Vampire Mistress

by Joey W. Hill

Page 2

 

  He didn't like establishing routines, because he was hardly unknown to the vampire world. But he'd been here just over a month, longer than he'd been in most places, and the mystery of Atlantis kept him coming back. It was as if something was hiding there, a faint song in the forest, leading him to the enchanted castle. He went each time, expecting to find it, but had only ended up frustrated.

  Hell, he shouldn't be going there at all. He knew the terrible, secret reason he went to those places, even if he wouldn't admit it to himself. He was seeking to re-create that one moment of peace. A moment created by a Dominant female vampire, his brother's Mistress, and given to him as a gift.

  He didn't deserve any more gifts. He didn't deserve anything. But in some twisted way, he knew he went there seeking punishment. To give or take it, he didn't know, but he had a feeling tonight might be the night he finally found out. It wouldn't be a good thing for anyone crazy enough to mess with him.

  I don't even know who you are anymore, Gideon . . . This is beating you down . . .

  Jacob's words from that night. It had been a long time ago, but they haunted him. The way a million other fucking things did. He was a haunted house, unable to burn himself down, no matter how often he struck the match.

  1

  ANWYN stood in the security room, her eyes trained on the surveillance screen for the Queen's Chamber. With the high canopy bed, lush draperies and polished restraint systems, it was one of her favorite rooms. The stainless steel and gleaming wood instruments of pleasure and torture had been rendered by quality craftspeople. She'd spent a lot of time designing it, her own private fantasy room in a club dedicated to fantasy. In some ways, she considered it hers, though she took very few sessions herself anymore.

  Running any business consumed a great deal of time, and Club Atlantis more than most. An exclusive BDSM club, Atlantis dared to cater to the most extreme players, the ones who wanted to step boldly over the lines and fully immerse themselves in a world few understood, even those who played at less strenuous levels. Knowing diversity was key to business success, Anwyn had an upper level for those softer-lifestyle people, as well as the dabblers and thrill seekers. This was the underground level, its geography enhancing the psychological impact of what it was about. The deep core zone.

  Though everything that occurred in Atlantis was legal in the ways that mattered, they had the same philosophy as an illegal business. The people who came here paid a high price for the painful pleasures they sought, and therefore they weren't interested in lawyers and liability suits. It made it easier to meet those needs.

  Down here, people were fully dedicated to hard-core Domination and submission. They understood that consensual was a term used by the politically correct. While soul-deep consent was the unspoken treasure that made their Dominance or submission possible, they wanted to lose themselves in their craving to dominate or be dominated. For those purposes, choice was often a disruption to the fantasy . . . or the need. Because that was a line that required careful straddling to make sure everyone stayed safe, her largest cost was well-trained security outside each playroom door, and video surveillance of what was happening inside. The eyes she paid to watch those screens never wavered, her staff making a play-by-play judgment as to where the line was. A private ambulance and an on-staff medical team were ready to help those who needed it.

  At this level, it was about a desired, if temporary, reality, and she was committed to giving it to her clients. However, since many personalities were incapable of handling what they thought they wanted, the vetting process for this level was strict. She herself personally approved or rejected all applications after viewing videotape of the entry interviews. Which was why she was sure none of her staff understood why she'd approved Jon Smith. He had every warning flag that resulted in a rejected application.

  He was aggressive. Passive, active and every spot on the spectrum in between. He was a tiger trapped in a small cage, almost mad with confinement, though only he could see the bars. In his interview, he couldn't define what he wanted, but he had an obvious, burning need for what they were offering. He'd given the name “Jon Smith” with an insolent sneer, daring them to challenge it, even producing a driver's license that backed it up, but that didn't mean she believed his lying ass for a minute.

  He was 120 percent trouble. She'd known it the first time he'd darkened the club's doors in a battered leather jacket, scuffed boots and faded jeans, those midnight blue eyes vibrant with a breathtaking energy and passion. Because she knew only one other with eyes that piercing, she'd taken a second look to be sure their new guest was a mortal. He was, through and through. The badly cut dark hair that fell to his shoulders tempted touch, enhancing the fact he was all wild animal, fierce and beautiful and scarred.

  Most people dressed up for their sessions in some way. He'd come as he was; she was sure of that.

  Probably his only adjustment was leaving behind whatever weapons he'd been packing, because that was one rule the club never bent. There were weapons here, for controlled use, but that was it. Only the highest level of her security team, most of whom were ex-military, ever carried.

  He was so overwhelmingly alpha she'd wondered—and still did—if he might need a Master's hand in addition to a Mistress's. But during the entrance interview, he'd reacted to that as if the interviewer had threatened his testicles with pruning shears.

  “No, I do not want to be ass-fucked by a man. ” He'd surged out of the chair and loomed over Madelyn, who was fortunately one of her more unflappable Mistresses. “Do I look like a faggot to you?” It was a knee-jerk hetero reaction, and one Anwyn quickly dismissed. People in the vanilla world were so caught up in their categories and labels. What people needed inside these walls had little to do with their sexual orientation, politics or gender. They needed to be stripped down to their souls, in order to find the lost treasure of themselves again. That was why she'd named her club Atlantis. That, and because it had lingered in her own childhood memories, a young girl who read the legends of the enlightened city, trying to find her own answers.

  Of course, his violent reaction was another reason his ass should have been booted out of here. She'd watched his taped interview, read his terse, uncommunicative responses. James Watts, the head of her security team, said flatly he was a risk, that he wouldn't recommend Jon Smith's admission. Instead, following her intuition, Anwyn approved his temporary pass and met with her more experienced Mistresses, several of whom agreed to take the plunge.

  In his first session, he wouldn't be bound, but he was okay with pain. He kept goading Madelyn, his assigned Mistress, asking for higher and higher levels, and as he did, he'd get more worked up. He never moved to hurt Madelyn, but when his frustration level got too high, he destroyed furniture, equipment, got verbally abusive. Then, contemptuously, as if paying a whore, he'd thrown down a wad of cash for the repairs and stormed out.

  But he came back. He'd seemed a little surprised that he'd been let back in, and Anwyn had felt her staff 's speculative glances when she made the decision. During that visit, she'd ordered a camera trained on him, so that later that night she could watch it. Alone. From beginning to end.

  He'd sat at the bar, watched the public play, but hadn't tried for another private session that time.

  There'd been a female slave bound for a flogging, and the few times his eyes strayed toward her, his gaze would just as quickly slide away. Anwyn had a trained ear for the begging note in a cry of pain, a clue to building desire and pleasure, so she knew the woman was receiving what she wanted. Though he apparently recognized it enough not to interfere, his shoulders had hunched, as if he found it difficult to bear the woman's cries.

  In contrast, he'd watch the play involving a Mistress without flinching. When a scourge landed on a bare male back or buttock, leaving red welts, his fingers would tighten on his glass. Even through the screen, Anwyn felt his yearning, a gas fire that thr
eatened to consume. It was too similar to what she knew and remembered, and she felt oddly stripped as she looked into his face and saw how lost he truly was, this feral creature who'd come to her door, not sure if he wanted to beg for a bowl of scraps or break in and take whatever he wanted.

  His next private session had gone no better than the first. Tara was strong, tall, an almost masculine woman. He'd hated her, with a viciousness that had almost come to blows when she'd tried to force him to his knees. Tara's MO was that she got physical with her clients, and she was trained for it, a former MP and karate black belt. Madelyn had tried pain, Tara brute force, and he'd responded to neither.

  So tonight, Anwyn had sent in her best psychological Mistress, Chantal. She'd tried clever manipulation and head games to break him down, and now Anwyn was looking at a destroyed dresser, a shattered mirror. The rich hangings on the bed had been ripped down, shredded. Their problem child sat on the bed, his head in his hands. He hadn't moved since Chantal had gone to the door, dropped her persona and told him in an even tone that the club didn't have what he was seeking. She'd made the private signal to the camera that she was done with the session, no intention of returning after he had a cooling-off period.

  “He's a loss, Anwyn. ” James had come in behind her and now leaned against the wall, his well-developed arms crossed and brow furrowed, the intent gray eyes as focused as she'd expect from a man who'd spent twenty years working with the DEA. “You've got the best instincts I've seen, but I think you're off on this one. He's not a psychopath, but he's too close to it. Too damaged. Completely unpredictable. We need to cut him loose. He's going to hurt someone. ”

  “I agree with your assessment. But I want to try one more thing. ” Leaning over, she pressed the button to reach the security guard posted outside the Queen's Chamber.

  “Yes, ma'am?”

  “Engage the locks on the door, Alan. I want Mr. Smith to know he's not free to leave. ” She straightened, glanced at James. “I'm going to take over this session. ” His jaw tightened. “I could send in three men to secure him. Maybe that's what he wants. You know we've had clients before who want the forced binding. ”