by Jane Henry
The cleaners have been in, and the bed is freshly made, the floors mopped, the bathroom immaculate. I smile to myself. Now all I need is her.
Am I getting my hopes up too soon, though? I’ve convinced myself she’s the girl I’ve always known, but I don’t know that to be true. Is she the same girl I met and fell in love with all those years ago, or does she carry with her the scars of her past that will hold her back from me?
And does it matter?
I’m not the same man she knew back then. I’ve learned better self-control. I know more about who I am, what I need, and what I have to offer others.
I don’t wear the collar anymore. And I no longer pretend to be pious.
My job is to prove to her that my devotion hasn’t waned, that I’ve grown into maturity, and without the trappings of the vows I made, I’m a man she can trust. I’ll take care of her, protect her, and give her what she needs. Learn what her secrets are and cherish them. Learn what her fears are and slay them. Fill in the holes between when we split up and where we are now until I’ve mended the torn parts of our relationship and sewn us back together. I’ll make it my mission to get to know every bit of her so that I can do what I’ve always been meant to do.
Love her.
I leave my private room and head to the dungeon. Members have begun to trickle in, now that the sun has set, people are leaving their jobs, dinnertime is over. A few sit by the bar and I scan them over, but everyone’s familiar. Nothing unusual.
Chandra’s due any minute.
Now, it’s time to play.
As I walk to the bar I ask myself, who was the guilty party? It couldn’t have been accidental. Someone covered the camera for a reason, and I want to know what those reasons were. I glance at the clock on the wall. She’s supposed to be here at seven. She has eight minutes.
I check the snacks we have at the bar, refill the napkin dispenser, and when Travis shows up, we chat about what happened. We’re discreet, though, and don’t want to be overheard, so he just nods and says, “I’m on it.”
I believe him. He’s got the natural protective instincts of a dominant every bit as much as I do.
Travis pulls me a beer, and I sit at the bar stool sipping it. Finally, the time has passed. She’s due in one minute. I’ll wait in the lobby for when she arrives. I push my empty beer stein to Travis and head to the lobby, my palms sweaty and stomach in knots like I’m a freshman about to go on his first date, and nearly crash into Braxton in the doorway. Chloe’s standing next to him, her dark hair pulled back, dressed in a short, tight black play dress.
“Watch where you’re going,” Braxton says, playfully punching my arm. “Father.”
I growl at him. “Don’t. Don’t go there, Braxton.”
I push past, so I can get to the lobby. But he’s our resident wiseass, and he doesn’t shut up.
“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned,” he says, with mock repentance. “I gave my girl a righteous spanking for mouthing off to me, which led to much bigger and better things, but she was late for work and I made her call in sick. I made her lie, father.” Chloe stands behind him, snickering.
I want to deck the smug grin right off his face. He’s a good friend, and I know he’s just joking, but this isn’t something I want to kid about.
“Shut it, Brax.”
Bowing his head and folding his hands in a prayerful position, he murmurs, “Just give me my penance and I will leave you, father.”
The knuckles on my hand tingle, and I make a fist. I won’t rise to the bait, though. Instead, I refuse to even smirk and choose to ignore him. Chloe stands in the doorway, trying not to laugh, but I quickly forget my own anger when Chandra walks in the room.
She’s holding a little bag that hopefully holds a change of clothes, but the bag is larger than her entire skimpy little outfit. The cherry red top looks like it was tattooed on her, dipping low in the front and revealing full, gorgeous cleavage. The hem comes above her navel, revealing a perfect torso with a gleaming gem of a belly button ring at the center. How’d I miss that before? Maybe she didn’t have it in. I want to run my tongue down her belly and make her shiver, then punish her for marring her perfect skin.
Flimsy, glittery black material covers her hips in what’s—I don’t know, a skirt? Pair of shorts? They’re so tight and short I can’t tell.
“Hi,” she says a little shyly.
“Hi,” I respond. “What the hell are you wearing?”
Her face falls and I feel like a douchebag, but only for a minute. Another guy walks into the lobby, tall and blonde, and stares at her. “You got a dom for tonight?” he asks.
Is he serious?
“Yeah, she’s got a dom for tonight,” I tell him, my voice holding an edge of warning. For Christ’s sake. “And the night after that, and the night after that.”
Braxton chuckles behind me, then I hear him leave.
I don’t know what I’m telling myself, or what I’m even declaring to him. To anyone, for that matter. The man holds up a palm as if to tell me he’s laying off, then walks through the door to the bar. Chandra blinks at me, then to my surprise, her eyes darken.
“What the hell was that?”
“Excuse me?”
“You just declared ownership of me.”
“This surprises you?” I cross my arms on my chest, surprised by the affronted look she’s giving me.
“We haven’t discussed this yet.”
I take her hand and pull her none too gently into the bar area. “I think it’s time we had that talk. Don’t you?”
“I—well…” she stammers.
“Good. That’s what I thought.”
“Axle,” she says as we move quickly. “You seem angry. Why do you seem so angry?”
“I’m not angry,” I tell her. “I’m determined. But you have your safeword,” I remind her.
That makes her freeze.
“Chandra.” My tone holds warning.
“Yes,” she says. “Yes, sir, I have my safeword. Geez, you don’t believe in foreplay, do you?”
God. So damn cute.
“Never said that,” I tell her. “Give me time, and I’ll show you. Did you forget how long I made you wait the other night?”
We enter the bar, now much fuller than earlier, and I take a minute to glance around again. Zack stands sentry over by the pool tables, and Tobias and Diana are in the hall as if they’ve just emerged from the dungeon or a private room. Brax and Chloe are on their way to the dungeon now. We’ve got this place tricked out with capable people. I can take some time with Chandra.
She wants foreplay? I’ll give her foreplay.
I pat a stool next to me, and she shops on up, but as she does, her skirt rides up so high I can see the lower curve of her ass.
Leaning in, I run my fingers along the back of her neck and tell her, “I should redden that ass of yours for wearing something so skimpy.” She leans into me, her pretty voice smooth as silk.
“Maybe you should. Does that mean when you find out I’m not wearing panties I’m getting punished?”
Jesus. My cock lengthens, and I draw closer to her.
“You are in so. Much. Trouble.”
“Get you two a drink?” Travis asks, wiping his hands on a bar mop.
I order both of us a drink, taking her hand in mine as I scan the bar again.
“Why are you on edge tonight?” Her hand comes to rest on my knee. “You’re acting like everyone’s packing a weapon and you’re ready to throw down.”
Travis pushes the icy glasses over to us, shoots me a grin, then walks away. I hand her her drink and take a sip of mine.
“Just watching things,” I tell her. “It’s just how I am.”
“It’s how you always were,” she says quietly. Silently, I wrap both of my hands around one of hers. I let her go once. I won’t make that mistake again.
“Axle? God, it’s weird calling you that, but I guess it makes things a little easier. Like this time, it isn’t F
ather Noah I’m with but a different man. And I don’t have that guilt tugging at my conscience like I used to.”
She felt guilty before? I let myself believe it was somehow freeing for her to be with me, but of course it wasn’t. It was risky as hell, and she knew the consequences if we were found out would threaten her future.
“And yet you are still the same person,” she says. “That’s what I love.”
“Should I call you something different?” I love teasing her.
Turning her whole body to face me, her eyelids lower and she looks at me from beneath the crescent of full, black lashes. “I thought you already did.” I watch as she swallows, and she tugs her lower lip between her teeth before leaning closer to me and dropping her voice to a whisper. “Baby. Little girl…” her voice trails off and she won’t meet my eyes. “Maybe over time we can move to the better terms.”
“Better?”
She shrugs. “Slave. Babygirl. Little one.”
Someone’s done her homework. Tugging a lock of her hair, I ask her, “What’s it gonna be? Slave or babygirl?”
That gets her gaze back on mine, her round, dark eyes eager. “Not slave, sir.”
No. Submissive fits her, but not at the level of total self-denial. As much as she likes the sterner side of things, she’s always craved the tender affection, too. I cup my hand around her jaw and kiss her forehead.
I was a total dumbass for ever thinking “hands off” was the right choice. Hell no. This is Chandra.
“Screw no kissing,” I rumble, leaning in closer so that her breath stirs against my cheek when I whisper in her ear. “Be my babygirl?”
I can almost feel her visibly melt like butter. “Yes. Yes, please.”
I lean in and kiss her.
Chapter Twelve
Chandra
He keeps me so close to his side I’m almost glued to him, and if anyone had a doubt before now that I was his, that doubt’s vanished. He may as well tattoo it straight across my forehead and toss a collar around my neck. But the protective, possessive vibe he’s thrown around us is clear enough I don’t need a collar or any of the other outward signs that he owns me.
My first instinct was to fight it, but I love how possessive and jealous he is.
I want more than this, though, and I’m not sure yet what. A part of me has lain dormant, like a bud buried beneath the surface of the ground, and I’ve only just begun to feel the rays of sun that let me live. I want to stretch myself heavenward and soak that up, flourish as I was meant to, no longer held apart from what makes me whole.
He makes me whole.
I see now that when I was apart from him, I grew into who I was meant to be. He grew into who he was meant to me. We’re not strangers who just met each other. We haven’t changed. We’ve evolved. Grown.
And now… now that I’m with him again, I don’t ever want to let him go.
I want to sit by his feet and rest my head on his knees while he runs his hands through my hair and reads, or watches TV. I want to kneel by him and serve him, and feel his praise bask over me like sunlight breaking through clouds, warm and bright and nourishing. I want to get over myself, let him read my books that hold the words I draw from my soul and weave onto paper, a visible sign of who I am and what I’ve accomplished. I want to cook him dinner and wash his clothes and do all the domestic things my friends scorn because it would be for him.
Hell, I want to have his babies.
“Do you remember how we used to walk in the cemetery?” he asks. He’s led me to the dungeon and brought me over to a quiet corner of the room. A small but sturdy loveseat waits for us, covered in crimson fabric. Folding himself onto one side, he reaches for my waist and draws me onto his lap. My much smaller frame melts into his and I lean against his chest, resting my head on his shoulder. His grip tightens around me, and my heart flutters rapidly in my chest.
“Of course,” I tell him.
His grip tightens in warning, and I remember where we are.
“Sir,” I amend. “Of course, sir. Silly as it sounds, I always felt I was safe with you in the cemetery because you were a priest and you could ward off any demons that endangered me.”
He snorts. “Ward off demons? I had too many of my own.”
“Had?” I ask him, not teasing at all now. “Do you still have any?” I admire a man who can own his own flaws and still fight them, still get up every day and face whatever it is he needs to.
“Do we ever lose the demons?” he asks. “It’s a constant battle, you know. Good and evil. Right and wrong. Selfish or selfless.”
I don’t respond at first, but instead take a moment to observe what’s happening around us. It’s different than it was before, now that I’m on his lap being held by him, as if the intensity of the scenes are muffled, like a buffer of sorts. To my right, a woman has a collared man at her feet. She’s lecturing him and holding him in place with the crimson red leather tongue of a crop against his ass. He nods, and she gives him a little smack of approval. Someone at the cross is about to get a whipping, the spanking benches are occupied, and the other loveseat hosts a threesome, a woman kneeling before two strong, sturdy men, bare chested, clad only in leather pants.
And I wonder. Right here, while the club members pursue their interests, isn’t this the battle of selfish versus selfless? Good and evil? Right and wrong? They need to trust one another, and they strip away all that holds them back when they bring their bared, vulnerable selves here to play, both dom and sub alike. When given the choice, submissives can choose to retain their own control or relinquish it to someone else. Dominants wield authority that has the power to build or destroy.
The trappings of dynamics and power play don’t diminish the very real struggles, heartaches, hopes and dreams, losses and gains, of people who seek to love and be loved.
“You know, you’re right,” I say to him. “It is a constant battle.”
My gaze wanders to his strong, large hands, calloused from work and roughened with labor, the hands that hold me now. I remember those hands on my body, and my pulse races. The sounds of pleasure and pain around us fades until there’s only me. Him. Us.
“Did you write today?” he asks.
The question surprises me, and I don’t respond right away. I blink. “Oh. Well, yes,” I say. “But only a little. I wrote on my lunch break.”
“And you normally write at night?”
I nod.
“Because that’s when your muse is all happy?”
I grin. “Yeah.” It’s cute hearing him talk about my muse.
“So how ‘bout this,” he says in a low, deep drawl, like he’s mulling this over. “You bring your computer here. You meet me at the club. I give you something to write about, and when the night’s over, you can set up in the private room and tap away at that keyboard.”
He wants me to bring my work here?
One boyfriend laughed and told me there was no reason for me to put so much effort into something that wasn’t “literary,” and that it was important to not let “hobbies take over your life.”
Yeah, I dumped his ass.
Another hated the idea of being in any of my books, but the joke was on him. He sucked in bed and didn’t have a dominant bone in his body, so he made it into my books alright, but only as the loser ex-boyfriend.
“You’d do that for me?” I ask. I want to hug him and kiss him and change the name of the hero in my current book to his. Until Marla, no one ever took my writing seriously.
“Of course,” he says, nodding his head. “Honestly, babe, scening with you is hardly a hardship.”
“Glad you’ll take one for the team.”
He gives me a playful smack on the ass and pulls me close to his chest for a brief kiss to the forehead before he frees me.
“Up you go,” he says, sliding my legs off him onto the floor. “I want you all to myself, babygirl. I don’t want to share. I’m afraid if another dom here touches you, I’d have to break his fingers.”
“I see.”
“So if you’re with me, you’re with me. You obey my instructions and do what you’re told. There is no ‘on and off’ with me at the club. We can come here to play or to meet friends, but I want all of your submission. And I promise that I’ll cherish that. You won’t regret it.”
I write about women who are strong and curious about the lifestyle, and some who crave this lifestyle because submission is so intrinsically woven into who they are, their very identity involves choosing submission. I know and have known for years—since my Noah—that I’m the one who craves all of it. I’m not satisfied with play, and I don’t need to battle for power or control. I crave the constant protection, attention, and focus of the man who loves me and literally no man I’ve ever met has fed that need in me.
I’ve been starving for true dominance. I tasted it once and he ruined me on men forever.
“Yes, sir,” I tell him, earnest and eager. “Let’s try it. Right now?”
He sobers, his voice dropping to deep and stern. “Yes. Right now. Because it’s time I punish you for wearing that outfit.”
Every threat of punishment makes me tingle, part fear, part arousal, and I don’t understand it, but I don’t really need to. I don’t respond, because my mouth is dry, and I don’t know what to say. While I walk beside him, tucked so close to him we’re practically attached at the hip, I notice how others part, giving him a wide berth, watching him with a measure of respect and deference. My heart swells. That’s my man they admire and respect.
“Master Axle,” some greet as we walk. He nods and greets them but gives no one his undivided attention. No one but me. He whispers in my ear and points a few things out, weaves his fingers through mine and holds me close. We walk together like he’s leading me in a dance and I’m taking his lead, easily falling into step. We head out of the dungeon and down the hall toward his room.
I’m not sure what I need or where he’s leading me, but I know I’m going to follow.
“Did you eat dinner?” he asks.
“Yup.”
“Good girl. You tired?”