Shades of Submission: Fifty by Fifty #1: Billionaire Romance Boxed Set

by Hunter, Adriana

  Syria said nothing, moving easily to his rhythm, letting the music flow through her. She opened her eyes and realized the other couples were also locked in tight, many of them moving suggestively against each other as the room grew gently dimmer and the chandelier light switched to red.

  Erik still didn’t turn her, just held her close. Syria looked to the sides of the room, where tables still lined the walls, the cloths changed from crisp white to black. On one, a woman sat smack in the middle, leaning back on her hands, and a man lifted one of her legs to his shoulders like they were at a speakeasy.

  The shift to a retro club atmosphere clearly meant anything goes. Syria had never been to a place where people could have sex in public, except at that bondage exhibition. And of course, Erik had been there.

  The man by the table pushed the girl’s skirt up past her hips and dropped his face between her legs. Syria whirled around to Erik. “What is this place?”

  He pushed some errant hair away from her face. “Nothing you can’t handle. Just couples, dancing and enjoying each other.”

  She looked over her shoulder. Another man was peeling a dress from a voluptuous redhead, her hair trailing down her naked back. Her black bra stood out starkly against her skin. Another woman reached behind her to unhook it, and yet another woman leaned in to the newly freed breasts to greedily cover the exposed nipple in her mouth.

  The two women and the man feasted on her with mouths and hands, pulling off her shoes, easing down her panties.

  Syria gripped Erik harder. “Is this some sort of test?”

  He shook his head. “Just a place I like to come.”

  The noise level surged as the band filled in behind the sax player. Erik pulled Syria into another slow rhythm, lightly touching her arm as she stared across the room. Some of the couples just danced, like they were. Some talked at tables. In fact, much of the room looked normal, until your eyes fell upon a couple overcome with each other, not bothering to leave or find a hidden spot, but moving into each other, slipping out of clothes.

  She caught sight of a silver ring on a woman’s neck. “Are there other slaves here?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Some like to get their possessions together for floor shows.”

  Syria wasn’t sure how safe she was with Erik. He hadn’t told her what they were getting into. “Did you plan for me to see this all along?”

  “No. It depended entirely upon how you acted when I made my offer.”

  “But I declined.”

  “I sensed you were still not quite decided.” He led her into a slow twirl. “And I still sense you have some interest.”

  Syria didn’t answer, caught by another scene. Two women circled each other in an elaborate dance as a small crowd watched. It looked scripted, a bit like Aliara and Malin in the studio.

  The first woman, in a belly dancer’s red flowing pants and beaded top, spun and leapt to stay out of reach of the other woman, who wore a black gyspy-styled skirt and peasant top that exposed a circle of twinkling gems around her belly button.

  The gypsy girl lunged and swiped at the belly dancer as if on the attack, but the dancer always escaped. At last, the gypsy kneeled, letting the other girl dance around her in bold leaps and spins. The gypsy girl tore at her own peasant top, rending it so her large, dark breasts spilled out, heavy as melons and the color of caramel.

  The belly dancer slowed down, mesmerized by the display. The gypsy lay back, letting the skirt fall up to her knees.

  Syria realized she wasn’t dancing with Erik anymore, but standing to watch. Erik maneuvered them to the edge of the dance floor so they could see better, his hands kneading her waist through her dress.

  The belly dancer walked in a lazy circle around the gypsy, whose mass of black curls spilled across the floor from a black bandanna. Her skirt rode up her thighs and the crowd seemed tense, waiting to see what would happen, if the dancer would be lured in.

  The belly dancer bent down and scooped up the torn bodice, bringing it to her nose and caressing her cheek. Her feet worked an elaborate pattern as she circled the other girl, then she kneeled next to her, still gyrating from her waist, unsure.

  The gypsy took the belly dancer’s hand and laid it on an ample breast. The dancer closed her eyes, slowing her gyration, and let go of the stolen shirt. The gypsy girl moved the dancer’s hand to her thigh and slid it up beneath the skirt.

  Syria could feel herself spiraling up as she watched, the heat between her legs becoming fierce. Erik stayed behind her, rocking gently, kneading her muscles, and when his hand slid to the space beneath her breast, she didn’t pull away. The fire began to lick at her, and she leaned into him, wanting it, needing to feel something like those girls were showing her.

  He recognized her acquiescence and cupped her breast completely. Syria moaned gently, trying not to let it go too far, but not wanting to force herself out of the easy seduction. She’d learned in these past weeks with Tyson and Mia how amazing and open her life could be if she just let go of her old inhibitions.

  The dancer now leaned over the gypsy, pushing the skirt up and out of the way, revealing completely bare skin. The dancer delighted at it, slipping her fingers inside, and the gypsy’s head fell back.

  But the tension rose again as the gypsy tugged a black scarf from her waist band, and the belly dancer did not appear to notice, caught up in the moist entry, splaying the folds wide.

  Syria stilled, waiting to see what would happen, and Erik fondled her breast, easing his other hand across her hip. She could feel his erection against her back, and the urgency in his fingers made her spiral up another level of desire.

  The dancer glanced up at the gypsy, but she was too late, the larger girl expertly wrapped the black scarf around the dancer’s wrists. In a swift motion, they had switched places, and now the dancer was on her back, hands tied above her.

  The gypsy held the dancer’s arms above her head with one hand while sliding the other beneath the sparkling top of her outfit. The dancer struggled, defiant, so the gypsy rolled the girl onto her stomach, quickly lashing her wrists to her ankles. The dancer was stuck, feet and hands behind her back, belly to the floor. It looked terribly uncomfortable.

  Syria knew this was just an act, like Mia and Sam as pirates, but still, she found herself anxious for the dancer. But maybe this was what the crowd wanted, to show things rough, advantage on someone weaker. She turned away.

  “You will miss the best part,” Erik whispered, and Syria looked back, almost fearing what Erik would find the most titillating. The gypsy tore the beaded top from the bound dancer, exposing small, soft breasts, and squeezed them roughly. She yanked down the dancer’s voluminous pants, although they caught at the ankle on the ties.

  The dancer girl squirmed and fought as the gypsy circled her.

  “Erik, I really don’t think —” Syria stopped at the sight of another woman, this one in a blue belly dancer’s attire, flying through the air in a series of back flips and cartwheels. She did not hesitate but knocked the gypsy girl off her feet, sending the crowd into a cheer. Before the gypsy could move, her skirt was ripped off, and the tables had turned.

  The blue dancer dragged the gypsy girl across the floor to one of the round pillars that separated sections of the hall. She tied the girl facing the pole, and circled her, spanking her ass and walking up boldly to press fingers up between her legs.

  But the gypsy did not show any signs of distress, smiling over her shoulder and spreading her feet wide. The blue dancer stepped away, shrugged, and bounded back over to the other dancer, freeing her from her bonds.

  Together they chose a man from the crowd, probably the gypsy girl’s escort, and he approached the pillar. The belly dancers gestured that the girl was his, and he smiled broadly, shaking their hands.

  The blue dancer lifted the other dancer in the air and spirited her across the room and out of sight.

  The gypsy girl remained tied, sliding her hands down the pole so she could bend over.
The man was given a paddle, and he ran his hand across the girl’s bottom and smacked her with it soundly. Syria thought she would turn away, but the expression on the girl’s face was dreamy, relaxed, as if this was exactly where she wanted to be, naked and spanked in front of a room full of people.

  Erik turned her back around to face him, and they walked back onto the dance floor.

  “Did you ever have your slave do something like that?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Not Aliara. It was not in her contract to do public spectacles. Malin, though, loves to be whipped more than I have the urge. So she would come here and do something similar. She would also like to be blindfolded and entered by men she cannot see or recognize. She has very specific interests, and I do my best to accommodate them.”

  Syria moved with him to the slow rhumba, realizing now why Malin might not be the best for what he was looking for in a slave.

  “Do all slaves wear those collars?”

  “Usually. In some instances, however, it is best not to be obvious.”

  Syria wanted to ask, “Would I?” but asking that would be to accept that she was actually considering his offer. And that wasn’t possible, certainly not without talking to Tyson. She pictured his body pumping into that other girl, though, and wondered if they would even see each other again.

  Erik must have sensed she had gotten melancholy because he pulled her in close and moved them into another slow, easy dance. “Oh, my sweet Syria. I can make your life so simple and easy.”

  “But what would you want from me?”

  “For you to free yourself. You keep forcing yourself to act in ways that crush your spirit.”

  The music sped up a little, but they kept their slower pace. Erik’s arms tightened around her, and the smooth fabric of his suit jacket was cool against her cheek.

  “I don’t know how to do that.” Syria felt like she’d been expanding plenty fast enough lately. A month ago, she hadn’t even known a world like Erik’s existed.

  He led her to their alcove again, which had two drinks resting on a small table beside the red chaise. “Would you like a little help?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have two drinks here. One is simply alcohol, a Cosmopolitan as you Americans call it.” He held up a lovely martini glass with a silver stem, filled with pink liquid.

  “What’s the other one?” Syria felt her heart speeding up.

  “It has a mild drug in it. Something to loosen you up.”

  “How loose?”

  Erik smiled. “I have found that it only helps you be what you want to be.”

  “Seems like drinking something like that would mean that Alice would have to trust her rabbit.”

  Erik laughed, a hearty sound that was so unexpected with his cool politeness that Syria had to laugh with him. “Then Cosmopolitan it is.” He held the glass out to Syria.

  She accepted, realizing she was feeling thirsty after the dancing and the voyeurism of the gypsy girl. “Will there be other little acting bits like the last one?”

  “Most definitely. Many of the slaves and submissives look forward to these nights.”

  Syria walked back to the tied-back curtain, peeking out. “Do other people join in?”

  “Anything goes here. Would you like one to be arranged for you privately?”

  Syria swallowed. Could this man deliver anything she wanted at all? It couldn’t hurt to ask. “I would like to see some bondage.”

  “I thought you might.” He tugged his phone out and tapped a word out. “Would you like them in here or out there?”

  Syria looked around the space. “In here might be fun. Then I could see the knots up close.”

  He nodded and put the phone away. “Sit next to me. I believe you will enjoy this show.”

  Syria perched on the chaise next to him, eyeing the other drink. How much courage would it take for her to drink it? And what would it do to her if she did?

  She didn’t have any more time to consider it, because the curtain moved, and a beautiful and very naked woman stepped into the room. She was pale, her hair almost white, and looked to be Syria’s age. Her makeup added to her ghostly impression, frosty lipstick and icy blue eyeshadow. She was breathtaking in a haunting way, small-breasted, slight, and completely bare, without shoes, even.

  Behind her arrived a man in a black kimono, very ceremonial, much like the people Syria had met at the bondage exhibition. He bowed to them, set down a canvas back full of rope coils, and pulled the girl to him, her back to his belly. He caressed her face and neck as part of the ritual. The girl closed her eyes, dreamy, and he slid a vivid blue rope across her ribs with a sensual leisurely pace.

  Syria already felt the heat rushing through her body, swifter now and with more force after already being moved by the gypsy. She glanced at the spiked drink again. She wanted all the clutter in her brain to go away, to focus on this moment, this incredible experience she had been invited to share. She glanced at Erik, who was looking at her with his soft dark eyes. He reached for her hand and squeezed, which should have been simple and friendly, but instead Syria felt desire and need rush through her so hard that she actually sucked in a breath.

  The girl moaned and drew their attention. The man had already bound her breasts in a chest harness and was sliding the rope between her legs, separating her folds. He tied a knot in the rope and pulled it deep between her legs and the girl cried out. Syria felt the need herself to feel that knot and wondered how she could get tied up by the man as well. The answer seemed simple. Drink from the other glass and let herself go.

  She looked at the other stem and Erik caught her. He lifted it from the table and held it out to her. Syria set down the Cosmopolitan and accepted the other drink. It looked similar, with a slightly darker pink that edged on purple, and frothy, but when she brought it to her lips, she immediately recognized the difference. It had an edge to it, a touch of bitter, a hint of grain, like an aspirin had been dissolved in it. Her heart rate sped up instantly. Did she trust this man at all?

  She leaned in to him. “I do not wish to have sex with anyone. Is that acceptable?”

  “I will make sure that does not happen.” Erik squeezed her arm and gave her an earnest gaze. “Would you like to only admire? Or are there some things you might like to participate in?”

  Syria watched the man bind the girl’s hands behind her head, her pert breasts lifted, her breathing rapid as the knot against her clit moved with each shift of the ropes. “I don’t know.”

  “Good enough.” He patted her hand. “His ties are well done, are they not?”

  The man turned the girl around and revealed his handwork. A beautiful corded braid ran from her hands, through the binding across her back, and crisscrossed in an intricate pattern along her spine.

  “It’s beautiful,” Syria breathed. She took another sip of the drink, bigger this time, and set the drink next to the other. “Can I try to tie it?”

  The man nodded. “Shall I untie her?”

  The girl still had her eyes closed. Syria turned around. “Can I try it on Erik?”

  Erik’s eyebrows lifted. “Are you propositioning me?”

  Syria felt a laugh building within her. She already felt more loose. “You don’t have to get naked. Turn around.”

  Erik shifted to the end of the chaise where he could present his back to her. She took one arm, then the other, and lifted them behind his head. “May I borrow a rope?” she asked the man.

  He reached into a canvas bag on the floor and produced a long length of black.

  “So first around the chest, right?” Syria wrapped her arms around Erik, feeling the muscles across his chest and torso as she pulled the rope around.

  “Yes, my mistress,” the bondage man said.

  Huh. His mistress. Interesting. Syria brought the rope back around in a standard double column. “Then around the wrists.” She formed another double column, then leaned around to Erik’s face, closer than she’d dared ge
t other than when they’d danced. “I’m skipping the clit knot, if that’s okay.”

  He laughed in a low rumble. “Probably for the best.”

  “So what now?” Syria asked. “How do you make the braid? Her fingers were getting increasingly fumbly, but her proximity to Erik, and her ability to touch him freely was starting to make her tingle as much as the clit knot had on the girl.

  “Like this,” the man said, showing her the pattern.

  But her hand got more and more disconnected with her brain, and instead, she laid her head on Erik’s shoulder. “I like having you at my mercy.”

  “I enjoy it too,” he said.

  “Let him go,” Syria said. “I think I’m no longer in top tying form.”

  The man swiftly released Erik from the bonds.

  “Did you want to be tied?” Erik asked. “It seems to be one of your interests.”

  The image of bondage on her body made her heart hammer, so she picked up the loaded drink and took another gulp. “I would.” She didn’t dare ask for the clit knot, even though she wanted it.

  Erik stood next to her. “Such a lovely dress. It would be a shame to damage it with the rope.” He reached around her. “May I just unzip it?”

  Syria’s throat was thick, her heartbeat thumping between her legs. She nodded.

  The dress loosened. Beside her, the man worked on the pale girl, gripping the ropes on her back, and making the knot tighten against her clit. The girl’s head fell back and she moaned again, unable to move, but standing freely, legs wide. The man reached for a breast, tweaking her nipple, and the sounds of the girl’s pleasure made Syria thrum with need.

  The dress slid down her body. She closed her eyes, feeling Erik’s light touch on her skin. “You are so beautiful, Syria,” he said.

  She knew the man was in the room, and the ghostly girl, but she didn’t care. Outside the curtain, others were in varying states of undress and passion. She wanted to be one of those people. She wanted not to care about anything but the pleasure of the moment.