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Every inch of India was perfect, from the tips of her delicate little toes to the top of her dark head.

Charlie falls to his knees before her, begging her with his eyes to let him be her slave.

He had been born for this moment, to kiss the bones of her feet as they wobbled uncertainly in the heels he had picked knowing they would suit her.

He guides India to the bed- India, his niece, his protege, his bride, his other soul. Her eyes meet him, scornful and unflinching. Even her disdain is perfect- he is not worthy of her, and yet he is the only man who will ever come close.

She commands him to strip, and so Charlie does, although he doesn't quite understand why she would want to look at his lowly self.

India's own fingers slip underneath the skirt of her dress, and though he cannot see their exact machinations, he can guess by the shifting of fabric over her elegant hand.

"I can do that for you," he breathes.

"No," she says curtly, and he bows his head in apology. "But you can watch."

His cock twitches, but he won't touch it without her permission. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when he thinks of how different it would be with Evie.

But India wasn't finished. "Pick up the belt."

He does so carefully, rapturously. If Charlie looks carefully, there might still be a trace of his brother, India's father on it. Like he's with them, giving his approval at last.

India's eyes narrow. "Put it around your neck. No," she corrects, as he begins to take his hands off it, having draped it lightly over his shoulders. "Fasten it. Tightly."

"If that's what you want, India," he breathes, relishing the feeling of her name in his mouth. He fastens it around his neck tightly enough that the press against his adam's apple is unforgettable. Swallowing is almost impossible.

India smiles. "Now you may touch me."

As he crawls towards her, she catches hold of the end of the belt, and yanks Charlie towards her. He gags, and his senses swim, but she is sighing with pleasure, and he pushes away his dizziness to kiss the side of her knee (that precious knee that he knows must have been scraped many times from determined attempts and, finally, success, in climbing the trees in the backyard), and then, when she does not protest, a little higher up, then higher still, till he can feel the warmth of her maiden's head.

Charlie can feel her toying with the belt still, while her other hand runs through his hair. She is giddy with control, and he knows it is the same as he feels when a person is in that state just between life and death, with his belt wrapped around their throat, just as it is now fastened securely, like a collar, around his own.

He bites the inside of her thigh, and she moans, deliciously, perfectly.

She can see every deed he's ever done, every sin he's ever committed, and now, as he slowly, agonizingly, pulls her dear dark panties down to her knees, in serving her, Charlie will be absolved.

India is already exquisitely wet when his mouth finally makes contact, and he takes a moment to lick her simply to relish the taste. She yanks his hair, and he accepts the punishment- he's been very bad, putting his pleasure above her own.

His tongue circles her clitoris, and India's breath hitches- he won't need to ask permission for fingers, as he can tell she's teetering on the edge of climax.

"Would you," she gasps, as he laps at the apex of her womanhood, "do anything for me?"

"Anything," he whispers against her labia.

The hand gripping the belt yanks him backwards, and as Charlie struggles for breath, he sees she has a pocket knife in her other hand. He does not question where it came from.

"Cut yourself."

He takes the knife from her without a word, and, as she clenches her thighs, flattens the flat of the blade against the right side of his chest. "Here?"

India nods, her lips pressed together.

Slowly, he draws the blade down, leaving a thin trail of blood. One line. Then again, perpendicular to the first. Then, again, as India pants, parallel to the second.

Having drawn the letter I on his skin, he proceeds, relishing the slow throb of pain, to the letter N. It is as he is finishing the curve of the letter D that India cries out, her body shaking with climax while he carves her name across his chest.

"Yours," he whispers.