by His Slave
Using his hold on her leash for leverage, Mace hauled her against his side. “Take your cock somewhere else, Paul. Haven’t you given up by now?”
The still unseen Paul laughed. “As long as you keep coming up with flesh like her, I’m not likely to. What do you think, slave? Interested in sucking on a real man?”
This was happening. She was no longer dreaming, no longer directing a scene that existed only in her mind, and Mace had slipped his hand into her short hair and pulled so she was off balance, her neck burning.
“Go on, slave,” Mace said. “Tell him who your master is.”
Mace should have given her the playbook before they came in, should have given her a better hint of what to expect.
“Speak up, slave.” Anger, either genuine or affected, was laced through Mace’s voice. “Whom do you belong to?”
“You, Master.” Until I kick you in the balls, that is.
“There’s your answer, Paul. Anything else you need to know?”
“Hell, I was just joking. In fact, how about you and your bitch join me and mine at my table. I’ll buy you a drink while we wait for the floor show to start.”
Mace’s shrug resonated through her. She had no choice but to reach out, thinking to wrap her arm around his waist for support, but her fingers barely brushed him when he yanked her upright. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Did I give you permission to touch me?” Although he released her hair, he reined her in via the chain leash.
“New one?” Paul asked. “Training them’s a lot of work, but there are rewards. You thinking of doing some training tonight? If so, I’ll sell tickets and we’ll clean up.”
Cheyenne now stood directly in front of Mace and on her toes because he’d lifted up on the leash, causing the collar to push against the underside of her jaw. Her arms were at her sides and ending in fists that wanted nothing more than to punch Mace.
At the same time, damn it, at the same time something hot and heady radiated out from him, and her hungry body absorbed it. Tonight was the real deal, years of imagining coming true, if she had the guts.
Mace turned Paul down, at least that’s what she thought he’d said, not that she paid attention. Her breasts were maybe a half inch from his chest and if she leaned just a bit, she’d connect with his cock.
“How about the drink?” Paul said, sounding disappointed. “At least we can catch up.”
“Why not. Your usual table?”
“What else? I’m a creature of habit. Even have the same slave as the last time we saw each other.”
To her relief, the pressure around her neck let up, allowing her to settle back onto the balls of her feet. She would have relaxed more if Mace wasn’t still holding on to her as if she were some unruly dog. At least she could devote some attention to Paul or, more to the point, the tall, skinny woman standing behind him. Even with the lousy lighting, she noted layers of makeup complete with black lip liner. The woman wore, of all things, a spiked collar and was naked from the waist up. A micro mini clung to her nearly nonexistent hips. Her hands were secured behind her. She didn’t speak.
Too much! Sensory overload.
Struggling to put all the pieces together distracted her from what Mace was doing. As a result, she found herself being hauled behind him as his long legs wound through the press of bodies. It was too hot in here, claustrophobic.
And exciting as hell.
Paul was already sitting down when Mace and she caught up to them. Instead of joining him, Paul’s slave awkwardly inched under the table on her knees. Holy shit, was she going to plant herself between Paul’s legs and work on his cock? The sound of a zipper tearing loose answered her question. Just thinking how the skinny woman had accomplished that without use of her hands made her teeth ache.
Pulling out his chair, Mace gracefully settled himself on it. He locked eyes with her. You have the guts for this? his expression said.
Yes, she answered.
Nodding, he jerked his head, indicating he wanted her to kneel at his side. She did so slowly, graceful, back straight and arms still dangling. If he directed her under the table, would she?
Did she have a choice?
Thinking about her lack of options made her mouth water and pussy clench.
“More meat on her than my slave has,” Paul observed. “Curves where curves should be. How’d you snag her?”
“That, my friend, is none of your business.”
Mace reached out with the chain lightly wrapped around his fingers and stroked her temple. Electricity shot from the point of contact to her already overstimulated sex. “So you like my pet, do you?” he asked Paul. “She’s raw but shows promise. Don’t you, bitch?”
On the verge of insisting Mace take back the offensive word, she bit her tongue. This was part of the act, right?
“I hope I do, Master.”
“Of course you do. Otherwise, you’ll be punished.”
“How does she respond to the flogger?” Paul’s voice sounded strained, giving Cheyenne a clue about what was going on under the table.
“Needs work. She prefers restraints.”
“How is she at blow jobs?”
Mace’s hand slid from the side of her head to her mouth. Taking her lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, he gently drew it toward him. Her lids sagged, and her breath caught.
“My opinion, she’s operating at a C level but eager to become more proficient, aren’t you?”
Mindless, she nodded as best she could. Her nipples hardened, pressing against the too-tight fabric. The why and how of her response didn’t matter. There was only feeling alive.
Mace released her lip only to continue his assault to her nervous system by flattening his fingers over her mouth. His features blurred. The loud driving music and nonstop conversations that had made her ears ache no longer registered. His fingertips were rougher than she’d expected, the contrast between them and her lips erotic.
“What caught my attention from the beginning,” Mace continued, “was her response to tactile stimulation. She’s very responsive. It doesn’t take much to wind her up and a great deal to wind her down.”
“Just the kind of problem a man like you thrives on. Looks like you’re breaking her in slow.”
Changing tactics, Mace worked his fingers between her teeth. She obediently opened her mouth, then tried not to gag when he touched her tongue. The chain he’d been holding slid between her breasts. Between his probing fingers, the chain, her tight as hell nipples, flooding pussy, and the leather circling her neck, she wanted nothing more than to fall back onto the floor and spread her legs. Beg Mace to mount her.
“Timing and pace is key to molding a subject into the perfect slave,” Mace said. He slid his fingers over her teeth, occasionally brushing her tongue, keeping her mouth open, controlling her. “It’s a slow process, yet relentless.”
Paul’s breath snagged. His chair squeaked. “Re-lentless. Hell yes. Oh, shit!”
Whether Paul expected Mace to say anything didn’t matter. Neither did what Paul’s slave was doing to him. Her world consisted of Mace’s hand in her mouth and her lips on fire.
Blips of conversation let her know Mace was ordering drinks. Then the conversation ended, and he withdrew his fingers only to capture her lower lip again. “Hands behind your head,” he ordered. “Arch your back.”
Do it. Don’t think. She did so slowly, her progress hampered by her heavy arms and flashing colors in her mind. Finally, feeling proud and yet disconnected, she laced her fingers together and drank in as much air as her lungs could hold.
The drawing sensation on her lip sent jolt after jolt through her. The electrical charges emptied out in her pussy. She smelled sweat, alcohol, perfume, aftershave, sex.
“Tell me what you’re feeling?”
Mace’s voice first touched the edge of her consciousness, then insisted on her attention. “Everythin’.”
“Be specific.”
She couldn’t speak with
him holding her like that, surely he understood. “Pleath.”
“Point taken.” He released her lip only to take hold of her all but useless blouse and draw it down over one breast, exposing it. She looked down at herself, then took another deep breath. Pride in her dark, hard nipple and pale round breast filled her.
“All right,” Mace said with Paul’s strident grunts for background, “tell me what happens when I do this.”
His thumb pressed against her nipple, the pressure flattening her breast and making the hard knot of flesh throb. Her interlaced fingers started to slip from the back of her head.
“Erect, slave! Chest back. Arms in place. Now, don’t move.”
His words were like hail on a metal roof, hammer blows that dominated her world. Still, she struggled to obey.
“Pay attention,” he continued. “One of the tenets of BDSM is the connection between pleasure and pain. Done right by a master who understands the bond results in a slave who doesn’t care which she’s receiving. Often she’s unable to distinguish between the two. As example—” Gripping her nipple between thumb and forefinger, he drew it toward him much as he’d done with her lip.
More electricity flared. It seemed to originate in her chest wall before spreading in all directions. The pressure on her nipple ratcheted up. Trapped. I’m trapped.
“I don’t need to point out how sensitive your breasts are when it’s easy to demonstrate. Pay attention.”
He pulled her breast to the right and then the left, followed by a circular motion that had her turning with him. What was that phrase? Yes, fire in the belly. Flames filled her belly. Some licked up into her chest, while others found the smooth, wide route to her sex.
No part of her was immune, and her mind dove into the assault on her senses. She heard herself whimper.
“I’m giving you pleasure and pain,” Mace explained. He must have leaned forward because his breath washed her forehead. “As a point of reference, are you able to distinguish between the two?”
There, shards of discomfort. There, rolling heat.
“Drop your arms, slave. I don’t want to wear you out. Good. Now concentrate. This is pleasure.”
The pressure on her trapped nipple died and was replaced by hot moisture. Shit, shit, he was tonguing her there! Whimpering, she cupped her breast and offered it up to him, then shuddered when his teeth lightly closed over what his fingers had claimed. She froze, followed by nearly losing her balance when he bathed as much of her breast as his tongue could reach. He repeatedly coated his tongue with saliva and deposited it here, there, and everywhere. Her drenched breast felt both cold and hot. Still holding it up to him, she ran her free hand between her legs and reached for her aching, burning core. Five thumbs-up for no panties.
“No!”
Shocked, she tried to shake her head in protest only to be stopped by Mace’s hold on her too-receptive nipple.
“Did I give you permission to touch yourself?”
“What?” she snapped. “You get me all hot and bothered and expect—”
A jerk on the leash cut off her air and silenced her. He released her nipple and stood, holding the leash above her.
“Got some work yet to do on her, don’t you?” Paul gloated. “ ’Course you don’t want to beat all the fire out of her.”
“Listen to me, slave.” Mace’s breath washed her forehead. “This body is no longer yours. It belongs to me for as long as it pleases me to play with it. Stand up.”
Orders had been an everyday part of her childhood, and although she’d prided herself on getting past that, she scrambled to her feet. The breast he’d been mauling was exposed, and the burnished lights glinted off the saliva he’d put there.
Mace widened his stance, and his hand moved down. Then pressure on her neck forced her to lean over so she could no longer see him.
“Hands behind you at your waist, slave.”
Desperate to obey, she did as he’d commanded. Thanks to the damnable heels, she was again off balance, which had to be exactly what he’d intended. “Now turn toward the stage.”
Although her legs threatened to tangle, she managed to comply. Nothing mattered more than being allowed to lift her head, not even knowing Paul, and probably a lot of other people, were watching the display.
“Fuck it!” Paul exclaimed. “That’s enough.”
6
The sound of a hand striking flesh said Paul was disciplining his slave. She half expected Mace to do the same. Instead, to her relief, the pressure on the back of her neck let up. Lessons learned, she waited for his orders.
“What do you see?” Mace asked.
Taking the question as permission, she straightened. On the stage a beefy man dressed in leather and carrying a hefty flogger was standing to one side of the spotlight trained on the center of the stage. A naked woman fairly dripping chains slowly walked up the stairs.
“This is the auction, isn’t it?” she managed.
“Correct. You’re going to stand here without moving while you tell me what’s taking place. I want every detail, got it.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. Reaching the top, the so-called slave headed toward the spotlight. “Do you, ah, do you want me to begin now?”
“First I want you to describe your condition.”
As if a switch had been tapped, her focus shifted from what had drawn the audience’s attention to the chain now draped around her neck and over her covered breast. “My, ah, my hands are behind me.”
“Are you handcuffed?”
“No, but it feels like it.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know. The strain maybe.”
“That’s part of it. The rest is what’s taking place inside you. You want this, don’t you?”
Mace’s voice had gentled a little, and she caught another question behind the obvious one. He wasn’t just asking about tonight. “Yes, I do.”
“Now back to your description.”
The leather-clad man she took to be the auctioneer had picked up a microphone, but instead of speaking into it, he snapped the flogger. The sharp crack made her jump, yet even as she winced at the thought of how being struck would feel, more of the heat that had invaded her the moment she’d entered Mace’s car licked her.
“I’m being looked at, not by many because most are interested in the auction.”
“Do you like the attention?”
She waited out another snap of the flogger. “I’m not sure. My breast is exposed. I’ve never done this in public.”
“You didn’t expose it, I did. How does that make you feel?”
“Helpless,” she allowed, although it went deeper. By doing that one thing, Mace had taken responsibility for and control over her body.
“That’ll do, for a start.” He repositioned the chain so the end now brushed her exposed nipple. “Last question before the main event gets going. How do you think you’d react if you were being auctioned?”
The slave was dwarfed by the chains gripping her wrists and ankles, and circling her throat and waist. One ran between her legs.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I think it depends on how much I understood of what was happening. If I knew the auction was for play—”
“Do you think that’s what’s happening?”
“Of course.” Because he hadn’t given her permission to look at him, she fixed on the slave. If the woman wanted to be perceived as terrified and helpless, she needed to take some acting lessons. “People don’t really sell each other in today’s world.”
“Don’t they?”
She might have continued the argument if the auctioneer wasn’t announcing that the sale was about to start. He began by listing the rules for bidders while Cheyenne mentally placed herself front and center, naked and hobbled with her wrists fastened to a waist chain.
Despite the occasionally squawking microphone, she managed a running commentary. As she did, Mace’s drink was delivered; whiskey straigh
t, she thought. Paul’s slave crawled out from under the table but remained on her knees with dried cum on the corners of her mouth.
The first slave went for $9,500, but not until the auctioneer had demonstrated her charms by having her bend over with her ass to the audience while he pulled her cheeks apart. He also hefted her unremarkable breasts, followed by leading her in a circle via his hold on her nipples. Looking as if she was in sub space, the woman managed a few half-hearted groans.
“Enough!” someone finally yelled. “This is embarrassing.”
The next slave looked to be twenty at the oldest. She, too, dragged chains, repeatedly turned her head, and glanced at the audience only to shiver and look down. Sweat glistened off her shoulders and large, natural breasts. From where she stood, Cheyenne noted that the girl/woman was trembling.
“I don’t know if she’s excited or afraid,” she said because Mace had asked her opinion. “Maybe a little of both. I think she’s new at this. Maybe she’s trying to figure herself out.”
“Just like you?”
“I guess.”
She opened her mouth to start again when Mace growled a command for her to face him. Doing so forced her to look at the stage over her shoulder. She should have guessed what he had in mind, but when he pushed up her nearly nothing skirt so it wrapped around her hips, a squeak escaped her throat.
“What—” she started, then stopped. Without a moment’s hesitation, he ran his hand between her legs.
“Spread them.”
Damn you! That’s taking things too damn far!
“Spread them, bitch.”
A role. They were playing roles. For Paul and whoever else might question her authenticity. Reminding herself that this was research for a job assignment might have made more impact if not for the increased pressure on her pussy. Mace had trapped her sex in his palm, the heel of his hand grinding against her mons and lifting her onto her toes.
“Get going again,” he commanded while Paul and several other people, women included, laughed. “What’s happening onstage?”
You’re killing me. “She—she doesn’t want to be there and yet she does. Maybe she’s afraid of being sold to someone cruel.”