He watched, and watched.<br/><br/>Paulette de Mati.<br/><br/>The sun on her nude, bound body.  Her own words of subjection and enslavement, singing in her head.  The pain of her bondage wracking her, the pain of the hot wax on her breasts.<br/><br/>He watched, and watched.<br/><br/>Her whimpers, growing, growing, her head dropping, finally her song...<br/><br/>There came a point where there was nothing to do but fuck her.<br/><br/>And he moved to her, naked, took the candles from her mouth and flung them away.  He struck each of her breasts, hard.  Dried and half-dried wax flew and spattered.  Her eyes sought out his.<br/><br/>He entered her.<br/><br/>He felt the hot sun on his back, and her voice filling his head.  All her songs were his.  Her body was his.  He filled her with his desire, his songs, his wordless songs, his mouth at her mouth, they sang together in her pain and his pleasure. Her screams were his music.  The grip of her body was his completion.<br/><br/><div align="center">*</div><br/>Later, cleansed, he left her to rest while he played piano, doodling song ideas, and when he invited her, she essayed harmonies, and little trills.<br/><br/>He'd phoned reception and found a place that did dress hire.  A woman came and measured Paulette.  Mati did all of the talking.  'It's for tomorrow.  I want black dress shoes for her, and for the dress, something split up one thigh, and with a low back.  Black.  Do you have...?'<br/><br/>When the woman had gone he trussed Paulette for a while in a hogtie, and laid her on top of the piano, and teased her nipples and cunt.  Then he drank too much champagne and, exhausted, fell asleep on the bed with Paulette, unbound, beside him, all sorts of notes scrawled on her body in his drunkenness.<br/><br/><div align="center">*</div><br/>The next day he had her play piano herself, and sing him some of the songs she already knew.  Her torture was to hang upside down on the balcony, while he dripped hot candle wax between her legs, and she sucked him off.<br/><br/>Oh and then the woman was there, the couturier or whatever she was, and the dress was ready.  He'd washed all the marks off Paulette's body.  Tonight he wrote the words in black, just the words of her theme song,<em>Je m'appelle Paulette de Mati</em>, across the expanse of her back that the dress revealed.  Soon they were gliding out together.  In the elevator he said, 'I'll treat you as a free woman tonight, over dinner.  Tell me about your life and what brought you to this.  Tell me as much or as little as you want.'  And he kissed her, before the doors opened at ground level.