To Command and Collar-Masters 6

by Cherise Sinclair

  “He yelled, and his staff came. He was crazy mad.” Blood everywhere, yelling, insanity in his eyes. “He whipped me and then got the knife I’d used.” “I’ll cut you into pieces. Scream, slut.” She touched her ribs where the long slash had opened her to the bone. The pain had bloomed and grown and grown. “But he’d lost enough blood that he passed out.” She’d hurt so much, too much to glory in it. “They tied a bandage around my ribs and put me back in the cage. The little one.” Not the kennel. Made for a medium-sized dog and so small she couldn’t straighten her legs, couldn’t stand up. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t… Her lungs spasmed like a fish on dry land, suffocating with air all around.

  “Shhh, shhh.” A big hand stroked her hair. “You’re here, gatita. No one will hurt you.”

  Here. She blinked away the darkness at the edge of her vision. “They left me… I don’t know how long.” In the dark. Never let out. Bleeding. Hurting. Peeing on herself, her legs wet and stinking. The cage stinking. Her voice had broken from screaming. “Eventually they came and got me.” When the door opened, she knew she’d die and felt only relief.

  He shook her gently, breaking her from the nightmarish thoughts. “Breathe for me, Kimberly.”

  Slow breath. She stared out at the waves. The small windows lining the huge ones were cracked open, and the ocean’s shushing sounds rolled over her, drawing her memories away, grain by grain.

  “Look at me.” He drew her back to the present. “They took you out and…?”

  “The Overseer was there. They made him take me back.”

  “Pobrecita,” Master R murmured.

  Too tired to be afraid, she laid her cheek against his soft shirt. Beneath the thick muscles of his chest, his heart beat slowly, evenly, his breathing pulling hers into a matching rhythm. Under the influence of the even pace, she found her voice again. “The Overseer was furious because he said I was damaged, but he gave them a refund since Lord Greville’d brought in a lot of referrals. One of the Overseer’s slaves sewed me up, and I didn’t do anything for a while. After the stitches came out, I helped out in the kitchen for another week. And learned to dance.”

  “No hospital?”

  She managed a laugh. “Hardly. Although I got antibiotics. I think they were for dogs from a feed store.” I’m an animal.

  “Well, I see why you were a bargain,” he said, breaking up her thoughts. “Almost killing your owner would definitely lower your value.” He tapped a finger on her nose. “Good job.”

  She blinked, startled. A trickle of warmth crept into her at the open approval in his voice.

  “Aside from being kidnapped, which would leave you insecure, most of what terrifies you happened at this Greville’s house? Rape, cage, beating. The way they treated you, being called names—you feel as if they’re right? That you’re what they called you?”

  Why did it help when he…listed…things? Because it sounded like a set of problems she could deal with instead of an overwhelming chasm she’d fall into? “I… Yes.”

  “Mmmmh. You get counseling already. I’ll add in some self-defense, so if you have to stab someone, you’ll do a better job.” He waited for her nod. “Getting over being raped will take time, but since you’re here in my arms, it might not be the worst of your problems. But you suffered enough that things will set you off. Unless your counselor says otherwise, we’ll stop, go through your fear so you handle it, and if possible repeat the trigger until it doesn’t work any longer.”

  Maybe she could survive. Except… “Not the cage.”

  He shook his head. “No, that one is for your counselor to deal with. You and I will stick with what causes you problems in your slave training.”

  Slave. The word made her want to retch. “I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will, chiquita.”

  As his arms tightened around her, she felt fear and safety mingle inside her as she was comforted…by her master. God had the oddest sense of humor.

  * * * *

  With a low groan, Raoul pushed the weight slowly upward, his arms shaking with the strain. At the top, he dropped the bar into the rack, the clank loud in his empty weight room.

  As he sat up on the bench and shook out his arms, sweat plastered his tank top to his skin, and his pecs and triceps burned. His body made the shadows on the wall dance. He’d deliberately left off most of the lights, the darkness suiting his mood.

  He’d managed to keep from showing his fury when Kimberly talked about her kidnapping, but, Dios, it had been difficult to hear her voice tremble, feel her scarred body tremble.

  An hour of lifting weights, of pushing himself to exhaustion and beyond, had restored his control. Leaning forward, he set his elbows on his knees and stared at his forearms. His skin was taut over the pumped muscles. His veins bulged. Yes, he was fucking strong.

  Uselessly strong. He’d been too late to save his brother from dying in a filthy alley, too late to rescue this little slave before her abuse. Even worse, next time he saw the Overseer, he couldn’t beat him into the ground. Not yet. His jaw tightened until his teeth ground together. Hopefully later.

  For now, his task was to heal the damage to Kimberly’s soul…and train her as his slave. He dropped his head into his hands, despair edging through his defenses. A slave. Here, in his house, the one he’d built after his divorce, not wanting to live with any memories of Alicia and their failed Master/slave relationship.

  Now he would bring it back into his life.

  Chapter Four

  That evening, Raoul made Kimberly fix stir-fry while he sat on a tall chair at the kitchen island, sipping a beer. The way she moved was as beautiful as the way she danced. No motion wasted, everything in order. But the multitasking was making his head hurt. When he cooked, he’d fix one part; when it was done, he’d prepare the next. The little slave had several different preparations going on at once.

  The slight smile on her face pleased him. Cooking was a comfort to her. He’d remember that.

  Once the meal was on the table, he took a chair, holding up a finger to stop her before she sat down. As she stood beside the table, he helped himself to a bite. The flavors were excellent— strong and well balanced. “Very good, chiquita.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” she said in a distant voice. She’d withdrawn emotionally from him since their talk. He understood. He tended to do the same, but it couldn’t be permitted. If she bottled up her anger and fear, he wouldn’t be able to read her or help.

  “You sound unhappy.” He rested his arm on the back of the chair, deliberately letting his gaze wander down her body, the loose blue T-shirt, the baggy shorts. She’d put her hair into a long braid, and he missed seeing it free. “I think I have been a tolerant master so far. I even let you wear clothing while you were cooking.”

  When her eyes widened, he frowned. At the sale house, she’d shown skill in serving drink and food. In dancing. She’d kept her eyes down, knelt gracefully, spoken only when told. Had she received more training than that? She’d said she was left alone after her kidnapping and then was sold to a sadist to be used for whippings and sex. After her return to the Overseer, she’d spent most of the time healing.

  She not only had received little training, she might have no realization at what being a true full-time submissive entailed. He rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. If she hadn’t been so emotionally fragile, he’d probably enjoy this. He loved teaching.

  He’d loved being a master, at least until a while after he’d married. His mouth tightened. That was in the past and nothing to be repeated.

  When she took a nervous step back, he wiped the anger from his expression and his mind. Eyes on the job, Sandoval. He pointed to the chair beside him. “You may join me this evening at the table.”

  As she sat down, her face was easy to read. Yes, she had much to learn.

  “There may be times I prefer to feed you myself, and then you will kneel beside me and take food from my hand.” When a shudder ran through her, he studied her for a min
ute, trying to read her. Too many emotions there. Fear. Disgust. But was that a hint of anticipation? “The Overseer said you were in the lifestyle before this. Do you know anything about Master/slave relationships in real life?”

  “Uh, not much. I dated a few doms, but that was mostly…uh, sex. Fun. Nothing else. I always thought women who wanted to be slaves… Well, it’d be like wearing a sign that said KICK ME. It’s disgusting.” An odd combination of revulsion and pain twisted her mouth.

  If she had no experience, why such disgust? From someone else’s past? “So…before all this…you liked giving up control during sex. Perhaps to completely enjoy it, you need someone else in charge?”

  Her cheeks pinkened delightfully. “I guess.”

  He smothered his smile. “Some women enjoy giving up control for longer periods, not just in the bedroom. There are those who find that making others happy, especially their doms, fills a different kind of need.”

  From the cynical twist of her lips, he saw she stuck to her opinion: slave equaled doormat.

  “A good relationship is a two-way street, gatita. Submitting and serving is equaled by a master’s need to take control, to protect, to make someone happy.”

  She not only didn’t believe him, but she also dropped her gaze again, shielding herself from him. Something else he would not permit. He set his fingers under her chin, lifting her face to his scrutiny, feeling the way she wanted to pull back.

  This wasn’t going to be easy for either of them, especially if she wasn’t honest with him. Even worse, if he happened to misread her body language during a scene—assuming the Overseer required one—they could have a major problem. “A purchased slave would not have a safe word to stop an activity because they’re afraid, but I am uncomfortable without one. So, if you should say ‘cramp’ or complain of one, I will know you need a break or are having problems, and we will talk.” He grinned. “Yet it won’t look like I’m giving in to something most owners would ignore.”

  The relief in her eyes appalled him. To feel grateful for the most basic of BDSM considerations. Well, they definitely had much work to do. He released her.

  As he ate, she pushed her food around, her nervousness obvious in the way her eyes checked him constantly and her muscles tensed each time he moved.

  Once finished, he leaned back, stretching his legs out before him. “I have two basic positions I wish you to know right away. We’ll work on the others later. The first is kneel, and you did very well with that one. The next is called display, and it’s what I requested you to do in the dungeon.” He raised an eyebrow.

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure I remember.”

  “Stand up.”

  After a second of hesitation—something else to work on—she rose.

  “Good.” Leaning forward, he tapped her inner thighs to have her open her legs farther, and stood to adjust her position. “Hands laced behind your neck.” He waited for her to comply.

  Under his touch, she trembled, and her gaze dropped away. Curling his hand lightly over her shoulder, he waited to see if she was still with him. After a few seconds, her blue eyes cleared, and she looked directly at him.

  The trusting had begun. He stroked his hand over her cheek. “You’re very lovely, gatita.”

  Her brows pulled together, and she gave him a skeptical stare.

  “Do not look at your master as if he’s an idiot.”

  A surprised smile flickered over her lips.

  Raoul drew his finger down her jawline. “Your skin is beautiful and very soft. Touchable.” He continued down her neck to above her breasts. “Your breasts are beautiful—full and high.”

  Her breathing stopped, her lips pressing together. But she maintained her stance.

  He trailed his finger between her breasts, not pressing at all, so the fabric of her shirt kept his touch from her skin. When he reached her stomach, he felt the shiver even through the khaki material of her shorts and knew she was aware of him…as a master. As a man.

  He said softly, “Your waist curves in and then out to hips that were made to cradle a man, soft thighs to hold a man between them.”

  The color rising in her cheeks wasn’t entirely from fear, yet it was far too soon to even attempt to touch her in any sexual manner. “You may relax. Hands at your sides, palms forward.”

  In all reality, pretty as she was, he’d prefer to avoid it altogether. Nonetheless, every dom instinct in him wanted to act, to try to heal the damage, and as she was under his care, he must do what he could. So he would move slowly with small touches, verbal play.

  “Now, you will remember to ask to speak, no? If we are having a conversation, permission is understood. Address me as Master or Master R or Sir. Nothing else. This, I saw, you have already learned.”

  He noticed she’d never called him Raoul either, even at Gabrielle’s home. Did she think of him as the enemy then? Or as her master?

  She nodded.

  “Most of your responses should be simply, ‘Yes, Master’, but if you’re particularly enthusiastic, you may say, ‘It will be my pleasure, Master.’”

  Her expression showed doubt that anything he suggested could ignite her enthusiasm.

  “You are to care for the house and meals. A housekeeper comes in on Thursdays to stock the kitchen and do general cleaning. I’ll introduce you, and you may take on overseeing her.”

  “I’ll oversee someone else?”

  Her incredulity made him grin. She was so very unused to the dance between dominant and submissive. His lips tightened. And that was because she had experienced only the raping away of her power rather than the joy of giving it into loving hands. “A slave might have clothes or not, speech or silence, no responsibility or much. Nothing is set in stone.”

  He held her gaze with his and could see her yield to his voice, his authority. Something constricted inside him—she feared his control yet wanted it. How deep did her need run? Light submission…or complete? “The only consistency in the relationship is this: the master decides.”

  “But—” Her shoulders hunched defensively.

  “That makes you anxious, gatita. Why?”

  “I won’t know… I need to know what—”

  Did she fear arbitrary punishment? “We’ll go over what I expect from you. The rules. I will never punish you for something you didn’t know or didn’t understand, Kimberly. That isn’t my way.”

  Some of the worry faded from her eyes. But not all. Her gaze was focused on the floor.

  He considered what he knew of her. Not nearly enough. “I need to know…” she’d said. Needed to know what to do? Some people—and a high percentage of submissives—wanted clear-cut rules. Preferred their duties laid out, liked schedules and lists. He was somewhat that way himself, as were many engineers.

  “I think I understand,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll list out your responsibilities.”

  The tensed muscles of her shoulders eased. The whiteness around her mouth started to pinken.

  Much better. He added, “At breakfast every morning, we’ll plan out your day.”

  There it was. He’d won an actual smile.

  * * * *

  Kim had been left alone to clean the kitchen— thank you, God—and the time putting dishes in the dishwasher and wiping down the dark granite counters helped settle her nerves. She scrubbed at a stubborn stain, still a bit shaken by her reaction to Master R. When he’d talked to her in that dark rich baritone, telling her she was lovely, talking about her breasts, well… Apparently her hormones hadn’t gone into hibernation after all. Only she wished they had.

  The thought of having sex ever again filled her with ice. And panic.

  I’m fine. Just keep my emotions calm and cool . She imagined picking up a heavy shield, like something Lancelot would carry. Nothing could get through it.

  She stopped in the doorway of the TV room. Like the rest of the house, it had creamy stucco walls and terra-cotta tile flooring. The end tables and entertainment center were of
dark wood, a waist-high brick red vase stood in one corner, and throws in autumn colors made the room cozy. A painting of a gorgeous old world sailboat hung over the leather couch where Master R was reading a technical magazine.

  He glanced over and smiled. “Barring any other instructions, when I am sitting, you will join me by kneeling at my feet, half-facing me, eyes down.

  That’s disgusting, her cynical part said. But her inner self…was silent. That wasn’t right. Shouldn’t everything in her disagree with subservience? A tiny shiver went through her as she knelt, grateful for the softness of the Oriental rug.

  “Very, very pretty, chiquita,” he said softly. “I’d never planned to have a slave in this house”—he hesitated, and his jaw tightened for a second—“so most of the floors are tile and will be uncomfortable for you. If there is no carpet, you may use a pillow.”

  Had he owned a slave in a different house? She looked up, almost spoke. “Permission to speak?”

  “Good. Add Master onto the end, please.”

  “Permission to speak, M-master.”

  He leaned forward and cupped her cheek, his brown eyes frighteningly serious. “It pleases me when you call me that, Kimberly. I thought you should know.” He held her gaze, his look reaching deep, deep into her, melting the ice in her center.

  She swallowed past a dry throat.

  He waited, still touching her, his thumb stroking her jaw.

  “Did you have a s-slave before?”

  “Mmmhmm. After college, I had a slave for about two years before I moved here. She preferred to stay in that city, so I helped her find a new master.” The movement of his slightly rough thumb stroking her skin lulled her into relaxing…until his expression hardened, the warmth in his eyes disappeared. “The woman I married was my slave as well.”

  Kimberly pulled away. “Married? But—”

  “I’m divorced, gatita, for almost three years now.”

  The bitter twist to his lips made her want to pat his hand in comfort. “What happened?”

  He leaned back, putting more distance between them. “The usual things that break up a marriage.” His voice made it clear the subject was off-limits. Pretty unfair considering the way he’d probed her life.