by Jane Henry
But my mind is made up. I wouldn’t let someone I don’t even know go out there. Chandra? No way.
“You’re not going,” I tell her.
The air crackles between us. I want to take her full mouth in mine and silence her backtalk. My palm yearns to smack her full backside and remind her of her manners, teach her some common sense. But I lost that privilege and I haven’t earned it back. Not yet.
Then her eyes soften, and she smiles. It may be my imagination, but I see forgiveness in those coffee-colored depths. “If I’m not going anywhere, the least you can do is give me a tour of the dungeon?”
Chapter Seven
Chandra
It’s like the air in here is laden with some sort of potion that makes me lose my self-control. Coming here was the first crazy thing I’ve done in who-knows-how-long. But I got sick of just writing the books. I told myself I needed a little research.
I have to get to work on my book, as I have a looming deadline and obviously didn’t lug my laptop to the club. But the real reason I’m pushing to get out of here is because I need to get away from him. When I’m near him, I don’t have any control over my body and my mind plays tricks on me. Every day, when I write my books, I’m fully submersed in the erotic pull of the power exchange. I’ve forgotten what it’s like being around him. The way his voice makes my breasts swell and tingle, and the throb of need that pulses between my thighs. I want to feel the loss of control under his capable, trustworthy hands, the way we used to—
But no. I can’t go back there. When he left, who I was shattered to pieces. When I was with him, my mind warred against what I wanted and what was right, but I couldn’t deny how everything we did made me feel. I craved his protection and control.
When the pregnancy test came back positive, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. We were already done. I knew the swelling abdomen and tender breasts meant my body was housing the life of another, and that baby was his. I’d given him my virginity. I’d given him my heart. I gave him all that was me, and he lied to himself when he said leaving me was to protect me. Leaving me killed me.
I couldn’t tell him about the baby because I was afraid he’d think it was a selfish, silly ploy to bring him back to me, and I was far too proud for that. So he never knew I was pregnant or that I lost the baby. He never knew the devastating pain that wracked my body and my heart when I said goodbye to my last connection to Noah. To a life that would never come to fruition.
Still bleeding, my heart lacerated, I took my meager belongings, and I left home. At first, I traveled like a vagabond, a college student living in youth hostels, funded by the money I’d put aside. My parents didn’t pursue me. A daughter who left home was dead to them. And even though it hurt, I knew it was for the best. I thought he was back in my hometown, and since I never bothered to keep in touch with anyone from home, I didn’t know he’d moved, too.
I left my past behind me. But I carried with me a deep, abiding craving for the lifestyle Noah introduced me to. I told myself that it was just how I was wired. It was part of my psyche. Raised by parents who were more enamored with the idea of me than the actual me, the logical side of my brain told me I craved his guidance because I lacked real care and concern in my youth.
I could never pursue the lifestyle apart from Noah, though. It lost its magic. And maybe I feel a little betrayed that he was able to. I did, however, fulfill every fantasy of mine within the pages of my books.
So when I asked him to take me to the dungeon, I pretended in my head it was for research.
“I’m on a deadline,” I tell him. “And feeling very uninspired. Maybe you can show me around?”
He blinks slowly, his blue eyes trained on mine, stern and unyielding.
“For research purposes,” he says.
I swallow. “Of course,” I lie. “And anyway… didn’t you ask Tobias to shut those cameras off?”
He quirks a brow and nods slowly to himself, mulling this over. My body starts heating, first in my chest, then the warmth radiates out to my arms and hands, then lower still to my legs and belly. I’m on fire, blazing hot with need and want.
When he speaks, it’s soft and almost apologetic. “What kind of research do you need, babe?”
How far can I push this?
“Well,” I begin. “I’d like to take a look at the equipment first.” My voice sounds unnaturally high-pitched.
He nods and reaches for my hand. “Alright, then. Not sure what the hell else we’re gonna do, stuck in here with a blizzard out there.”
“Right,” I agree, chattering like a songbird. “Exactly what I was thinking. I mean, unless you find a deck of cards or something...”
He squeezes my hand. “Deck of cards, my ass,” he says.
“Hey, this is important.” I’m serious now. “For real, this book is going to be my breakout novel. You’ll see. Just wait and see what happens. I really did come here for research purposes.”
“Yeah?” he says. We didn’t plan it—well, I didn’t, anyway—but we’re falling into the easy camaraderie that was us when we were together, and I can’t turn away. “You know… I think you do need a really thorough research day,” he says. “For the sake of authenticity.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure,” he says. “Could be fun, you know. Plus, we’re alone at a BDSM club. It’s almost like it was fate.”
“Fate,” I whisper, my mind mired in our bitter past. But I shove those thoughts aside and allow myself to get a little excited about his proposition. “Okay. Huh. Well, what do you have in mind?”
“You be my submissive for today, and I’ll show you what it’s really like. Then you can take notes and bring what you learned to your book.” He won’t look at me, as if looking at me will shatter the moment.
“Submissive for the day,” I say thoughtfully. God, I freaking love this idea. I don’t have to commit to anything. It’s all role play, with no real strings attached, and today is a day that almost doesn’t count. It’s eerily silent in here, insulated by the blizzard outside. No one is here to witness what happens. He’s at work, and I will do my own form of work. Research. This isn’t a commitment. It isn’t even a date.
“What do you have in mind?” I ask.
We’ve passed the bar and now stand in the threshold of the dungeon. He releases my hand and turns to me. “Total submission,” he says, blue eyes aflame with vehemence and excitement.
“Like your slave?” I sputter.
He shrugs. “Sort of like that, yeah.” He flexes his fingers and nearly bounces on his feet, like a boxer in a ring, excitement rippling through him. “You’ll submit to me. Do anything I say. You’ll call me sir or master, and you’ll wear my collar. I’ll show you what it’s like, but you’ll have a safeword.” He raises a brow. “The consent thing may be dubious for your books, but not when you’re with me.”
We’re role playing, I tell myself, willing my heartbeat to slow, to not fall for him again. This will be platonic and staged and there’s nothing real about it.
“You’ll never get a chance like this again,” he says. Then his eyes darken. “And if you ever tried it with another man, I’d spank your ass.”
My pulse races. “Oh?” I croak out. “I thought we were role playing.”
“Full time submission is role play,” he says. “I don’t role play at being a dom.”
I’m confused and excited and reluctantly hopeful.
“Alright, then,” I tell him. “What’s my safeword?”
He holds my eyes and a soft, sad smile plays at his lips. “Mad.”
I know instantly why he chose it and the words fall from my lips unbidden. “The only people for me are the mad ones,” I whisper.
“The ones who are mad to live,” he continues. “Mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing…” It’s one of our favorite quotes. Jack Kerouac.
“Mad,” I repeat. “Got it.” I look around
the dungeon. It’s shrouded in darkness, but sensual promises lie in the shadows. “And where do we begin?”
He smiles slowly, his gaze smoldering. Snapping his fingers, he points to the floor. “On your knees.”
It takes a second for my body to catch up to my mind, and I drop to my knees. The ground looks like concrete but has a softer surface, and I don’t feel the twang of pain I expected. I’ve never done this before. Never knelt before a man. And though something about it is so very wrong, like I’m subservient, I crave it and I have to shut off that part of my brain that wants to censor my actions.
This feels so damn good to have him standing over me while I’m in this submissive position. Something in me warms with satisfaction, like slipping into a warm bath.
“I’m going to teach you how to do this properly,” he says, his voice gravelly but calm. In control. So very much in control. Reaching for my hair, he weaves his fingers through the thick, dark mass of it and coils it around his fingers. Instinctively, I close my eyes and sigh into the pull. This. This is what I want. “Back straight, little girl,” he says, tapping firm fingers with his other hand along my spine, sending shudders through my body. I straighten my spine and look to him for further instruction. “Very good,” he approves, fingers releasing the firm grip and massaging my scalp before he walks behind me. My pulse races as he inspects me in silence.
Standing behind me, I feel him bend down, his heat cascading over me like sunshine. “Bottom on your feet, just like this,” he instructs, positioning my ass on the hells of my feet. “Good girl. And lay your hands in your lap. That’s right. Now cast your eyes downward in submission.”
Every instruction, given in his firm, strong voice, makes my pulse race faster. My panties are damp, and he hasn’t even done anything sexual.
Or has he? Is this willful exchange of power innocent? I can’t deny the erotic current that pulses between us.
I shouldn’t do this. We have a past that we’ve buried. We’re not the same people we were back then. I’m no longer the virginal, sheltered girl and he’s no longer the man struggling for purity and piety by purging his sins with denial. Now, we’re willfully giving into this, our deepest, darkest cravings. Ones we began exploring so long ago.
But I don’t answer to my past anymore. I don’t answer to the expectations set on me in my youth, and I have nothing left to lose but my pride. And hell, if laying down my pride means fulfilling my primal desires, I won’t stop now. If I do, I’ll always regret opportunity lost.
And this is Noah. My Noah. The man who loved me, no longer bound by vows of celibacy and obedience.
Now the only call to obedience is my will bowing to his.
“Stay right there, Chandra. If I come back and find you’ve moved, I’ll punish you.”
The words punish you echo in my ears, travel down my spine, and throb between my legs, as I feel him walk away from me. Where’s he going? What’s he doing? I close my eyes, allowing myself to feel this moment so I can store it in my memory. My mind flutters with thoughts and questions about what he’ll do to me, what he’ll demand of me, but I will my mind to quiet. It serves no purpose to focus on what may happen. I need to live in the moment.
I’ve always been bad at that.
I stifle the desire to fidget by imagining my weight sinking into my heels. As I sit here in this submissive posture, my mind begins to quiet. I no longer hear the noise of the past or the whispers of the future but only his footsteps as he walks about the room gathering what he needs. I swallow the dryness in my throat and open my eyes when I hear him approaching me again.
Shrouded in light from the overhead fixture, I see nothing but his tall, muscular frame, all control and strength, strolling toward me with purpose in his eyes. In one hand he holds what looks like a single leather cuff. In another he holds a length of rope.
I shiver. I can’t remember if I’m allowed to look at him or not so to be safe, I cast my gaze downward.
“Eyes on me,” he directs, answering my question. I look at his eyes and imagine they’re filled with warmth, but I dismiss that thought. We’re role-playing. This isn’t real. And this is research. I’ll take what I learn here and weave it in my books for authenticity.
“Before we begin,” he says, coming to a stop in front of me, “we talk hard limits.”
I swallow.
Crap, he knows what he’s doing. This is like a scene taken right out of one of my novels, and I can’t help but shiver in delight and anticipation.
“Okay,” I say tentatively.
“I say what I want to do, and you say green or red. Red means a hard no.”
I nod. I can do this. It’s easy enough.
His eyes grow molten. “Spanking.”
I swallow. “Green.”
His lips twitch.
“Whipping.”
My heart rate spikes. I clear my throat. “Green.”
He laces his fingers behind his back and stands, tall and powerful, over me.
“Nipple clamps.”
“Green.”
“Anal plugs.”
My voice is choked. “Green.”
“Medical play,” he says and I give him a curious look so he tips his head to a table that looks like it belongs in my OB’s office.
Shit. Ok well I trust him, so… “Green.”
He nods slowly. “Violet wand? Electric stimulation,” he explains.
Oh. Wow. Okay. “Green.”
“Wax play.”
Fuck yes. “Green. So much green.”
He releases a low, dark chuckle. “Rope play? Bondage?”
I lick my lips. “Green.” My panties are soaked. My thighs rub together, and I want to feel his pressure there. Something. Anything.
“Knife play.”
I swallow and shiver and think before I reply. “Green.”
Leaning down, he draws his thumb down the side of my cheek and cups my chin in his warm hand. “You’re doing very well, Chandra. You’re holding position and answering me promptly. Good girl. You’ll be rewarded for that.” My heart sings. He holds my chin between his thumb and forefinger, my gaze locked on his. “But from now on, you remember to say sir after any response.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
Oh, God, it feels good to call him sir, and I don’t understand why. But my vision blurs with unshed tears and I want to feel his gentle hand once more.
He walks away from me and retrieves a long, thin black implement from a nearby shelf. There’s a small square of leather at the end. A riding crop. Tamer on the spectrum of BDSM toys, but capable of packing a good, solid sting.
He flicks it against his hands as if testing it, then walks behind me. He doesn’t move at first. “Keep position, Chandra,” he says. “Rate it,” he instructs. “Scale of one to ten, tell me how much this hurts.” I nod, then immediately feel the sharp sting of the crop to the upper part of my ass, just where my heels hit my bottom. I flinch, but the sting quickly fades to warmth, sending a tingling sensation between my thighs.
“Three?” I ask.
He gives me a harder whack with the crop. “Seven!” I pant.
“Only seven?” he says, which surprises me, right before the third smack falls, the most painful one of all, a flare of pain that takes my breath away.
“Eight,” I croak out. It isn’t a ten. I know there are things here that will be far beyond that ten.
“Chandra,” he chides, warning in his voice. “What did I tell you comes after every response?”
“Sir,” I say. My body is molten, my ass stinging, and my feet are beginning to fall asleep.
“Good,” he says.
“Sir?”
“Yes, baby,” he says, running a hand along the back of my head.
“My feet are beginning to fall asleep.”
“Up you go, then. We’ll continue this over the spanking bench.”
Oh my God. I’ve been dying to try one of those ever since I saw them the night before.
Taking
my hand, he lifts me to my feet and walks me over to a spanking bench in the shadows. It’s padded where my belly lies, and there are cuffs at my wrists and ankles.
“I’d prefer to have you in a submissive position when we go through our limits,” he says. “It’ll get you more readily into the proper headspace.”
“No argument from me,” I say. I mean, I’m practically leaping out of my skin with excitement. It shocks me when the crop whistles through the air then lands on the fullest part of my ass in a punishing swat.
“Correct response.”
“Yes, sir,” I amend. “This will take a while for me to remember.”
“It won’t,” he says. “Because if you forget again, I’m giving you a proper spanking.”
Ahhhh, my head says, incapable of thinking much beyond that because he’s already positioning me over this bench.
“Sir?” I ask. “May I ask you questions?”
“For now, you may,” he says.
“Well, who invented this thing? I mean a lot of things have more than one purpose, right? Cuffs are for prisoners. Crops are for horses, too, and things like… stocks, or a whipping post, or even an exam table has another purpose. But a spanking bench? I mean, it’s like a fork. There’s only one purpose.”
He’s fastening the leather cuffs around my wrists, first the left, then the right, then my ankles are bound below me. I push and pull against the restraints because I need to feel them. I’m not sure why, but I like not being able to move freely with him standing over me.
“That I don’t know,” he says. “But I know it’s one of the oldest tools we have and was likely borne of a good need.
“It’s a little crazy,” I whisper.
“You’re a little crazy,” he counters.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
I shiver when I feel his touch start at my shoulders then work all the way down my back, to my backside, then to the tops of my thighs. He’s holding the crop over me to make sure I respond correctly.
“Breath play,” he asks.
I know what that is, and it scares me, but I’m not going to back down. “Green, sir,” I tell him.