To Command and Collar-Masters 6

by Cherise Sinclair

  Tracing a finger over her scarred remnant of violence, he saw the momentary vulnerable quiver of her lips before her mouth flattened. Gabi had described her friend as exuberant, and he could see lines of past laughter bracketing her mouth and veeing out from the corners of her eyes.

  She was joyful no longer. Grief at the loss was a smudge on his soul.

  “She dances, you know,” the Overseer said, stopping at Raoul’s chair. “Intelligent. An excellent cook. Not a particularly good singing voice, but you forget that when she dances.”

  Raoul glanced down at her. “Dance for me then, slave. Something seductive.”

  She rose gracefully. As she hurried away, he noticed whip scars on her back. “Tell me more.”

  “A marine biologist from Georgia, middle-class background. Healthy, single, no children. A lightweight in the lifestyle before.”

  “Whip marks. A recent knife cut. Was she sold before?” Raoul asked.

  “Well.” Dahmer cleared his throat, smoothed his black suit. “She was picked up for the ‘rebellious slave’ auction.”

  Raoul raised his eyebrows as if confused, although he knew exactly what Dahmer was talking about. His best friend’s submissive, Gabi, had been one of those kidnapped to be sold.

  “Ah, each sale event has a theme. The last one featured feisty slaves with prior BDSM experience. Sassy. Bratty. Designed to give a master a challenge. I’m afraid she didn’t live up to her promise. The owner was displeased and requested a refund.”

  The buyer had obviously taken his displeasure out on Kimberly. “So she’s used merchandise. What’s wrong with the other two?”

  “The blonde is…awkward. She would do well in a comfortable environment, but she exhibits poorly.” The Overseer turned, and the young woman cringed at his frown. “The redhead is older. She wasn’t on our list, but since she witnessed a pickup being made, the deliveryman Tasered her and brought her along as well. She has a few sellable talents, but her age puts her in a lower price range.”

  The bargain basement for slaves. Exactly as advertised. Since he hadn’t known if the slavers investigated a buyer’s financial status, Raoul hadn’t tried to fake extreme wealth. Instead during the interview, he’d asked about lower-priced slaves, figuring it would consolidate his story.

  “Well, Blackie has possibilities,” Raoul said.

  “Excellent.” Satisfaction oozed from Dahmer’s voice. “But test her out thoroughly this evening. We’ve found that buyers make better choices and are more satisfied if they take their time and put the merchandise through their paces.”

  “Makes sense.” He thought about playing with a nonwilling participant, and his gut tightened.

  Raoul looked up as Kimberly reentered the room, now covered in veils. “Well…” he let himself say with an appreciative murmur.

  Dahmer laughed. “She belonged to a modern dance group that put on shows for charity. I had an experienced slave give her lessons in erotic dancing and… You’ll see.”

  The music started.

  Concentrating only on the Middle Eastern music, Kim walked in a slow circle as the chiffon material trailed behind her. The other veils covering her body fluttered delicately against her skin. Barefoot, she turned slowly, presented a hip, rotated, letting her hair swing. Slow turns. Arms moving to emphasize her body’s curves. She let the scarf in her hand float away and replaced it with the one covering her face.

  Knowing her stamina was poor, she’d chosen a short tune. To heck with Hollywood’s Dance of the Seven Veils—she was doing four, and that was that.

  As the beat picked up, she began the undulating movements, ignoring the painful pulling of the barely healed muscles over her ribs. She concentrated on the dance, trying to ignore the men watching. All of them. The Overseer’s face had flushed with lust, and she concealed a shudder. Music. Think of the music.

  One more veil and her breasts were bare. She shimmied as her teacher had taught. The middle-aged buyer swallowed and leaned forward. She turned her gaze away. Her body wanted to dance; her soul needed to flee. Her brain knew better and took control, forcing her feet closer to the darkly tanned buyer. Eyes down, she managed to smile appealingly and not grimace. Another spin. Move closer.

  She lifted her head finally. Her eyes met his, and he trapped her gaze as tightly as he’d gripped her hair earlier. Yet his look was warm, so warm, and when he released her, he seemed to have taken off all the chains binding her muscles.

  The music poured around her, rocking her in its embrace. She floated through the dance, the beat of the dumbek ruling her hips, the song of the mizmar moving her arms and shoulders. Each foot came down exactly right, the feeling indescribable.

  Removing the last veil bared her completely, but the sound increased, pulling her after until it slowed and stopped.

  She realized she’d knelt in front of Master R instead of in the center of the room. As if he’d keep her safe from the others. The murmur of conversation came from the other two buyers and the Overseer.

  Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath. Out of shape. She hadn’t danced since before Lord Greville had… Since before. A film of moisture dampened her body, and the breeze was cool against her skin. Naked. She hated the feeling of being unclothed in front of men. Why hadn’t it seemed a problem in the clubs she’d visited in the past?

  Because it had been her choice then. And she’d stripped to please and arouse whoever she was playing with. Right now, the thought of arousing anyone wasn’t at all appealing. Yet if she didn’t, the consequences…

  She’d still been recovering during the last private sale—thank you, God—but after the buyers had left, one slave had remained, unwanted and unsold. The Overseer had given her to the staff. The woman’s shrill screams had eventually died, sometime late in the night, and the next day, she’d returned to the locked room. Not a person anymore; nothing lived behind her blank eyes. The Overseer had fined his staff a week’s wages for ruining the merchandise. And the slave had…disappeared.

  Kim swallowed hard.

  Sure fingers cupped her chin, lifting her face. The brown eyes that had been so cold at first now held the desire she wasn’t sure she wanted…and something else. Concern? “What is wrong, chiquita?” he asked softly.

  The question, the gentleness brought tears to her eyes. She tried to pull back, but his fingers tightened, keeping her face exposed to his scrutiny. To her horror, she realized she was close to crying. No. “Please. Don’t.”

  His frown grew. Then he released her and looked away. When he turned back, his eyes were remote, his face like stone, chilling her inside as well as outside. For a moment, he’d almost seemed human.

  Haven’t you learned anything, Kim? You really are a dumb slut like Lord Greville said.

  “Gentlemen, if you are ready, the dungeon is waiting,” the Overseer announced.

  The fat one made a pleased sound, face filling with lust.

  The older one snapped, “About time.” He rose and grabbed Holly by her hair, dragging her behind him. She was half-bent over. Crying.

  Kim’s wish to kill the cruel man almost…almost outweighed her common sense. But she’d learned. Painfully. Interfering meant the slavers would beat her—and the woman she tried to help as well. The short whip slicing across her back, then the shocking explosion of pain. The screaming of the other slave. Her hands flattened on her thighs. Don’t speak; don’t look.

  Master R rose. “Come.”

  She started to gather her discarded garments, and he shook his head. “You are dressed appropriately for the dungeon.”

  When she was on her feet, he grasped her by the back of her neck, his grip firm but not painful, his fingers calloused. Pushing her in front of him, he followed the others to the dungeon, a converted living area with hardwood floors, chains dangling from the rafters, a couple of St. Andrew’s crosses, sawhorse benches, a bondage table. Implements hung on the dark paneled walls between the bloodred drapes covering the windows. Even in silence, the
dimly lit room seemed to echo with the sounds of pain.

  “Go ahead and put your prospective slaves through their paces,” the Overseer announced. “Since you have provided medical papers, no condoms are necessary. All three women have birth control implants and are certified disease-free. I remind you not to inflict permanent damage, but anything that’ll heal in a few days is fine: welts, stripes, bruises.”

  The pudgy one headed for the St. Andrew’s cross on the right wall, picking up a single-tail on the way. The older man shoved Holly to her knees beside him as he examined the rack of canes.

  Kim’s stomach tightened as she remembered her words earlier. “Maybe there’s a nice one out there.” There were no nice ones in this world. Oh Holly, I’m sorry, honey.

  “And you, sir?” The Overseer turned to Master R. “I heard you enjoy dispensing a good beating.”

  The hand gripping her neck flexed slightly. “I’ll use a flogger.”

  Staring at the floor, Kim breathed out, trying to tell herself a flogger wasn’t as bad as other stuff. Like a whip. Or a cane. Unless he picked one of the nastier kinds. Her nerves were jumping with her need to yank away and run, but she wouldn’t even get out of the room. And then she’d pay and pay and pay. I can endure this. It’s only pain.

  Somehow she could feel the buyer’s attention on her like a warm breeze. His thumb stroked the side of her neck. “Dahmer, you’ve got a pretty setup here.”

  “Thank you,” the Overseer said, his voice with that slick, sharp edge to it. “Although pulling everything down and setting up in a new house becomes tedious.”

  “I can imagine. How long have you been in this…line of work?”

  “The Harvest Association hired me about seven years ago.” The Overseer’s laugh made Kim’s skin crawl. “The side benefits are great—like training the merchandise.”

  “I daresay. Do you choose the women?”

  “Our watchers select potential slaves according to what we’re looking for at the time.” The Overseer nodded to Holly. “That one was picked up for our annual ‘Blondes are more fun’ auction. In the Southeast quadrant, I select from the list and contract the appropriate people to make the pickups.”

  “Quite a few layers in your group. That’s reassuring.”

  Layers upon layers. Drown the bastards and let crabs eat their bodies. Kim bit her tongue until she tasted blood. Early on, the Overseer had explained how long the Association had been in business, and the impossibility of their families ever finding them. One despairing slave had tried to commit suicide that night, but the torn plastic cup couldn’t cut her skin deep enough.

  “The safety and anonymity of the association and our buyers is our primary concern.” The Overseer stopped. Kim glanced up to see him gesture toward the floggers on the back wall. “I think you’ll find something there that fits your needs.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Long as you want.” The Overseer’s eyes met Kim’s. “According to her last owner, this piece of goods doesn’t break down quickly.”

  Her skin went cold; her hands started to tremble. Lord Greville had never stopped until she’d broken, and then he’d…

  Master R snorted and pulled her back against his body, his arm around her waist, one wide palm covering her breast. “Any ham-handed idiot can make a woman scream. I prefer to assess…responsiveness.” His powerful hand caressed her, his touch light. Not somehow repugnant, but still…touching her, as a reminder that her body was no longer her own. She tried to move, but the iron band of his arm held her easily in place.

  The Overseer tipped his head. “It’s a pleasure to have an experienced dominant.”

  As if he’d recognize experience if it bit him on the butt, Kim thought, but Master R was a dom. She could tell. As the Overseer left at a hail from the fat buyer, Master R turned her around. His face held no expression she could read, and a tremor ran through her. What was he planning to do?

  Did she want to try to get him to buy her or not? He hadn’t been cruel—not in the way the other two buyers displayed. Her stomach sank when she saw Holly restrained on a bench, enduring the slash of the cane, whimpering with each blow.

  On the St. Andrew’s cross, Linda was silent, but tears streamed down her face as the whip left red stripes on her breasts and stomach. The older woman had admitted she was a masochist—actually liked pain—but not like this. Never like this.

  Kim didn’t want either of those sadists, yet this man was…observant. Too smart to get away from. She flinched as Holly’s buyer changed to a leather strap, the sound loud in the room. Should she chance the cruelty in hopes of escape? How badly would she be damaged before she could get free?

  “You’re thinking too much, little slave. Keep your eyes only on me.”

  Her attention jerked back to him at the soft command. His veil of remoteness had dropped away again. Folding his arms over his chest, he studied her, his dark gaze skimming over her face, her shoulders, her hands, her legs. Under the discomfort of the heavy silence, she shifted her weight as the flutters in her stomach increased. An experienced dominant. She saw the signs in his posture and in the way that sometimes she reacted to him as a dom—not a monster.

  He’s a monster. Never forget that.

  “What is your real name?” he asked softly.

  My name. Part of me. Not answering this. His chin lifted and under his gaze, her defiance that had infuriated Lord Greville bent as inevitably as a palm tree in a tropical storm. “Kimberly. Sir.”

  “Thank you.” When his face softened in approval, her muscles relaxed even though she knew—she knew—he was a slaver. And he—he wanted to use a flogger on her.

  He grasped her shoulders and turned her so her back was to him. Why wasn’t he being rough with her? As he traced lines down her back, his fingers were warm, the calluses scraping lightly. “You’ve been whipped. Was it before or after your slavery?”

  Her throat went tight. Slavery. Why did hearing the word send disbelief through her every time? This can’t be me. Can’t be happening. “After.” Lord Greville’s eyes, crazy mad, the pain, falling to her knees, blood everywhere.

  He grunted. “Assholes.”

  What? She forced herself to stillness.

  “You are not going to escape this evening without some pain, chiquita.” Even as she stiffened, he pulled her back against him again, his body like a brick wall, his arm circling her waist. He fondled her breasts, his gentleness disconcerting. His breath teased the curls at her temple. “Did you enjoy being flogged before all this happened?”

  That was a different life, no relation to the one now.

  “Kimberly?”

  She should never have told him her name—hearing it now, used in a master’s authoritative voice, shook something inside her. My name. I’m real. I’m still me, Kimberly Elizabeth Moore. She swallowed, remembered the question about BDSM clubs and play parties. Before. “I—yes.”

  “Good girl.” His resonant voice relaxed her, even as she tried to keep herself defended. “And restraints? Do they bother you?”

  This seemed like before somehow, the dance of negotiations, while finding a partner who liked what she did. But it isn’t, Kim. You’re a slave. A fuckhole. A slut. She stiffened.

  He nipped her earlobe, making her jump and raising the oddest tingle inside her. “Stay in the present with me, Kimberly,” he said, his voice so very different than earlier. Low and rich and smooth with a hint of a Spanish accent. As unexpectedly warm as a sunny day in the spring. “Answer me now. Do restraints bother you?”

  “No. Not really.” Not like enclosed spaces, hoods, cages. Her stomach turned over, and her chest constricted.

  “Something bothers you. What?”

  As if she’d give him a weapon to use against her. To punish her with like the Overseer had. Her mouth compressed into a thin line.

  “No?” He sighed and turned her to face him. As he regarded her, he massaged her upper arms, his grip powerful, controlled…warm
. “I am going to restrain you and flog you. I will use my hands on you, perhaps my mouth. I know you don’t have a choice in this”—his eyes chilled for a moment—“but you might find it easier, knowing I won’t exceed those boundaries.”

  He—he was right. He planned nothing she hadn’t enjoyed at one time—nothing she hadn’t survived since. No cages. The relief blanked her mind, and a thank-you escaped before she could pull it back.

  One corner of his mouth tipped up. “I like hearing gratitude.” He ran his knuckles over her left breast. As always, since soon after her capture, she felt nothing. No pain, no revulsion, just…nothing.

  His eyes narrowed. He stroked over her breast again slowly, this time studying her face as he did. Without lifting his hand, he stroked upward and over her shoulder. Her neck.

  The skin on his fingertips was a little rough. His palm melted the ice under her skin the way the heat from the sun would dissipate morning fog on the water.

  “You will need much work, chiquita,” he murmured, “but this is not the night.”

  “What?” Shocked that the word had escaped her, she took a hasty step away, tensing in preparation for his blow.

  Ignoring her mistake, he jerked his chin at the rack of restraints. “Pick out comfortable wrist and ankle cuffs, then return to me.”

  She hurried, relief making her knees wobbly. He hadn’t hit her for speaking without permission. Either time. But what had he meant by work to do? She shook her head and concentrated on doing as he ordered.

  Once the cuffs were on, she returned.

  He nodded. “Hands laced behind your neck. Open your legs farther. Eyes on me.”

  She followed his orders, spreading her feet apart slightly wider than her shoulder. Other slaves had been taught this position, she knew. Her experience had been…other. The restricted sensation from the cuffs started her stomach roiling.