Pinned by Maria's open, honest gaze, he felt terrifyingly naked, raw and defenseless, his innermost fantasies laid bare for her to see. But at the same time, arousal hit him Like a sledgehammer. He Looked down at Maria and saw a reflection of his inner self, the light to his shadow.

And acceptance. The calm knowledge that they were the two halves of a single soul.

He bent his head to kiss her, watching, fascinated, as her head tilted towards his, her mouth opening like a flower. He thought he had never felt anything so warm, so gentle, as her lips, and he groaned into her mouth, months of pent-up longing given voice at last. Yielding, she pressed against him, her body waking a fire in his groin. Her shy tongue introduced itself to his eager mouth and her fingers threaded through the shaggy hair at the nape of his neck, drawing him closer still.

With an effort which was almost painful he levered himself off the bed and stood panting at the side. His blood seemed to thunder in his ears, and each heartbeat brought another jolt to his rapidly stiffening cock.

“You want to serve me?" he asked. His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears.

Maria scrambled upright. She knelt on the bed, her hands clasped before her, her head bent in submission. "Yes, Master. Please."

This can't be happening. The secret, perverse desire to dominate a woman. To order her about, have her subservient to his wishes, was contrary to everything his parents had taught him. Women were to be protected and cherished, but in every way equal to a man.

And is she somehow unequal? Inferior? You know she isn't. He swallowed harshly, knowing she could end the game even before it began by a simple refusal to participate.

“Undress me," he whispered. As Maria gracefully tumbled out of the bed and reached for him he allowed his lips to curve in a taunting smile.

“However, you may not touch me. One whisper of your skin on mine, and I leave, Maria."

"Yes, Master," she whispered. Kneeling before him, she untied his shoes, drawing them off his feet. Then, his socks, her long, clever fingers working the cloth down and over his ankles and arches without touching him. She rose, her eyes still not meeting his, and he felt the bite of his own hasty actions. He ached to taste her mouth, to hold her close, but could not without violating the rules of the game. He gritted his teeth against a spasm of desire as she drew his shirt over his head, revealing his chest. Crouching down, she carefully undid the button of his jeans, her fingers working slowly, careful not to touch him, until every moment was torture.

The button finally sprang wide, and she undid the zipper and pulled the jeans down to his feet, where he stepped out of them. Then the boxers, and here she was most careful of all, tugging at the hem until the elastic waistband bound up on the rigid flesh of his shaft. She Looked up at him, her face solemn, though he thought he could detect a hint of laughter in her eyes. Never breaking his gaze, she plucked at a loose fold, pulling the waistband away from his skin. One finger slipped inside, the merest breath away from his overheated body. A wiggle, a tug, and the boxers were at his feet as well. With a gracefulness which was all her own, she folded his clothes and set them neatly to one side.

“Strip,” he ordered, trying to make his voice sound casual. "The blouse first."

Holding his eyes with hers, full of pride at her own allure, she undid her blouse. As her beautiful breasts came into view at last, he tried to keep his desire from becoming too obvious.