out past her sweet, soft lips and in that moment, I knew what heaven must feel like as I came, back arching as I pulled her head close.  Her eyes opened wide in surprise, and a thin stream of semen mixed with saliva spilled from the corner of her mouth as she struggled to swallow my entire load. . .

 

I awoke to the sound of bluebirds chirping outside my window, the dream fading quickly from my memory.  “Wh. . . what the hell was that?!” I shouted in surprise.

 

“Excuse me, master?”

 

I hadn’t known I could leap about three feet straight up from a prone position until then.  “Wh. . . what the. . .”  My voice trailed off as I noticed Jessica carrying a silver tray into my room, just as she had every morning for the past six months.  “Oh, um. . . good morning, Jessica,” I said sheepishly, pulling the sheets up over my waist.

 

“Good morning, master,” Jessica said cheerfully as she placed the breakfast tray on my writing table.  “Breakfast is served.”  She removed the cover from the dishes, and the wonderful smell of buttermilk batter and maple syrup wafted through the room.  “I made your favorite today, master: pancakes.  I hope this will be satisfactory?”

 

. . . I poured the maple syrup over her ample bosom and licked it gently off her fur inch by inch.  “Mmmmm. . . that’s so good, master,” Jessica whispered, as I ran my tongue over her perky, erect nipples.  A thin stream of syrup ran down her taut, velvet-smooth tummy to trickle over the mound of her sex, and I eagerly lapped it up with my tongue, head swimming with the smell of her love juices mingling with the sweet ambrosia. . .

 

I shook my head.  “Yes, thank you, Jessica,” I said softly, trying not to look at her voluptuous curves as she carefully laid out the utensils and poured me a glass of orange juice. One of my pens rolled off the desk onto the floor, and my voice caught in my throat as she bent over to pick it up. 

 

White lace panties.  With frills.

 

. . . I eased the panties off her hips with my teeth, the soft white cloth damp with her desire.  She shivered in ecstacy as I carefully slid them down her legs to dangle around her left ankle, lifted her up onto the breakfast table and laid her on her back, scattering my breakfast all over.  Maple syrup pooled underneath us in a sticky, sweet mess as our lips pressed lustfully together and our tongues intertwined. . .

 

“Is there something wrong, master?” Jessica asked curiously.

 

“Nothing!” I squeaked.  “Um. . . actually, would you mind laying out my clothes for me while I eat?  The gray jacket, please.”

 

“Of course, master.”  Jessica curtseyed deeply and went to my closet.  I took the opportunity to grab my dressing gown from its hook and climb out of bed, quickly covering the wet spot on the sheets with the comforter.  I tried to tie up the gown as loosely as possible to hide my erection.  It didn’t help.  To my eyes, at least, it was clearly visible from across the room, and possibly from orbit as well.  Thankfully, Jessica seemed to be preoccupied with rummaging through my clothing, which gave me a little time to eat breakfast and, hopefully, satiate my wildfire libido with food.

 

It’s never that easy.  Jessica had served me hard-boiled eggs with my breakfast that morning.  Two of them, in fact, neatly peeled, in a small dish.  And the more I looked at them, the more they reminded me of a pair of firm, round, perky white buttocks raised up towards the sky.

 

. . . I ran my tongue along the curve of her ass and down to her dripping pink pussy, slipping it gently between her folds.  Jessica moaned with pleasure, clutching at the tablecloths, knocking the syrup pitcher over in the course of her passionate writhing, the sweet, brown liquid spilling across the snow-white linens and dripping off the edge of the breakfast table and onto the hardwood floor. . .

 

I grabbed one of the eggs and, in my haste, tried to swallow it whole.  “Are you all right, master?” Jessica asked, poking her head out of my walk-in closet.

 

No, I was not ‘all right.’ I was a sex-crazed young nobleman who had descended so far into madness that hard-boiled eggs were reminding him of sex.  “I’m fine!” I coughed, pounding at my chest and reaching for the juice.  Masturbation.  That was the answer.  Jerk off quickly and silently before she notices, wipe up the semen with my dressing robe or napkin, toss it all in the laundry before Jessica notices along with the sheets, the comforter, and, perhaps, my dirty dirty mind. 

 

Oh, how I wish. 

 

I picked up the syrup pitcher, hesitated, and carefully placed it aside.  Instead, I picked up the butter. . .

 

. . . and slathered it all over Jessica’s luscious body so that it dripped off her curves like corn on the cob, before licking it off with my tongue slowly, inch by inch . . .

 

Oh, bugger.

 

“Actually, I’m um. . . not. . .  I had a big. . . I mean I. . . I’m going to wash up!” I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door behind me, making the breakfast tray clatter.  Castration.  That was the answer.  Use the straight razor above my sink and lop the cursed thing off entirely.  That was the only way to be sure.  Oh God, it wasn’t even seven in the morning yet.  How was I supposed to make it through the rest of the day?  How was I supposed to go through an entire week? 

 

Shit, I wasn’t even thinking far ahead enough. . . was it going to be like this for the rest of my LIFE!?

 

“At least this can’t get any worse,” I sighed, leaning my forehead against the mirror.

 

“Sir?  Did you spill something on these sheets?”

 

Just had to open my mouth, didn’t I?

 

 

- * -

 

“There is nothing to be ashamed of, master,” Jessica said, gathering up the sheets.  “These things do happen, after all.  I’ll put it in the wash along with your dressing gown.”

 

“Thanks, Jessica,” I muttered sheepishly.  Jessica bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.  I sighed and sat down at my desk, cutting a wedge of pancake and syrup, spearing it with my fork, and popping it into my mouth.  Stone-cold, I reflected glumly.  Not that it was Jessica’s fault.

 

You know, I heard a voice saying to me, There is a very simple solution to this problem.  All you have to do is ask.

 

Shut up, I thought to myself.  I’m not going to do that.

 

Why not?  It’s not like there’s anything wrong with it.  Hell, it’s a cliché: the master whispers something into the housemaid’s ear at dinnertime, and that night she comes up, takes off her clothes, and lets her master take her as many times as he wants.  It’s even better this time: she’s not even a housemaid.  Just a slave.  She doesn’t even have to say yes.  You could just grab her any time you wanted and fuck her right there on the floor, and there’s nothing she could do about it.

 

I can’t do that.  That would be rape.

 

In whose eyes?  Not the law’s.  A slave’s body is the owner’s property, remember?  At the very worst, it could be considered vandalism, and hell, there’s no law that says a man can’t vandalize his own property.

 

It just wouldn’t be right.  I’m not going to do it.

 

See, this is why women don’t like to be around you.  Women don’t want the nice guy.  Oh, sure, they say they do, but in the end, they all wind up with the dangerous jerk who’ll abuse her and treat her bad and toss her aside when they’re done.  It excites them.  Why the hell else do you think Alistair’s managed to get laid so many times, and you’ve only had that one time at your grandmother’s estate, back when you were sixteen. . .

 

“Shut up,” I said softly into the silent room.

 

Suit yourself.  You know I’m talking the truth here.  You’ll come around eventually.

 

I stood up and got into the shower.  The pancakes stayed on the plate, growing colder and colder until Jessica finally cleared away the breakfast dishes.

 

 

- * -

 

What with one thing and another, eighteen months passed.  I won’t talk about most of it, because it was really kind of boring: just your typical year of debutante balls, parties, work, hunting, spending the evenings with my friends down at the club and so on and so forth. 

 

The wet dreams continued, even after I took to masturbating every night before bed.

 

Things changed that spring when I met the lovely Miss Christine Walden for the first time at her debutante ball.  I must have made a good impression too, because I spent the rest of the evening chatting pleasantly with her, as the other men in the room gave me looks that could have felled an elephant at fifteen paces.  As the ball ended, I presented her with my card, asked if I could call upon her some time, and she fluttered her eyelashes at me, smiled, and said that it would be her pleasure.

 

We had our first date in the park, strolling down the tree-lined boulevards and watching the birds fly overhead and the squirrels scamper in the trees.  Jessica and Veronica (Christine’s maidservant) followed us three steps behind the whole time.  Veronica, I noticed, looked excited and happy for her mistress.  Jessica’s expression was. . . ambiguous.

 

I didn’t care.  I was in love.

 

I kissed Christine goodnight at the door and walked the entire way home, laughing happily.  That night, for the first time in a long while, I got a good night’s sleep without waking up to a damp bedspread.

 

Time passed.

 

Three months later, I dropped to my knee in front of Christine and asked her to be my bride.  She accepted, laughing happily, and kissed me in the face. 

 

The next few months passed by in a whirlwind of emotion as we prepared for our wedding.  There were engagement parties, and bridal showers, and long sessions spent haggling with wedding planners and musicians and other such individuals.  Through it all, Jessica went through her paces quietly, working smoothly and efficiently like she always had.

 

Maybe, if I’d looked closely, I might have noticed a slight lack of spring in her step, a slight sadness in her movements, but like I said, I was in love, or something close to it. 

 

I had a lovely fiancé, friends in high places, and a slave who waited upon all my needs.  It was the second-happiest time of my life, and it all came to a halt one day when Jessica quietly walked into my study, a small, cream-colored envelope sitting on a salver. 

 

The envelope contained the engagement ring and a simple note.  “Dear Mister Hawkins,” it read, “I am canceling our engagement.”

 

That was all.  No explanation, no reason, no excuses, nothing.  Just seven small words that sent my life crashing down around me like a house of cards.

 

I burst out of the house into the pouring rain and ran the entire mile and a half to the Walden house.  It was closed, the windows darkened, and a simple placard on the front gate said, very tersely, that the Waldens had left for the Nexus Confederation that very morning.  No explanations.  No reasons. No forwarding address.  No answers.  All I knew was that I’d just been jilted, and in the worst way possible. 

 

At a time like that, there’s only one thing a man can do: get blind, stinking drunk.

 

 

- * -

 

“Women!” Alistair sighed.  “They’re all bitches, all of them.”  He poured me another round of bourbon.  “They take what they need from you, suck your blood like a vampire, and move on to the next poor sap to cross their paths.  That’s why I say fuck ‘em all!  Literally,” he said, winking at me.

 

“You’re an idiot, Alistair,” Remiel replied.  “And you’re not helping one bit.”

 

“Remiel, you just don’t get it, do you?  Jonathan here’s hurt bad!  He’s been cut down in his prime, and the only thing that can heal that sort of wound is a little nookie, you know.  A half hour between a whore’s legs will do him good, get him right back up on the horse and back into action.  Always works for me.”

 

“And you are, of course, a shining example of a noble gentleman,” Remiel replied sarcastically.

 

“Seriously, Jonathan, you gotta get some like, right now,” Alistair said, ignoring Remiel.  “I mean, hell, if you want, we can head down to Redchapel right now, and I’ll buy you the hottest slut we can find: two of them, even.  Hell, you don’t even need to do that!  All you have to do is head on home and get some from that sweet lil’ slave girl of yours, what’s her name. . . Jennifer, Jasmine. . .”

 

“Jessica,” I slurred drunkenly, gesturing to my empty glass. 

 

“That’s right.  God, she’s a hot piece of ass. . . hell, I’d hit that any day,” Alistair said, pouring me yet another drink.  “Hey, barkeep!” he shouted, waving the empty bottle.  “Bring me another one!” 

 

The barkeep pursed his lips, cat’s ears flat against his head, looking like he’d much rather tell me I was cut off, but he brought over another one anyway.  “Seriously, man,” Alistair went on, “That’s what slave girls are for, right?  Cleaning house and sucking cum?”

 

“Are you listening to yourself?  You sound like Mephistopheles in a really bad high school production of Faust,” Remiel said in disbelief.

 

“Never heard of the man.”

 

“I find that hard to believe,” Remiel replied.

 

“Besides, it’s not like it’s anything new.  Jonathan’s probably fucked his slave tons of times, right?”

 

“Nawwww. . .” I sighed, laying my head down against the bar.  “Nev’ got ‘round to it.”

 

“What are you, insane?  How the hell could you pass up a nice piece of ass like that?” Alistair exclaimed in disbelief.

 

“Too shy at first. . . then Christine.  Wanted to be fait’ful.  Ha!”  I laughed bitterly.  “Fait’ful!  Whadda crock a shit.”  I fell off my bar stool and slumped to the floor.  “Jeezus, stop this room ‘spinnin’!”

 

“Good lord, Alistair, he’s wasted!  You were supposed to watch him!” Remiel snapped angrily.

 

“I did watch him.  I watched him get really really drunk,” Alistair sniggered.

 

“I’m taking him home now.”  Remiel gestured to the bartender, who started calling us a cab.

 

“Come on, Remiel, don’t be an ass.”

 

Remiel said something under his breath that I didn’t quite hear and carried me out to the curb leaning on his shoulder.  He was very nice to me the rest of the ride home, even when I threw up all over him.

 

 

- * -

 

“Master?”

 

“He’s in really bad shape, Jessica,” Remiel said as he carried me in through the front door and laid me on the couch.  “A little too much anger and alcohol.  Bad combination.  It would be best to let him sleep it off.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“His fiancée broke off their engagement today.  He’s. . . not taking it well.”

 

“I heard.  I’m so sorry, Mister Remiel.”

 

“Don’t be.  It’s not your fault.”

 

“. . . what should I do?”

 

“Just be there for him.  Like you always have.  That’s all.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“. . . he doesn’t know, does he?”

 

“About what, sir?”

 

“Don’t be daft, girl.  It’s written all over your face.”

 

“. . .”

 

“Well, that’s fine.  It’s none of my business, anyway.”

 

“If you say so, sir.”

 

“I’m going home.  When he wakes up, ask him to call me.”

 

“I will do that, sir.”

 

“Good night, Jessica.”

 

“Good night, sir.”

 

Click

 

 

- * -

 

The house was dark when I woke up with my mouth feeling like cotton and my head pounding like a bass drum in a marching band.  Someone, I noted, had tucked a blanket around me, and laid a damp cloth on my forehead.  Not that I particularly cared.  All I knew then was that I was not, in fact, drunk, and that simply would not do.

 

The first thing I did was grab a bottle of wine from the wine cabinet and pour myself a glass.  I downed it in one long gulp and poured myself another one.  I took this one to the parlor and sat by the fireplace, staring into the flames, watching the fire crackle and snap, sending little sparks across the artificial marble hearth.

 

Something moved in the corner of my field of vision, and I turned to see Jessica standing in the doorway, looking a bit disheveled, as if she’d been sleeping in her uniform.  “Master?” she said softly.  “Are you all right?”

 

“I’m fine, Jessica,” I said sullenly.  “What time is it?”

 

“About midnight, sir.  Mister Remiel carried you home from the club.  She hesitated.  “Pardon my forwardness, master, but it seems to me as if more alcohol is not a good idea.”

 

“When the hell did I ever ask you for your opinion?” I growled.

 

“I’m sorry, master.  I spoke out of turn.”

 

“You should be.  In fact, come here!” I snarled drunkenly.

 

Jessica bowed her head meekly and walked forward to stand in front of me in silence, her hands clasped in front of her and her tail lowered in a submissive posture. 

 

I’ve thought many times about what I did next, and I’ve often tried to come up with an excuse or a reason or some way to justify what I did next.  I can’t.  Sure, I was drunk, and angry, and tired, and depressed, and all sorts of other things, but it was still no excuse. 

 

I’ve know I’ve been forgiven, but some things you just have to live with.

 

“Jessica,” I said.  “Take off your clothes.”

 

“Sir?”  Jessica looked up at me, surprised.

 

“Take off your clothes, Jessica.  No, wait!” I interrupted as she started to remove her frilled headdress.  “Leave that on.  And your boots and stockings.  But take off everything else.  And do it slowly.” 

 

I leaned back in my chair and sipped my wine as I she stripped, her fingers fumbling with her buttons as she took off her clothes.  She stripped down to her bra and panties (they were black, I noted, and trimmed with expensive-looking lace), and hesitated, one hand on her bra clasp.  “Do it!” I snapped, and when she didn’t move, I staggered over to her, fumbled with the hooks, finally managed to get the bra off her and threw it into the fire.  She backed away, but I grabbed her by the arm.  “I didn’t say you could leave,” I growled, tugging at her panties until they came off.  She stood very still, biting her lower lip as I pulled down her panties and stuffed them into my pocket.

 

I backed away and stared at her for a long time, standing in front of me, totally nude, her hands clasped in front of her in a vain attempt to hide her blonde bush, her pink, tender nipples starting to stand erect.  “That’s it,” I laughed mockingly.  “A naked slave serving her master, just like the day we first met, neh?  Well, slave, your master wants another cup of wine.”  I gestured to the bar.  “Go get it.”

 

“As you wish, master.”  Jessica said in a trembling voice.  She took my cup from me and slowly walked to the wine cabinet.

 

I stared at her moodily as she opened the wine cabinet, carefully opened the decanter.  “So.  You really will do anything I tell you to do,” I mused.

 

“Yes, master.  As I said, my body is yours to do with as you will,” she replied, her eyes downcast.”

 

“Absolutely anything I want.  I could ask you to dance for me, and you would do it.  I could ask you to masturbate in front of me, and you would do it.”

 

“Yes, master,” Jessica replied.  She picked up the silver tray with the golden cup and brought it to me, kneeling next to me as she offered me the drink.

 

I stared into the cup, watching dark red liquid swirl against the pale gold.  “How about sex?  What if I asked you to fuck me right now?”

 

“I am your slave,” Jessica repeated tentatively.  “My body is yours to do with as you wish.”

 

“Anything I asked.  Suck my cock, let me fuck you up the ass, whip you, tie you up. . . anything.”

 

“Yes, master,” Jessica replied quietly.

 

“I see.”  I put the goblet down, cold rage running through my veins.  “Jessica,” I said suddenly, “take one of the daggers from my display cabinet and stab yourself in the heart.”

 

Jessica blanched.  “Master?”

 

“I’m displeased with you.  I want you to kill yourself now.  You say your body is mine to do with as I wish.  I want to destroy it.” I said harshly.

 

Jessica hesitated for a moment, her initial look of incomprehension fading to bewildered shock, then to desperate questioning, and, finally, a kind of sad resignation.  “As you wish.  It has been a pleasure serving you, master, and I’m sorry that I could not serve you better.”  She curtseyed deeply, turned to where the mahogany case where I displayed a collection of antique bladed weapons, opened the case with shaking hands.

 

She hesitated with one hand on the hilt of a dagger, turned to look at me over her shoulder, a pleading look in her eyes.

 

I gazed back at her levelly with a look of utter disdain, and she seemed to fold inwards, as if the life had gone out of her.  She drew the blade from its sheath and raised it to her chest, her hands shaking.

 

I took another sip of my wine.

 

“Goodbye, master,” Jessica whispered.  She placed the point between her breasts, took a deep breath and closed her eyes tightly, nerving herself up for the final thrust.

 

I stared at her numbly over the rim of my glass.

 

A tiny drop of dark red blood welled up under the point of the blade.

 

Adrenaline and fear coursed through my veins, sobering me up in an instant.  “NO!” I shouted, rising from my chair, the gold goblet clattering to the ground, spilling dark wine over the hardwood floor.

 

Jessica hesitated.

 

I tackled her and she went limp, the knife falling from her nerveless grip and bouncing off the polished oak boards.  “Damn it, what the hell do you think you’re doing!”  I screamed, pinning her wrists to the ground.

 

“I am your slave,” she whimpered in reply. “My body belongs to you. . .”

 

“. . . don’t give me that!  You were really going to kill yourself?!” I howled, in a near panic.

 

“My master gave me an order,” she sobbed, a tear streaming down her face.  “I must obey. . .”

 

“Well, forget it!” I shouted.  “Ignore that last order, for God’s sake!!!”

 

“As my master wishes,” Jessica replied.

 

Why was it so hard to breathe?  I rolled off her, heart pounding, resting my forehead against my knee.  “Christ,” I whispered.  “Christ. . .”  I slammed the back of my head against the wall over and over again, punching the wall over and over, screaming obscenities at the top of my breath as Jessica cringed in terror just inches away. 

 

Eventually, I ran out of steam and calmed down, curling up in my favorite chair and staring silently into the fireplace.  I sat there for a long time, shivering in cold and fear, more than a bit shaken by what had just happened.  Until that moment, I don’t think I’d realized how far my control over Jessica really extended.  “I belong to you, master,” she had said, over and over and over, but the full implications of those words had not quite hit me until she’d placed the point of my dagger over her heart and said her farewells.

 

Her life, her body, perhaps even her soul, were all in my hands to do with as I wished.  At a word from me, she would perform the most degrading of acts, wait upon my every whim, even destroy herself if I so asked her to do so in a fit of depressed, self-destructive anger.

 

After all, she was a chimera, and I was a human.  What else could she do?

 

What else indeed. . .

 

“Jessica,” I said, gesturing to where she sat huddled in the corner, looking scared and miserable. “Come here.”

 

She looked up at me hesitantly, her big, green eyes wide with fear.  “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.  Come here,” I repeated.

 

As she leaned down, I reached up and undid the latch on her slave collar.  The heavy leather strap came off easily, and I threw it into the corner, where it clattered against the wall and fell to the floor.  Jessica stepped back in surprise, one hand to her throat, her tail curling around her, and she ducked her chin down a bit to cover her bare neck.  It was as if she’d finally realized she was naked, or perhaps, that she hadn’t actually felt naked until I’d removed her collar.

 

I didn’t care.  I knew what I was doing.

 

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “You’re free.”

 

To my surprise, Jessica burst into tears again.  She cried for a long, long time, until I finally decided to leave her alone and went to bed.