by His Slave
Why was he trying to frighten her? But was he?
“Pain and pleasure. The marriage between the extremes. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she heard herself say. “Yes!”
“Good.” The all-knowing hand went on the move again, pushing against her inner thighs. Her chin was free, her head lowering, again trying to see.
15
Maybe she should have anticipated, but when he grasped the chain and pushed two fingers inside her, she cried out. Although she wanted what he was offering, she tried to scoot away.
“Not going anywhere, slave. I’m not done with you.”
“Not—fair!”
“Of course it isn’t. But then you really aren’t complaining, are you?”
Waiting for his fingers to trigger an explosion, she paid scant attention to her breasts. Then, suddenly, her right nipple was free! Blood rushed back into it, making her whimper. She was trying to get on top of the sensation when he began rubbing where the clamp had dug in. Pain slid off into a place that didn’t concern her as she focused on the current weaving through her.
“One down, one more to go. I’ll go slower this time so what you feel will be different. Hold your breath.”
Whether focusing on breathing had anything to do with the slow return to life in her left breast, she couldn’t say. He took what seemed like forever with her nipples, running his nails over them.
“No lack of sensitivity there,” he said unnecessarily. “I feel sorry for women who don’t experience what you just did.”
Other fingers were inside her, waiting and ready. No escaping. No wanting to. “You don’t feel sorry for anyone,” she snapped. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t do that.”
“Maybe. One last lesson, Cheyenne. Then, if that’s what you want, you can go home.”
He’d called her by her name instead of slave. Did she dare do the same in return, ask him about that last lesson?
“If you could see and weren’t wearing cuffs, would you let me do this?” Drawing out of her sex, he circled her clit. She fought to keep from drowning.
“What about it? If you were free, would this be happening?”
Another circle brought her high on her knees. Could she get to her feet and if so, would she run?
“You’re going to climax soon,” he said. “I, however, am going through hell.”
“Not my doing. I didn’t—” Her body stopped, froze. The seconds ticked down. Two, she thought, two. Maybe.
Without warning, he pushed on her chest, forcing her onto her back. Her legs were no longer under her, but straight and splayed. Saying nothing, he ran his hands under her buttocks and lifted her so only her shoulders and feet were on the floor. Something wet and warm lapped at her sex.
“No! Oh, my—God!”
Her body shuddered, and her hands dug into her own back. The attack on her pussy increased as Mace drew her into his mouth. Holding her tight, he controlled her climax.
Her head thrashing from side to side, she screamed. Screamed again.
Cheyenne was back on her knees, but her arms were no longer fastened behind her, and he’d removed the blindfold. Looking down at the top of her head, Mace told himself he was still in charge, but any man who said that while a woman cradled his cock in her mouth was a fool.
Her hands gripped his thighs, steadying herself as she turned her head this way and that, sucking much as he’d done to her. Because he didn’t trust himself to touch her, he’d fisted his hands. His back was slightly arched, his toes trying to grip the carpet. His eyes burned, his jaw ached from clenching his teeth, and his jeans were down around his ankles.
Cheyenne wasn’t a pro at sucking cock, yet. But she was making up for it in enthusiasm, although maybe determination to prove herself drove her. Whether she drew him in as deep as she could or adjusted her hold so his tip pressed against the inside of her cheek made little difference to him.
It was all good! All unnerving.
“Keep it up,” he ordered, because that was what a dom did. “Don’t stop. Put your tongue into it.”
Her understanding nod brought him onto his toes. A groan pressed against his teeth, but damned if he’d cry out like she had. He might come; hell, there was no might to it! But even then he’d hold it together.
Somehow.
“Hands on your thighs,” he commanded. “I didn’t give you permission to touch more than my cock, did I?”
A shake of her head sent fire running down his legs. If she was doing this on purpose—
“You remember what Paul’s sub did at Indulgences, don’t you?” Not giving her time to nod, he continued. “She crawled under the table and did him because she’s his obedient pet. She hasn’t earned the right to climb in bed with him. Maybe she never will.”
Cheyenne’s lips slowed. Done with trying to act as if he wasn’t on the edge, he ran his fingers into her hair and pulled her against him until her nose was against his groin. Mindful of not forcing her to go too long without breathing, he held her in place.
“Keep at it,” he ordered. “Put everything you have into pleasing your master.”
Although he heard her try to suck in air, she obediently ran her tongue along his cock’s underside. Her mouth was open wide, the corners looking strained; even when she met his gaze, he wasn’t sure how much she was seeing.
Letting up a little, he allowed her to fill her lungs. He’d given her damn little time to recover from climaxing. Granted, he’d let her down once her juices coated his mouth, but then he’d flipped her onto her belly so he could straddle her hips. Lowering his weight onto them had felt good, but nothing like what was happening now.
“Faster. Put more effort into it, slave!”
Her nodding, bobbing response robbed him of air. Hell, he could barely think. What he remembered was rubbing against her buttocks followed by unlocking the cuffs. Then, not particularly wanting to, he’d gotten off her and told her she could sit up.
The blindfold had remained in place as, in response to his command, she’d pulled down his jeans. Then, wanting her to see what she was about to do, he’d yanked the cloth over her head. Static electricity had left her hair standing on end.
“What ... what do you now think of the marriage of pleasure and pain? Change your mind? Think you could fall in love with a flogger after all?”
She stopped moving, eyes wide and knuckles turning white.
“Doesn’t damn matter,” he ground out. “Not now. Get back to work.”
Releasing her hair, he slapped her shoulder. His hand didn’t leave a mark, but then drawing her into a sub’s life was hardly his priority. Damn it! For a man whose world revolved around independence, having his cock in her mouth was wrecking him.
Wrecking him good.
Shit! The point of no return coming. Plowing over him like a tidal wave. Gripping her hair again, he dove into the explosion. Shards of sensation first circled around and then into him.
He wouldn’t look into her eyes anymore! Damn it, wouldn’t let her see the truth of him! Instead, he’d force her to hold his cum and struggle to breathe. Keep the balance tipped in his direction.
Mostly.
Coming! “Ah, shit, shit!”
Her strength tightened down around him, pulling him into a deep, dark pit.
“God damn!”
Lights in the pit. A rainbow of color.
“Damn you!” Damn me.
Cheyenne had painted her condo’s living room walls cream with a hint of green. The female employee at the paint store had tried to talk her into trying yellow, saying that yellow was mood-lifting, but Cheyenne believed that color worked on flowers and the occasional butterfly or bird. Same with pink. Who had died and declared that all women preferred to surround themselves with pink?
Of course, she acknowledged as she let herself in after driving back from Mace’s place, it was more than a little likely that her parents had influenced her opinion of pink. Her adoptive parents. No sissy, girly-girl nonsense for their proj
ect. Instead, they pounded home their insistence on primary colors, the stronger the better.
The message light on her phone was blinking. Hoping it was Mace making sure she got home all right, she punched Play. Instead of the deep voice with the ability to run chills down her spine, she heard her mother’s voice.
“Your father and I want to make sure you read this month’s Finance Today, the magazine we gave you a subscription to. There’s an important article in it about the economy’s impact on IRAs. You are feeding yours, aren’t you? The maximum allowed by law. If you’d focused on computer technology as we advised you to, you’d be making much more than you are and retirement funding would be less problematic. However, your career is what it is. Our hope remains that you’re intelligently leveraging yourself for the future. The article begins on page twenty-two.”
“I love you, too, Mom,” Cheyenne muttered, erasing the message. “And I wonder what you’d think if you knew what I did tonight. Probably cut me out of your wills, not that that hasn’t been the subject of more than one conversation.”
The pit of her stomach hollowed out, but because it wasn’t the first time, she knew how to deal with it. Surround herself with emotionless walls. The successful couple who’d opened their lives to her when in their early forties was set in their ways. They had cast-in-stone standards she’d never lived up to, but they had provided her with a roof over her head and pounded a strong work ethic into her.
“The standoff continues,” she muttered as she headed for the bedroom. “I just wish I could find a way to get you two to listen when I say I’m going to do what turns my crank, not yours.”
Speaking of cranks, hers had been turned and then some tonight.
After kicking off her sandals, she stripped out of the shirt Mace had given her to wear home and dropped it on the floor. Naked, she stepped into the bathroom and turned on the light. Maybe because she was avoiding her reflection in the mirror, she first noted the dark blue highlight wall to the right of the sink. Not into over-the-top decor, she’d painted the other walls white. Because hers was the only name on the mortgage, for the first time in her life she hadn’t had to ask permission.
Mace’s pale walls had retreated into the background with the result that his photographs stood out. Where she’d brought her modern and impersonal condo to life with mismatched pieces of furniture and a paintbrush, he’d relied on photography.
Spectacularly.
Thinking to ward off replaying what had happened at his place, she focused on her image. Her hair was a disaster. Nothing short of a shampoo and lots of conditioner would remedy things. Her shadow and mascara was smeared, making her ponder whether there was such a thing as blindfold-proof makeup. Probably not, and even if there was, did she have the courage to ask?
Red splotches began at her cheekbones and ran clear to her chin. Her lipstick was history, undoubtedly because what she’d started the evening with was on Mace’s cock.
Groaning, she rested her chin in her hands. Her eyes had that deer in the headlights look. Clearly she’d seen and experienced things she never had before. Deliberately turning her next groan into a sigh, she got around to the real reason she’d come in here.
She couldn’t be sure, but her breasts seemed a little larger than usual, a lingering by-product of being stimulated. Most remarkable, if that was the right word, were her nipples. They were darker than the rest of her breasts all right, no surprise there. Still hard and erect. And with faint marks on either side.
Giving a crooked smile, she lightly touched the marks. Not pain, not really. But far from same old, same old. No way would she want to have to shove them into a bra right now.
Planting her hands on the counter, she leaned closer. She’d seen the clover clamps as she was getting ready to leave, so knew there’d been nothing claw-like about them after all. Instead, spring-loaded flat disks had connected with the sides of each nipple. No wonder she hadn’t been able to shake them off.
If she’d agreed to being flogged, would that have satisfied Mace?
Gnawing on her lower lip did nothing to supply the answer. The idea of pain for pain’s sake made her slightly sick to her stomach. No way would she stand still for that kind of treatment. But what if Mace wielded the flogger?
16
“I understand,” Mace said. “It’s not as if I need telling how to do my job.”
A few minutes ago, Atwood had summoned Mace into his office, and although the executive hadn’t said what he wanted to talk about, Mace had a damn good idea. Being able to concentrate on Atwood instead of splitting his attention between him and Robert made it easier to focus, something that hadn’t come easily since Cheyenne had been to his place.
“I didn’t say that,” Atwood countered, “but Cheyenne was noncommittal when I asked if the two of you had finalized plans for Saturday night. When I brought up her submissive tendencies, she shrugged me off. I understand her reluctance to discuss it with me, but Robert and I have a right to assurance that—”
“I know what you’re getting at. You want to make sure I get her into the back rooms.”
From his expression, Atwood hadn’t expected the conversation to jump right to the point. Instead of agreeing, he pointed at his liquor cabinet. “Interested?”
“Not on duty.” And never when I’m doming.
“Suit yourself.” Atwood held up a glass. “As you can tell, I’m welcoming Thursday evening a little early. So, is she ready? So far I’m seeing no indication she’s embracing the lifestyle.”
“What do you mean by indication?”
Atwood’s smile made Mace think of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Proof. Physical proof.”
“Such as?”
“Hell, you know what I’m talking about. She can’t phone in the BDSM lifestyle.”
When did a magazine article become this important? Making no attempt to shrug off his question, he watched Atwood sip.
“Seeing her in chains is important to you?” he asked. “Why? Do you intend to be there?”
Atwood’s denial took a moment longer than it needed to. “Although I must confess that the thought of seeing her restrained is, ah, intriguing, that scene’s not my style. Too edgy. And the costumes some of the regulars wear—”
“You’ve seen them?” And don’t give me this shit about the back rooms not being your style.
If Atwood was caught off guard, he gave no indication. “Research, Mace, research. I needed a guarantee that she’d be writing about the real deal, albeit an extreme real deal.”
Hardly for the first time, Mace wanted nothing more than to end a word game. “Granted, my responsibilities don’t call for me getting involved in the magazine itself,” he said, “but Cheyenne’s articles can’t be the most important Edge has ever published.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
On alert, Mace worked at keeping his own poker face in place. “So educate me.”
Atwood’s smile was slow to develop and left his eyes untouched. “Economics. Edge exists because of its advertising. Subscriptions don’t come close to covering the magazine’s operating costs.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Simply put, in order for Edge to attract top-tier advertisers, we have to offer a solid subscriber list. That has been achieved because we offer what other magazines are afraid to. Reality. Life in the raw.”
“Content that occasionally gets you in trouble with the morality police.”
Atwood grinned. “Which is why we keep a legal firm on retainer. Mace, we recently signed contracts with two national companies with generous advertising budgets. One produces the most popular brand of TVs on the market today. The other—not naming names—is a highly successful drug company.”
Atwood finished his drink in a single swallow. “A key factor in their signing those contracts was because we told them what Cheyenne’s working on.”
“In other words, sex sells.”
�
�In other words, so-called deviant sex attracts big money.” He chuckled. “How’s this for an idea? The photo accompanying her byline shows her wearing a collar.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not.” He paused. “I trust you know what I’m talking about.”
“You bastard.”
“What do you care what does or doesn’t adorn her? It’s not like she matters to you, does she?”
Atwood waited several minutes after Mace left, then took out his cell phone and accessed a number in his address book.
“He’s making me uncomfortable,” he said after the obligatory small talk. “I can’t tell if he’s buying what we’re feeding him.”
“So cut him out. We don’t need trouble.”
Chuckling, Atwood stared at his empty glass. “The Blind Spot knows how to deal with reluctant members. I’m simply telling you not to expect him to immediately fall into line. I just issued him a challenge. It’ll be interesting to see how he responds.”
“You’re putting a lot of effort into this particular recruit.”
“Because we need the kind of service he’s capable of providing. The man called me a bastard, but the word fits him.”
Rio was standing at the back door when Mace opened it, looking as he usually did, a little disappointed.
“I’m sorry,” Mace apologized as he let the pit bull in. “I know you don’t like being cooped up in the backyard, but I can’t take the chance on someone freaking out.”
Rio didn’t appear inclined to forgive him, at least he didn’t until Mace held up what he’d gotten at the grocery’s meat market. “A beef knuckle bone,” he explained. “It won’t splinter and wind up in your gut. You promise to keep it in the kitchen?”
Rio snagged the bone, dropped it, and settled over it.
“Thanks for nothing. The maid’s going to kill us. Oops, no maid.”