(http://i279.photobucket.com/albums/kk137/HaibaneR/Monaco/Characters/Avatars/PauletteAvatar.jpg)<br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;">PAULETTE LISETTE SAINT-SIMON</span></span><br/><strong>Location:</strong>Fairmont Monte Carlo<br/><strong>With:</strong>Her master, Mati Groves<br/><strong>Collar Setting: </strong>0<br/><br/><hr/><br/>I bent, bowed and arch my back as Mati knelt.  Finally I ended up on all fours as I leaned in to keep servicing, sucking his manhood.  No... I was worshiping the throbbing shaft.  I wasn't just worshiping a fleshy idol like some pagan but rather the symbol and spirit of my humiliation and punishment.  My life had ended and begun sucking on a cock and here again my prior life with Dr. Okanjo was ending while it was starting with Mati as my lips were wrapped around a penis.<br/><br/><em>'You must rest,' he said.  'rest your body and your voice.  Eat fruit.'  There was a bowl of fruit he'd hardly touched at breakfast.  He placed it on the bedside table.  He'd placed the slave carefully on the bed, but somehow she'd rearranged herself in a more elegant position.  Such grace she bore about her, even when humbled.</em><br/><br/>Finally it ended, one thousand repetitions of that word, that name, that eternal symbol burned in my brain.  Now my god, the brazen idol, the golden calf lived in my consciousness, reverberating in my mind like the song of creation, like the lost tribe wandering in the desert.  I arched myself on the bed, posing for that man.<br/><br/>Ma'Ti Ma'Ti MA'Ti MA'Ti MA'TI MA'TI<br/><br/>The notes the rhyme the song the vowels and syllables so simple yet... yet so commanding.  I curled and reclined, my body and my mind were perfect, this man was perfect.. Ma'Ti reverberated in my mind.  I hummed a few bars, a few repetitions of the tune.<br/><em><br/>He telephoned room service.  'I need a dark blue marker pen, and a honey-flavoured gargle, and a long length of gold chain with a padlock, and a portable, I don't know what you call it, a frame to suspend a slave from, with cuffs and so forth.'</em><br/><br/>I watched him quietly as he ordered room service.  He was curious and I watched with interest as he poked around in my scanty belongings, mostly drugs and the remote for my collar.  I rose at the knock on the door and sighed ever so slightly, curled back on the bed at his command and let him answer the door.  So strange, so curious, his attitude was almost as if I were a favored guest, a friend... a lover?<br/><br/>The bell hop brought a loaded trolley.  Mati took the materials.  He watched me for a moment, seeking inspiration?  Then he set up a suspension by the window, out on the balcony.  I would be hung as an exhibit, a piece of art and dedication to her passion and his desire, his control and artistic talent.  My taunt, slender body, long legs and arms framing the utter blue of the sky, the white of the surrounding buildings in some minimalist, avante guarde exhibit of 'Slave Woman in Passion'.<br/><br/><em>He sat by her, naked again, his brain a-whirr, stroking her flanks.  'You've lovely skin.  Gargle with this.  Here, it's time for me to practise and improvise, but I want to feel attached to you.'  He fixed the chain to her collar, and used the remote to change her setting to '1' – available only to him.  He explained to her, stroking her face.  'Available only to me.  For the present, at least.  Masturbate for me, would you?  Just languidly, snooze if you like, while I play.'</em><br/><br/>I looked at him, my eyes glistening with some distant but powerful emotion.  As he moved the unreality of the situation filled my mind.  In my memory I tasted his cock, his cum as a bitter, necessary milestone, an anchor to the reality.   Then I gargled, the astringent taste soothing my throat and clearing my mind of his taste.  I arched my back and shoulders to lean into his caress.  Even in my worst days of training in the Institute I enjoyed the touch of another, the warmth against my skin.  "Ahhh..."  At the approach of the chain I lifted my hair out of the way and turned my head to facilitate the buckling to my collar.  A faint smile of pleasure lit my face slightly as Mati stroked my cheek  I was wordless, my throat still raw yet I did not dare sully the perfection of those vowels that had last graced my lips; Ma'Ti."<br/><br/>Nodding I moved onto my side on the bed, the chain linking us.  One leg was propped up, the other laid out in a pale bow to open myself to my hands and his eyes.  My fingers found my wet center, still tender from the dose of Venus.  My body was warm, no hot and well trained.  The touch of my fingers brought forth an slow burning pleasure and desire that mounted in stair step fashion as the music tinkled through my mind.  Even the jingle of the links of the chain was part of the music.<br/><br/>Then he sang, his voice firm, masculine and confident.  He carried the tune and imbued the music with a life and intensity that I had never heard in my short life.  I thought I was an artist but compared to Ma'Ti I was a screeching owl.<br/><em><br/>Grace<br/>Some see it in the beauty of her face<br/>Some in the way she moves from place to place<br/>as if some animal once taught her<br/>how to wear chains with pride and hauteur<br/>that's why I call her<br/>Grace...</em><br/><br/>The tone changed, a minor key a lower and more intense melody.  I began to hum in a soft counterpoint, a harmony to his melody, singing the notes that he had taught me, wordless yet still somehow; Ma'Ti... Ma'Ti...<br/><em><br/>...de Ma-ti <br/>Je m'appelle Paulette<br/>de Ma-ti...<br/><br/>...and he made up rhyming verses, none of which quite made sense except as jokes (cat me, flatly, that we)...but he jotted down the ideas on sheet music, then smiled to himself, oh, his lust fuelled again by the sight of her on the bed, humming to his tunes...</em><br/><br/>He riffed, improvised and played in nonsense and playful verses.  I hummed along so softly, so softly...<br/><br/>I stopped and remained laying back on the bed, open, my sex wet in submission and acceptance.  I raised my hand, my wrist knotted with the chain.<br/><em><br/>'You will have to endure pain,' he said, beginning to write on her belly.  'Pain gives me such intense pleasure.  But you're like a new toy, there are so many things I want to do with you.  I can't decide whether to hang you by your ankles and torture you, or take you out and buy you things to wear, or buy you a fine meal and have you tell me the story of your life.  Here, look at what I've written and tell me what you'd like to do.  Don't give me one of those namby-pamby whatever-master-wishes answers.  Tell me what you'd like to do for the afternoon.  But first, tell me what you think...'</em><br/><br/>My belly quivered and shook under his touch.  Yet I locked my eyes with him.  Emotion blazed from me; from my eyes and in the taunt pose of my slender, graceful limbs.   Each stroke, each mark of the black pen was a mark on my mind, my psyche.  I did not look, did not care at that very moment as he spoke to me, marked me as his.  What did I care for he would mark me as he would.  At each statement I nodded to him, still unwilling to break the holiness of my lips with other than those two perfect syllables.<br/><br/>I rose, stepped quietly and stood staring at what he wrote.<br/><br/><em>He'd led her, right hand in left, to the full-length mirror on the wardrobe.  Across her belly he'd scrawled a stave, and three notes: a quaver on E, then a bar line, then a minim for A and a minim for E.  Below the music, against the three notes, were the three syllables, de Ma – ti.<br/><br/>'Perhaps I shall have you your musical name tattooed on you,' he said, smiling, so happy, so boyishly happy to have a new, and such a beautiful and musical, slave.  'Now, you were saying...?'</em><br/><br/>A wave of blackness swirled over me as the music crashed through my mind.  The graven idol was my own body.  He had possessed me with his music, with the melody of my worship.  'de Ma - ti'  I was his.  I looked over at my master.  He was so happy, reborn happy and fulfilled.  I was the instrument that he would play to create beautiful music for both of us, for the world.  As I faced him, tears flowed down my face.  My mouth moved, learning to create sounds, words again.  Finally I managed to whisper. "Hang me as a work of art, purify me with your passion and my pain my master.  Make me anew in the purity of the angels themselves against the sky."