A Rose of Any Color: MaleDom: A BDSM Anthology

by Editors: Katherine Merchant, Sonya Bond, Michelle Puffer

  ”Which set?” she asked, directing the question to Christophe, who was sorting through camera lenses. He lifted his head and frowned.

  “Costumes are for another shoot. I need you to work with accessories today. Start with the strap-on harnesses.”

  Heat suffused her cheeks. This was hell, and she’d chosen it for herself with a ridiculous scheme to win back her husband by appealing to his libido and macho sensibilities instead of just talking to him. Disgusted with herself and avoiding Mac’s gaze, she yanked the little green and pink costume over her head and grabbed the first tangle of black leather and steel buckle that she laid hands on. A heavy pink dildo, obscenely long and designed specifically for wearing with a harness, dangled from the crotch ring.

  Amy hid behind the costume rack. Buckles and grommets clinked against one another. Her untrained hands made a mess of the interconnected bits of leather. Whole minutes ticked away. The photographer flashed light from different angles, preparing his set. She caught him darting an impatient glance in her direction, and frustrated tears pricked the backs of her eyelids.

  “Stupid and impossible,” she mumbled beneath her breath, struggling to disengage her wrist from the snaky leather.

  “Hold still.” Mac, suddenly standing at her elbow, took over. He pulled the harness from her hands and deftly shook it into submission. “Step in,” he instructed, bending and holding it low so she could slip her feet through the loops.

  She hesitated. He had lowered his head and angled his face away from her. She couldn’t even see the set of his mouth. His tone was too neutral, too flat, for her to pull any meaning from it. He’d made himself deliberately unreadable.

  “You don’t have to stay,” she whispered.

  Mac tensed. “Yes, I do. Step in.” A growl lurked beneath his even words.

  Amy clutched the shoulder of his jacket and stepped into the leather circles he held stretched between his hands. He pulled the harness up roughly, adjusted the length of the leg straps, and tightened the waist buckle to fit around her hips. Cold metal nestled below her navel.

  “Fix this,” Mac said, tapping the bulbous head of the dildo that jutted away from her abdomen.

  She stared at him. “How did you know how this works?” she asked, low so Christophe couldn’t hear.

  He turned away instead of answering and retreated to a corner of the conference room turned studio. Stamping down her curiosity, she fumbled the latex phallus into place. The rubber-spongy texture made her skin crawl. Her stomach rebelled at the unfamiliar girth of the synthetic shaft. She’d never wrapped her hand around a penis, fake or otherwise, that didn’t belong to Mac.

  The flat butt of the dildo pressed against the narrow strip of blonde hair curling between her thighs, snagging the curls and pulling every time she moved. She tried not to wince as she approached the photographer, dildo and breasts bobbing every step of the way. Mortification set her chest and face on fire.

  Christophe examined her with a critical eye, made notes on a yellow legal pad, and went to set up the camera in the station nearest Mac. “Kneel upon that table on your hands and knees facing away from the camera,” he directed.

  Blood pounded sluggishly between Amy’s ears. She always thought the metaphor of moving through molasses was a hillbilly grandma saying, but she suddenly knew how appropriate it could be even in her urban environment. She placed one foot in front of the other until she reached a table draped with midnight blue velour. Mac’s gaze seared her skin, driving hot pinpricks of awareness into every muscle from her shoulders to her calves.

  She didn’t know how to mount the table gracefully, given Christophe’s failure to provide a step for her benefit. The table hit her at waist height, forcing her to hike herself up until she could catch the surface with her knee. The bulbed end of the strap-on smacked the edge of the table, and the impact knocked the synthetic shaft askew. She had to readjust it.

  “Put your feet together, but keep your knees apart,” the photographer instructed, and came close to place a prop between her feet. Amy glanced down between her thighs, past the strap-on, and raised an eyebrow at the long-stemmed pink rose nestled against her ankles. Artists were so bizarre.

  The air conditioner blew cold air through a vent directly above her, and she swore she could hear Mac breathing as well. His breathing was one of her favorite sounds, whether he was asleep or finishing a workout or in the midst of sex. Especially during sex. The way he inhaled and inhaled and inhaled, short little pulls of oxygen all in a row without breathing out, always signaled his approaching climax. She listened hard, craving the sound, and shivered as he inhaled.

  Was he still angry? That little edge of growl that had kept his voice from being completely flat gave her some small bit of hope that she might survive this display. She wanted to look at him. She could casually flip her hair out of her eyes and sneak a glance, attempt to gauge the expression on his face. Fear kept her from doing it. She’d find out what he thought later, after the photo shoot was finished, when she didn’t need to focus on retaining her composure.

  Bad enough that she was certain Christophe had noticed her scent, as nervous anxiety and embarrassed arousal battled for dominance of her body’s responses.

  A Rose of Any Color: MaleDom: A BDSM Anthology

  Chapter Four

  Mac spent too much of his life looking at his wife, wanting her, loving and sometimes hating her, but never knowing how to touch her. Really touch her, inside, make her really open her eyes and see him. Amy existed in a fog that he couldn’t penetrate. He was tired of fighting it. He should stop hedging and get the divorce papers together, but every time he tried to imagine life without her, his system locked up.

  Nothing affected her. She maintained a neutral mask in every situation except sex. During sex, she was a different person; shy, vulnerable, intensely attentive once she warmed up. Her face was a fluid portrait when he brought her into that deep space of lovemaking. Throughout the duration of their marriage, though, he’d been unable to pull the mask away permanently.

  The meaning behind the array of props spread across the different photo sets had slapped him in the face the minute he entered the studio. The curling tongue of a riding crop threw him into a terrifying memory spin. Only an instinct to protect Amy had kept him from bolting.

  Once the first wave of fear passed, and he forcibly shoved aside the sickening memories of his parents’ relationship, Amy drew him in. He strove to ignore the familiar stiffening she cajoled from his dick. He didn’t want to be aroused by the picture of her submission. The photographer afforded him a focus. Mac’s hands balled into fists of their own accord, craving permission to break the photographer’s pompous nose. The pretty man hadn’t earned the privilege of Amy. He concentrated on his rage instead of the more visceral urge to dominate his wife, and fantasized about plowing the other man’s face with his fists.

  The photographer snapped several photos of her ass, her cheeks parted just enough that the tight pink pucker was visible along with the clipped blonde down furring her lips, spread wide by that ridiculous strap-on. The black leather harness wound around her hips and framed her thighs. Soon, Mac could smelled as well as saw her body’s reaction, rosy pussy wet and glistening, but he couldn’t tell whether it was a result of conscious arousal or Pavlovian response. As he drew in his fill of her lush scent, his nipples drew tight and the nature of her arousal ceased to matter.

  His gaze drifted out of a sense of self-preservation, and he searched for something else upon which to focus. He would control himself.

  “Lift your hips and lower your shoulders.”

  The instruction drew Mac’s attention back, away from a neutral spot on the wall where the paint had chipped away. Amy’s shoulders tensed as she repositioned her body. Christophe directed her to lift her shoulders higher—he wanted to get her nipples in the photo. Her knees were too close together. She needed to bring her feet up, hold the rose between them but lift them off the table.

&nb
sp; Amy obeyed every instruction, adjusting her pose to accommodate Christophe’s desires. She may as well have been a puppet. Her willingness to display her body confused Mac because she was so modest in every other situation in life. Even with him, she requested low lights, wore lingerie to bed, and managed to hold onto at least one article of clothing in the most intimate of engagements.

  He didn’t know what was worse: that another man manipulated his wife, or that she wordlessly obeyed. He’d never asked anything like this from her—didn’t need kinky sex, racy poses, or dirty language. She was enough for him in and of herself.

  She rested her cheek on her forearm, facing him. He’d never seen her eyes so dark before, soft and languid and sultry. Begging for his attention, for his approval.

  “You’re too wet,” Christophe abruptly announced. He threw a rough rag at Mac. “Wipe her with that.”

  Amy’s thighs clenched. Her hair hung in her face so Mac couldn’t tell whether her expression changed at all, but he was humiliated and angry on her behalf. And he hated that damned pink rose propped between her little feet, thorns dangerously close to pricking the tender skin. White roses were her roses. He had never given her any other color, and he wanted to jam that pink one up the photographer’s ass.

  Instead, he strangled the rag he’d been given and moved behind Amy, blocking her from Christophe’s view.

  “Are we here because this is an assignment you want, or because you’re trying to talk to me?” he whispered, spreading his fingers across the small of her back. This close, her fragrance drugged him. Something stronger than gravity tried to drag him to his knees, to bring him to a level more conducive to planting his face between her thighs and licking until his tongue wore raw.

  “Quickly!” The photographer heaved a disgusted sigh behind Mac and swore beneath his breath. “We’ll never make deadline,” he muttered.

  “Amy, answer me.”

  A Rose of Any Color: MaleDom: A BDSM Anthology

  Chapter Five

  Mac’s question reached down deep into the warm pool of fantasy that bound Amy. His voice broke the promise of the dark and offered something new, if only she could claw her way free and grab it.

  Somewhere, an unfamiliar voice asked, “Amy, what is this?”

  “Back off.” That was Mac. “She’s sick.”

  His gruff tone alarmed her. She wanted him tender and attentive, not angry, but the gentling filter of fantasy unraveled faster than she could wind it back up. She surfaced through layers of sensation. Numbness pricked her shins. The still-unfamiliar weight of the harness she wore skewed her balance. She drew her knees together, closer to her chest, and something sharp stabbed her ankle.

  Big, warm hands cupped her shoulders and drew her upright. A heavy weight draped across her back. “Mac?” she asked, blinking at the expanse of wrinkled fabric, the single row of buttons that marched down the broad chest that blocked her view of the room.

  “I’m taking you home,” he said. He fumbled with the buckle of her harness. Her hips shifted toward him of their own volition, responding to her sensitive, aroused body’s needful cravings for his touch.

  “What are you doing?” the other voice in the room asked. His irritation stung her ears. “We’re not finished!”

  “Yes, you are,” Mac said. “Find someone else.”

  A door opened and slammed shut. Amy jumped.

  “I love you,” she murmured. She pressed her forehead to Mac’s chest. “I do.”

  “You need to get dressed.” Mac’s voice, low and rough, made her shiver and tremble all at once. Her head wasn’t where it should be; she couldn’t quite focus properly. He moved away, but came back moments later and dressed her. She tried to help but her arms and legs refused to cooperate.

  Mac pushed her feet into her shoes and pulled her up and out of the studio. The timing didn’t seem right. How much time had passed? She couldn’t remember most of the job, didn’t remember it ending at all, and had no idea whether it was a success or a failure. Her recollection didn’t improve as they walked. Shame joined arousal and together they drummed a rhythm she couldn’t break, an over-and-over again cycle that held tight and wouldn’t let her go.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. His grip on her bicep tightened and relaxed, but he didn’t say anything.

  The high-rise office building’s lobby was deserted. Rain sluiced down the big windows that formed the front. She balked.

  “I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

  Shedding his coat, he draped it over her head and around her shoulders and guided her into the deluge.

  “You’ll get sick.” Wet, icy fingers snuck beneath the makeshift umbrella, stinging her cheeks. Mac ignored her protest and hurried her to the parking garage half a block down the street.

  They ducked out of the rain, and he escorted her to his car, guiding her into the passenger seat. Water dripped from his nose, splashing on her lips. “We’ll get your car later.”

  Amy licked her lips dry and worried her thumbnail. He positioned himself behind the wheel. Now that his focus had been redirected and wasn’t aimed entirely at her, her head started to clear. The rain had also helped, rinsing her clean mentally even as it destroyed her makeup.

  His shirt was soaked through. Wet and transparent, it clung to his skin. She wanted to touch him—every cell ached for some contact, something to bring her away from the edge of shattering. Bringing him into the studio was a tremendous mistake. Mac as an audience was supposed to arouse him, not open a floodgate of raw desire in herself.

  Desire was a small, paltry word for it. Need came closer. Urgency put it in the same general context. Compulsion? No—that was wrong too. She had nothing with which to compare the experience, but she could guess, and her guess was that she had discovered sub space. She hadn’t wanted it this way, unexpected and unfulfilled. Her heart pounded, turning the rhythm of desire into a rhythm of fear. What would Mac say?

  He turned on the radio. The monotonous British accent of the public radio newscaster filled the void between them.

  “I’m sorry.” Again.

  “We’ll discuss it later.” Rivulets of water cascaded over the windshield as he nosed into traffic. The thump of the windshield wipers shaped her racing pulse into a new pattern.

  Maybe he hadn’t noticed that she mentally evacuated the scene, earlier. Better if he hadn’t. She wouldn’t have to explain it to him, or convince him that it had been for him, not for the photographer and his props.

  “It wasn’t him,” she blurted.

  “Amy. This topic is off-limits until tomorrow. Don’t push it. Am I clear?”

  A sidelong glance at his profile showed his jaw set hard, his gaze straight ahead through the rain. Instinctively, she knew that he knew. She couldn’t help herself—the two little words just slipped out. “Yes, sir.”

  He shot a dark, heavy look her way. She knew that look—had known him too long to not know it—but she hadn’t expected want in his eyes. Anger, hurt, disappointment, but not lust so blatant that the inside of the car was suddenly as hot as a steam room.

  Mac dropped her off in front of their building and headed for the parking garage. Knees shaking, she took herself up to their apartment.

  She had no idea what to do. Attempt to seduce him? Hide from him until tempers cooled and they could talk about it tomorrow? She needed to explain, no matter that part of her believed they would be better off ignoring it.

  Five minutes became fifteen, and she dialed Elizabeth’s number.

  “I’ve made a mistake,” she confessed first thing. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”

  “Where are you?” Elizabeth asked.

  “At home. Mac dropped me off and didn’t come up.”

  “Are you safe?”

  She squinted at the locks and bolts on the front door. “The chain’s not put up,” she said.

  “But are you safe? Not suicidal or murderous or anything in between?”

  “I think my heart’s breaking.
”

  “Honey, if you’re safe right now, I have to call you back. I can’t talk.”

  Amy blinked at the rain sluicing down the windows, stunned. “But I need you.”

  “Somebody else needs me more. I’ll call you back.” Elizabeth hung up.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry.” Elizabeth’s voice interrupted the ghost-reel playing in Mac’s head. He latched onto her voice and shoved his father’s shouting into the back of his memory.

  “Was that her?” Mac asked. He huddled in the alcove of a corner grocery, trying to stay out of the way of rainy-day shoppers ducking in and out of the store.

  “I would no more tell you if she called me than I would tell her that you did,” Elizabeth said sharply. “I take confidences very seriously.”

  “So you won’t tell me whether you’ve known about this or not.”

  Elizabeth’s silence spoke up loud and clear. Mac shook his head at the rain and closed his eyes. “Is this something she needs in order to be a whole person?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. You need to find that out on your own. She’s reaching out to you and asking you to help her determine the answer.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “You’re not supposed to right away. Your job is to find out what to do. You can’t know what she really needs until you convince her to talk to you.”

  “But-”

  “Listen, she’s taken a huge step in opening up this much to you. The next step is yours. If you want to walk away, if you can’t deal with a wife who needs to surrender control, you should tell her that. If you want to try to be what she needs, explain to her that you’re willing to try but you need time to learn.

  “You have to go and tell her something, though. She’s okay right now, but she’s stripped off all her clothes and planted herself in front of you, naked and vulnerable, and she’s in a scary place. The longer she’s alone, the more frightened she’ll get. Go home, Mac. Don’t torment my friend with silence.”