by Riley Banks
‘Stay the fuck away from her. She’s mine.’ His tone cracked like a whip in a blind canyon.
He remembered her lithe body moulded against his, their lips smashing together, their tongues dancing.
He wanted her more now than last night.
Sure, he was aroused beyond belief at her tonguing Laurine, even allowing himself to imagine the three of them indulging in a good old-fashioned French three way.
But the arousal was tinged with the bitter sting of rejection.
Hank was right. She’s giving it away free to everyone else but me. Stuck up Aussie bitch thinks she’s better than me. I’ll show her what I think of conniving little sluts like her. I’ll show her what it means to mess with The Zackster.
The itch became a raging bushfire, exploding inside his body like fireworks, moving from lust to rage – unadulterated and murderous, boiling like soup in his veins.
I’ll make her pay. Make her suffer. She’ll wish to God she’d fucked me when she had the chance.
He closed his eyes, imagining his hands around her throat, squeezing until those muddy pools of betrayal bulged and burst.
And what better time or place to make her pay than here in a club where anything was allowed?
Chapter Sixteen:
A masked woman hung in front of him, her wrists secured to the wall with iron cuffs, pure gold chains attached with battery clamps to gold rings in her nipples and labia, the skin still red raw from the fresh piercings.
‘Spread your legs,’ he commanded.
She did as she was told without complaint, spreading them as far as they would go, his wannabe Submissive never daring to question the orders of her Dominant.
Welts criss-crossed her back, thighs and buttocks. He had yet to start working on the front. That would begin tonight.
The dungeon door swung open and a second woman entered.
She stood with her head bowed, waiting for permission to approach.
He gave a nod of approval and she said the words he had been longing to hear.
‘They are here. They are with Laurine now.’
He glanced up at a television screen showing live action footage from the front of the club, instantly aroused by the two women making out.
Not because they were kissing – his sexual interests were far more debauched than a bit of girl on girl.
No, he was aroused because it meant his plan was working.
Soon he would have the material he required to get what he wanted most.
‘Good girl,’ he said, patting her head like a loyal dog, giving her rare approval for a job well done. ‘Did you use the drugs I gave you?’
‘Yes master,’ she said, her hungry eyes travelling not to the screen as his had but to the naked submissive spread-eagled in front of them.
‘Would you like to play too?’
She nodded, far too eager for her own good, her depraved desires matching his.
He had planned to enjoy his newest toy alone but Sofie had earned her reward.
Yet having agreed, she was no longer Sofie. She was Submissive Number Two.
Names complicated things. No one here ever addressed him by name – either first or last. To them, he was monsieur or master, depending on where in the club he was currently taking his pleasure. Down here in the dungeon, it was always master.
‘Then secure her ankles, Two. And make sure it’s nice and tight. This bitch needs to be punished.’
Two did as she was told, the metallic restraints drawing tiny droplets of blood on One’s skin.
The satisfied gleam in Two’s eyes did not go unnoticed. She was a rare breed – as comfortable inflicting pain as receiving it.
‘Now the chains.’
Two undressed, caressing the conductive precious metal, her full lips parting in a knowing smile as she attached a second set of battery clamps to similar piercings in her own nipples and clitoris – the clitoral piercing much harder core than the outer lips of the labia, intensifying both pleasure and pain.
She was a wicked one all right.
He allowed himself the brief fantasy of imagining a lifetime with Two, spending every minute of every day inflicting glorious pain on her sensual body, and when he tired of that, watching her inflict pain on others.
He had tried conventional marriage and found it wasn’t for him. Too vanilla and asexual for his tastes.
But a long-term relationship to a woman that matched his sexual desires…
It was tempting.
Two clamped the end of the chain to an electrical device with a remote that he alone controlled.
He pressed the button, giving it a test run. A current arced from the device through the chains and in to each woman’s body, causing both to spasm and One to pull against her restraints.
It was only at its lightest setting.
He reached into a drawer, removing one of the many tools he had gathered for their enjoyment.
‘Here.’ He handed Two a large, rubber dildo, at least twelve inches in length.
One gasped when she saw the length, tugging on the restraints in a futile attempt to escape.
Her punishment – which she had to share with her co-submissive - was another jolt of electricity, this one at the strongest setting.
Both girls bucked against the current.
When it stopped, Two got to her feet, her fist connecting with One’s jaw with a resounding crack.
‘We’re connected, you fucking bitch,’ she screamed in French, tugging the chain so hard it almost tore One’s nipple off.
A leather whip flicked across Two’s back.
She jumped – more from fright than real pain.
She had taken far worse beatings.
‘I give the orders around here, Two. You want to be the dominant, go find your own party.’
‘Sorry master. Please forgive me. I only live to do your bidding.’
‘That is better, toy. Now fill her up,’ he said, zipping One’s mask closed, shutting off her field of vision and her ability to cry out, leaving only her aural senses unhindered.
He was just in time.
Two forced the dildo inside the other woman with cruel force, One’s cries of pain muffled by the thick latex.
He brought the whip crashing down across Two’s buttocks.
This time she was expecting the blow – expecting and wanting it.
‘Harder. Faster,’ he ordered, his blows matching the speed at which she fucked One. ‘Make sure you push it all the way in. I want to hear that bitch moan.’
Two did as she was told, pushing and pulling the dildo in a fast motion simulation of sex.
If Two slowed down, he pressed the remote control.
If One fought too hard against the restraints, he pressed the control.
Finally One stopped fighting, her body betraying her as an orgasm began to build.
He turned the whip on her, grinning as it bit into her skin, tearing at the unhealed wounds and opening up fresh ones.
‘Don’t get too excited, slut. You don’t cum until I say you can.’
He circled around, whipping them both with practised strokes, turning his attention to One’s breasts and labia.
She screamed inside the mask, the sound like music to his ears.
He took the dildo from Two’s hand, giving her a replacement – a double headed dildo, stooping down to whisper in One’s ear. ‘Besides, she’s just lubing you up for what comes next.’
One’s body tensed and then Two drove the replacement inside her, filling both holes at once, raising her bottom to receive the pre-lubed dildo into her own cunt with the same driving force.
She took the whole length with no trouble, moaning not from pain but pure unadulterated pleasure, not even flinching when he filled her other hole with his erect cock.
He knew how much she could take; how rough she liked it. They had danced this dance many times before.
And like a puppet master, all his puppets were dancing exactly as he expected them to.<
br />
Two had posed as a journalist, just as he asked, enticing her new ‘friends’ to Le Jardin, just as he asked. A club he first bought to fulfil his own sadistic desires, hiding the true ownership through a staggering number of shelf companies – an idea he had stolen from his father.
Bill Harvey never dreamed it would become crucial in his fight against Paul Baker.
The true genius of his plan was not lacing the girls’ drinks with ecstasy or circulating their photographs to his guests, encouraging all his patrons to pay extra special attention to his VIPs.
No, the true genius lay in having Wilson there to witness Charlotte’s fall from grace.
Wilson needed no barbiturate encouragement. Charlotte Burke was the only drug he needed.
As Wilson tore a startled Charlotte away from Laurine by her hair, Bill’s own orgasm built to a crescendo.
‘How much longer do you want me to stay, Monsieur Harvey?’
It was late – too late for Damon to still be awake. Too late for him to be forcing the bar staff to keep the bar open.
Not that Damon was drinking. It was just the only place in the hotel from where he had a clear view of the hotel entry, without sitting in the foyer like a complete loser.
He glanced at his watch. It was almost 4am.
The plane would depart for Nice in less than five hours and he was still missing half his journalists.
He felt like a school headmaster, ticking student names off an attendance role.
They’re not children, Damon and you’re not their babysitter. You don’t have to stay awake and wait for them.
But despite how old fashioned he knew the sentiment was, he was responsible – more so since most of them knew nothing of the dangers of Paris after dark.
It might be the most beautiful city in the world but it had a dark underbelly that he wished tourists did not have to see.
The more multi-cultural France became, the more crime migrated to Paris and the larger cities.
The last few years had seen a dramatic increase in the number of young women going missing – women that included far too many foreign tourists.
They were disappearing into forced prostitution rings run by the ever increasing number of Eastern European immigrants.
Why do you automatically assume the worst? Why can’t they just be out having a good time at a nightclub?
In truth, he was less worried about prostitution rings than he was about Zac Wilson. He had noticed Zac was also absent from the hotel, and while it was entirely possible that Zac was holed up in some flea-bitten hotel with a two-Euro prostitute, it was also possible Zac was within proximity of his female journalists.
And that was bad news for any woman.
Zac Wilson was a public relations disaster. A lawsuit waiting to happen.
If Damon could figure out some way to bypass his father’s wishes, he would send the guy home.
For the moment, it seemed he was stuck with him.
‘You can leave now, Pascale. I will close up.’
The bartender wasn’t happy with the option but Damon persuaded him that if there were any backlash for the change in protocol, Damon would take the fall.
At quarter to five, the women returned.
Damon knew straight away that something was wrong.
Eight women had departed the hotel earlier that evening. Only half had returned.
He raced out to the foyer, trying to determine which of the eight were missing, shocked at how relieved he was to see one particular face among them.
Sofie Herve had not returned. Neither had Nancy Robertson, Penny Ashgrove or Miranda Evans.
‘Is everything okay?’
They jumped at his approach, not expecting to see anyone except a skeleton crew at such a late hour.
‘Mr Harvey. I didn’t see you there,’ Veronica James said.
Her eyes had the glassy sheen that spoke of drug use.
All four women did.
Damon tried hard to reign in any judgemental attitude. They were free to do and use whatever they liked.
Besides, he didn’t know anything for certain.
The only sure thing was that all four women were in a highly agitated state and Charlotte Burke had an angry red welt forming at the base of her tanned throat – the type of injury often associated with motor vehicle accidents.
He repeated his earlier question and this time one of them answered.
‘Actually, we have a crime to report,’ said Courtney Smith.
‘No we don’t,’ Charlotte said, refusing to meet Damon’s eyes.
‘Yes we do, Charlotte. You can’t just ignore what he did,’ said Fiona Waddington.
‘I can and I will.’
‘But he tried to strangle you,’ Veronica said. ‘If that bouncer didn’t step in -’
‘Shut up. I told you, I am not reporting anything. It was pretty much my fault it happened in the first place.’
‘Well if you ask me, Zac’s a fucking psycho and needs to be locked up.’
The icy stare Charlotte gave Veronica shut her up where words had failed.
Between them all, they had dropped enough hints for Damon to piece events together.
And just as he feared, it had something to do with Zac Wilson.
Damon had been trying to figure out all day if Charlotte had slept with Wilson or not.
Not because he had any perverse need to know her business but more out of morbid curiosity.
His gut told him no. Their body language just didn’t gel with two people who had had sex.
Unless of course the sex was really bad and they were trying to put it behind them.
So why had she returned at the crack of dawn with what could conceivably be hand marks around her neck?
There was one very good explanation.
Wilson had tried to force her.
And if that were true…
Damon was not a violent man but he knew how to fight, how to defend those that needed protecting.
And if Wilson were attacking women, he could forget just getting thrown off the press trip. He’d wind up with his ass in jail.
‘Did Wilson… did he…’ Damon couldn’t quite get the question out.
How did one go about asking a woman if she’d been raped, or if a man had attempted to rape her? Didn’t really seem the kind of question one just blurted out.
He didn’t need to. Charlotte understood the question just fine.
‘No.’
He couldn’t tell if she was more horrified by the idea Zac might or that Damon was the one asking. She still wore that deer in the headlights gaze whenever she was in his presence.
Hell, for all he knew, she and Zac could be an item. They could be consenting adults who just liked it a bit rough.
Charlotte didn’t strike him as the type but he’d been wrong before.
‘And you’re absolutely positive nothing is wrong? I do have a duty of care for you all. You’re guests of my family -’
Somehow the mention of his family only agitated Charlotte further.
‘Nothing happened,’ she said, sticking to her earlier story.
‘Okay.’ It was kinder to let her go. If something did happen, she shouldn’t be subjected to his thirty questions. ‘Don’t forget. Our plane leaves for Nice at 8.45am.’
‘Someone better let the others know,’ said Fiona. ‘Can’t have them missing their plane and getting stranded in Paris.’
‘I’ll let Miranda know,’ Charlotte said, already moving away towards the bank of elevators, her phone in hand.
One thing was certain. Whether she told him what had happened or kept it a secret; Damon would keep a very close eye on Wilson from now on.
Chapter Seventeen:
Damon stood on the edge of the cliff, choking back the tears that threatened to come despite his best efforts to stop them.
He waited for the phone call to connect, begging her to answer, for the phone not to go to its usual voicemail.
Finally a blea
ry voice spoke. ‘You better have a fucking good reason for getting me out of bed, big brother.’
For a second, he couldn’t speak, knowing if he did, the pent up emotion would betray him.
‘Damon? What is it?’
‘You know where I’m standing?’
‘Hang on. Just let me tune in my psychic receptors,’ Anita said, as sarcastic as ever. ‘Oh yes, I’m seeing white padded walls. The doctors finally found you.’
‘Very funny,’ he said, even allowing himself a sad smile. ‘I’m in St Jean…’
‘Fuck. Sorry. I wouldn’t have joked if I’d known.’
‘I know. I can see the cliff from where I’m standing.’
‘Shit, Damon. Don’t dwell on stuff like that.’
‘It’s okay. I’m not going to jump.’
‘I know that but what are you even doing there? I thought we agreed we wouldn’t go back without each other.’
‘Yeah well Dad had other ideas. He’s got me looking after a bunch of journalists -’
‘Sadistic bastard. I don’t know why you work for him.’
‘Someone’s got to keep him honest.’
‘Good luck with that. Personally, I’m happier having nothing to do with any of The William S Club. If I never see them again, it will be a day too soon.’
‘I’m okay. I promise. Mum died here but it was years ago. And somehow, this is where I feel closest to her.’
‘Mum loved St Jean. It was the only place her little French heart felt at home.’
Damon felt the same way. ‘I just wish you and Jodie were here too, not thousands of miles away in… where are you now anyway?’
‘Until you woke me up, you mean? I was lying naked in front of a fireplace in Colorado with Seth.’
Damon groaned. ‘Too much information. Seriously I do not want to know about your sex life.’
‘You asked. Are you sure you’re okay? I can get on a plane and -’
‘God no. I’m a big boy. Just wanted to hear a friendly voice for once.’
‘Any time big brother. And call Jodie. She misses you as much as I do.’
‘I will – love you Nita.’
‘Love you too, Dayday.’
He hung up the phone, melancholy ebbing and flowing like the turquoise waves whisking the rocks far below.