Vonna Harper

by His Slave

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Simple man, simple. What’s the point of getting physically close to a woman without letting the heart in?”

  The older man had asked similar questions before. As he’d done in the past, Mace chose not to answer. Back then his response would have been that his heart’s only task was to keep the blood pumping in his veins. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Putting down his barely touched wine, he stood and walked over to Cheyenne. He cared not at all that they were being watched.

  “Getting the point of this?” he asked.

  His intention had been to tug the crotch rope, but her skin against his knuckles distracted him. Feeling contemplative, he ran his fingers over her belly. She was so damnably soft in the places a woman should be, dangerous and unsettling places.

  Noting that her eyes were nearly closed told him that, as usual, the handler had done his job. Restrained and silenced with her senses in overdrive, Cheyenne cared only about what was happening to her. Probably any man or even a woman could touch her and she wouldn’t care.

  “Enjoying yourself, are you,” he observed as he reluctantly withdrew his hand. “In that zone you can’t find words for, a place where the world revolves around you.”

  Other than blinking, she gave no indication she’d heard. Several men had left the table and were positioning themselves near their slaves. Always before, a part of him remained removed from what he was doing in case intervention was needed. This time, however, someone else would have to step forward if a dom went too far.

  “I want to keep you in that zone,” he continued. “I also want you to tell me what it feels like.” Studying her, he ran his knuckles over the hip closest to him. She started, but instead of trying to draw away, she leaned into him, eyes still at half mast.

  “You don’t care what I’m saying. The only thing you give a damn about is being the center of my attention. You’d hate it if I left you. What if I traded or sold you? Seeing me dom with someone else would piss you off, not that you could do anything about it.”

  Her eyes were now open, suspicion sneaking into her expression. Maybe she wasn’t as far gone as he’d thought.

  Tired of asking himself questions only she could answer, he continued to stroke her hip. A woman to Cheyenne’s left whimpered. There was no mistaking the sound preceding it. Someone had slapped her. She whimpered again.

  “Shut the fuck up,” a man ordered. “You should have cried uncle when you had the chance.”

  Reminded of the primary reason he’d stopped frequenting Indulgences, Mace reached into his jeans for his pocketknife. Holding Cheyenne’s hair to steady her, he cut through the tape keeping the rag in her mouth. As soon as he pulled out the rag, she licked her lips.

  “I can gag you again just as easily as I got rid of it,” he said as much for the benefit of their audience as her. “Which I will if you do anything except what I want you to do, you got it?”

  Because he still had a hold of her hair, her nod was barely perceptible. Still, it told him she was listening.

  “Good.” Reaching up, he unhooked the rope over her head. That accomplished, he draped the loose end over his shoulder and took off for another section of the room with Cheyenne behind him. Mindful of her tethered ankles, he walked slow, and much as he wanted to study her expression and note how the pussy rope separated her labial lips, his primary concern was keeping his pulse under control.

  He’d nearly reached the flogging stand before she stopped. Anticipating her reaction, he turned, keeping the tension on the lead going.

  “Take your time,” he said. “And take a good look at where you’re going to be until I decide different.”

  The flogging stand consisted of two long four-by-fours in an upright X shape. Metal rings had been imbedded into all four ends so someone could be secured with their arms and legs apart.

  “When you and I started,” he continued, “you went off on how you weren’t into pain, but how can you say that? You spoke out of ignorance, a condition I’m about to change.” He jerked his head at a table near the stand on which a half-dozen floggers had been laid out.

  “You’re not—you can’t—”

  “Quiet!” His jerk on the rope between her legs had her stumbling toward him. “What’d I tell you about not speaking unless I’ve given you the right?”

  Her eyes big, she nodded. Then her attention dropped to the tether sealing them together.

  “I’m going to untie your hands and feet,” he explained. “But because this”—another jerk—“is staying in place for a while, I strongly suggest you don’t try to resist.”

  In almost perfect timing, an unseen woman moaned. If he hadn’t been so focused on Cheyenne, he’d know whether the woman was playacting.

  Leaving Cheyenne to digest what she needed to, he squatted and freed her ankles. Despite the strain in his calves and thighs, he took his time standing, running his fingers over her legs as he did. Goose bumps broke out on her. Her hunched position took him back to the first time he’d seen Rio. Despite his clean kennel, because he had no reason to trust humans, Rio desperately wanted to be free. Rio was the first dog he’d owned, but he’d instinctively known the pit needed time and love. In the end, Rio had become his best friend and confidant. As for Cheyenne, he’d do what was necessary to bring her to a place she didn’t know existed.

  She trembled as he reached for her wrists and was still shaking by the time he’d finished freeing them, reminding him of his first days with Rio. Taking hold of the loose end of the crotch rope, he lifted it, forcing her to acknowledge his continued control.

  Something he’d never tried to give a name rolled through him. Energy explained it as well as anything, energy born of dominance after a helpless and too-often fearful childhood. Once he’d been on the other end of restraints, but what he’d endured back then had had no sexual component. There’d only been surviving.

  Acknowledging how much had changed and that he now held the pace and beat of everything he did made him strong. Powerful.

  Sliding a hand under her breast, he lifted it. She made fists but kept them at her sides.

  “There’s nothing more erotic than a captured breast,” he muttered. “From what I’ve observed, it’s the same for both men and women, taker and receiver.” With that, he slid his fingers to her nipple. “We’ve been through this before, but it’s my opinion that the experience hasn’t been exhausted. What is it like knowing you could stop me from doing this”—he drew her breast upward—“but not being sure you want to? The only thing holding you here is what’s around your waist and between your legs. Why don’t you make a break for it?”

  The world came to Cheyenne in fits and starts, bits and pieces without meaning. She had a rudimentary knowledge of where she was and, if pressed, could explain how she’d gotten here, but those things were unimportant. Having back use of her arms and legs felt strange, almost as if she was in water and moving in slow motion. She could throw a punch, but it would have no impact. Her constricted pussy took a great deal of her attention, wonderfully so. Between that and what Mace was doing to her breast—

  “You gonna use it? Because if you don’t, I want to.”

  The unexpected male voice distracted her. Both grateful and resenting the intrusion, she looked around. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, the ever-shifting mix of shadow and ruby lighting hindered her. What she did know was she was looking at two people, one male and the other female. The man was dressed, the woman naked.

  “Mark your own turf,” Mace said. “I’ve staked my claim here.”

  “Then do something. This bitch needs a good old-fashioned tanning.”

  Fortunately, the man laughed, calming her fear that the woman in question really was in trouble. There seemed to be a lot of posturing among the men. They were like dogs or wolves trying to figure out who was alpha. So far Mace seemed to fit that role.

  Mace who was effortlessly dominating her.

  The man m
oved on with his sub or slave scurrying after him. Releasing her breast, Mace flattened his hand against the base of her throat. “Your pulse is racing and you’re sweating. Why do you think that is?”

  “The way he was treating her ... I have a video that shows—”

  “A video you watch a lot?”

  Despite the hand still on her throat, she nodded. “It, ah, always turns me on.”

  “Because you wish it was you?”

  “No.” She tried again. “Only if I trusted the man.”

  “Sometimes trust is ill-advised. And sometimes the error is discovered too late.”

  Confused, she tried to read his expression, but he didn’t give her time. Grabbing her arms, he pulled her over to the X. She knew its function and had imagined herself fastened to it. The moment he kicked her legs apart, her sex creamed. Behind him were a number of lounge chairs with men heading toward them. Some were alone, others were accompanied by nude and restrained women, all on hands and knees.

  It was happening! Her longtime fantasy come to life. The only difference was, Mace and not she would dictate everything that happened.

  Kneeling, Mace placed something around one of her ankles. As it closed, she realized it was made of metal. Her hands fluttered, free and yet useless.

  “Spread. More.”

  She widened her stance, then stood numb, dumb, and off balance as he secured her other ankle. When he straightened and stepped aside, she found herself looking out at a sea of faces. Unable to determine how many people were watching her, she caressed her throat where Mace’s hand had been a short while ago. Those who knew Mace had drawn their own conclusions, thus the air of anticipation.

  “Think that’s what she wants?” someone asked.

  “Who cares. Make her whimper.”

  “What about it, Mace? This consensual or forced?”

  Her arms were heavy, too leaden for anything except letting them dangle at her sides. She concentrated on keeping her balance.

  “Depends on how she responds,” Mace said.

  Deciding he wasn’t talking to her, she stopped trying to make sense of what he was saying. How strange it was not to care that she was naked and center stage. Granted, there were other nude women in the room, but they didn’t matter. Only what lay ahead for her did.

  20

  Mace reentered her field of vision, filled her world if she was being honest. He positioned himself to her side, then grasped her hair as he’d done other times. When he pulled her head back, she reached out thinking to anchor herself on him.

  “Don’t touch me,” he warned. “You haven’t earned the right.”

  Any other time she’d call him out on that. However, submitting to his command, she pressed her hands against her thighs. They remained there even as his free hand went to her pussy. Pushing the crotch rope aside, he touched her lightly, perhaps lovingly.

  Shocked by the possibility, however remote, that he loved her, she held her breath while he invaded her. His finger remained in her channel, moving about, speaking of right and command. Triggering primitive responses.

  “She’s wet,” he announced.

  “Just wet?” someone asked.

  “Hell no,” Mace replied. “The proverbial flood.”

  “From a half-assed hand fuck job?”

  “Come clean, Mace, what you been doing to prime her pump?”

  “You know the answer to that as well as I do.” Mace remained at her side, his forefinger joining the middle and pushing her inner tissues aside. Tearing into her mind. “Draw your own conclusion.”

  “That’s a no-brainer. She’s a rope slut.”

  “In part,” Mace said. “Truth is, just about everything I’ve tried on her turns this one on.”

  Something about Mace’s tone brought her mind back to life. He was speaking as if she were an object, not a human being, certainly not someone he cared about. What a fool she’d been to think—

  “Hands over your head.”

  She’d done as he’d commanded before the words fully registered. She even extended her hands toward the upper ends of the X, only then comprehending that Mace’s fingers were no longer inside her. The rope back against her crotch tightened.

  Tears sprang to her eyes, compelling her to focus on blinking weakness out of existence while he released her hair and secured her wrists as he’d done her ankles. Something soft had been fitted to the insides of the cuffs.

  “That looks damn fine,” a man who’d spoken earlier said. “There’s something about fresh meat that makes all our effort worthwhile.”

  Exhausted, she looked down at herself. Although her breasts prevented her from seeing the crotch rope, that part of her body sent clear messages. Having her arms and legs restrained fed her libido, but a lingering sensation where Mace’s fingers had been reached every part of her. Her body hadn’t belonged to her since Mace touched her for the first time tonight, maybe even before. No denying it, he knew her better than she did herself.

  Pressing his body against hers, he took hold of her chin. “It’s just going to be you and me, Cheyenne. But mostly it’ll be you looking inside your body and soul, going places you’ve never been, learning new things about yourself. I’m going to cause you a kind of pain I believe you’re hungry for. You have your safe word, which I don’t believe you’ll feel compelled to say. You remember it, don’t you?”

  “Rio.”

  “Yes, Rio.” His tone softened. “I’ll be mixing in pleasure. What we need to determine is the right balance. I’ll do the work, you the experiencing.”

  You promise?

  “You won’t be able to articulate where you are in terms of that experience, and that gives me the burden of reading you. Do you trust me to be able to do that?”

  “I, ah, want to.”

  “Yes, you do.” Releasing her chin, he stroked it. “And I want to earn your trust. Never doubt that.”

  Tears again dimmed her vision. Even when he turned his attention to untying the rope that had all but become part of her, she replayed what he’d said. His goal was to earn her trust.

  Why?

  As he pulled the rope from between her legs, drawing out the sensation and making her long to close her sex around it, she again tried to look down at herself. With the cotton strands no longer pressing against her clit and labial lips, she felt exposed. Everything she’d experienced and was about to came from him, this man who’d taken her freedom.

  This stranger.

  “I don’t have a preference when it comes to floggers.” He seemed to be speaking to their audience. “Each woman I’ve worked with has been different. It takes them a while to lock into themselves. I’m starting with deerskin because I’ve heard it described as feeling alive.”

  “You ever try it on yourself, Mace? Maybe you got some dike to tee off on you.”

  Whatever Mace’s reaction to the comments, she couldn’t tell, or rather the truth was watching him walk over to the table and pick up one of the floggers was all she could concentrate on. The dark handle fit his hand, and the slender strands looked soft. She’d watched enough sex tapes to believe she knew how a flogger responded in the hands of a pro, but only once had touched one. Furtively caressing a flogger in a sex toy shop was hardly the same as the real thing.

  “It’s you and me again, Cheyenne,” Mace whispered. “The others don’t matter. You can focus, can’t you?”

  Not trusting her voice, she nodded. If she cried out, would he gag her again? But maybe he got off on hearing her scream.

  Scream? Please, not that.

  Positioning himself in front of her, he rolled his wrist so the strands moved in a series of circles. Nothing touched her, yet she sensed her future in the way air moved against her side. Sweat bloomed in her armpits, and a wave of liquid heat dampened her inner thighs.

  Closer and closer the flogger came, the air now pushing against her. She couldn’t say what suddenly compelled her to stare at her master.

  Master. Owner of her body. Give
r of pain and pleasure.

  “Starting easy,” he muttered, reinforcing that what was about to happen was between the two of them. Something flicked her hip bone, the touch so light it barely registered. “Giving you a base of sensation.” Another touch, this one less imagination and more reality had her tightening her belly.

  He repeatedly struck her belly, each so-called blow easy. Calling it painful didn’t occur to her. Yet the potential was there. Maybe a half-dozen times he stroked the same place. Then he pulled his arm farther back, and she readied herself.

  “Ah,” she whimpered as a stinging sensation settled over her thigh. Again and again, the deerskin strands landed on one thigh and then the other. Despite the rhythm, she couldn’t fall into it.

  The flogger danced from the joint between hip and thigh to the top of her knees, never twice in the same place. Each strike seemed stronger, but maybe that was because her skin was becoming more sensitive. She wanted these moments to end, needed it to be over so her nerves could recover. But if she begged Mace to stop, would he listen? Maybe only using her safe word would work, and she wasn’t there.

  Needed to prove herself.

  Her thighs burned, her muscles kept contracting. Her breathing rasped, and her temples throbbed.

  Slap, slap, slap.

  “Stimulation,” he said. “There’s a fine line between experiencing not enough and too much. You’re on the edge.”

  Needing to connect with something other than her body, she went looking for him. How had he moved to her side without her knowing? His assault on the thigh closest to him continued. Sighing with each breath, she struggled to concentrate on her other thigh, to find sanity in what wasn’t being attacked, but the pace was picking up, sting upon sting upon sting, now moving around toward her ass cheek. Mewling, she tried to turn away.

  “Not going to happen.” Grabbing a nipple, he hauled her back into place. “No getting away from this. You’re climbing a mountain, one we both need.”