Servicing the Target

by Cherise Sinclair

  “Yo, Longshot.” Danvers crossed the bar. He was a short, tough guy, rather like a sawed-off redwood. Discharged a year before Ben, he’d found Ben the warehouse and helped convert it into a studio and living space.

  “What’s up?” Ben shoved a chair out in invitation.

  His friend dropped down hard enough the chair let out a protesting groan. A glance at Ben’s pale beer earned a sneer.

  “Miss,” Danvers said to the waitress who was wiping down a nearby table. “Can you bring me the darkest beer on tap?”

  “Of course.”

  The tavern rotated the draft beers with the seasons, something the locals had come to enjoy.

  As Danvers slouched in his chair, Ben frowned. “You look like hell. You okay?”

  “Fuck, no.” The vet scowled out the window. “You haven’t heard?”

  At the flatness of his voice, Ben felt his gut twist. “Heard what?”

  “The team. Walked into an ambush. Lost…” he swallowed. “Three gone. Most were wounded.”

  Ben’s mouth tasted like sand and blood. As he lifted his drink, beer sloshed over the rim onto his fingers. His hand was shaking. “Who?”

  “Wrench. Petrousky. And Mouse. Mouse didn’t make it.” Danvers rubbed his face. “Fuck, I’m sorry, bro.”

  The blow cracked Ben’s soul open, slashing a gap in the fabric of his world. The whole fucking room darkened. He and Mouse had been sniper and spotter, closer than some marriages. Under fire together. Bled together. Saved each other’s ass more than once. Could almost read each other’s mind.

  But when Ben didn’t re-up, Mouse’d been pissed. Yeah, his friend had tried to understand, but killing insurgents didn’t eat at him as it did Ben. Mouse’s world was black and white. Us and them. Good and bad. Rangers and enemy. The spotter didn’t think of the enemy as men who were also someone’s father, son, brother. Men who loved and laughed and lived.

  Still…Mouse’d talked about getting out after his term was up. Ben would’ve been there to help ease the transition. Would’ve…

  Fuck. Just fuck.

  He set his beer down. His throat was too tight to swallow anything.

  Or to speak.

  Rising, he clapped a hand on Danver’s shoulder and walked out into the black night and drizzling rain.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Friday, Anne stood inside the Shadowlands entry and studied the guard dog with a frown.

  His gaze was on the desk. His shoulders slumped. He was unshaven and uncombed. In fact, Mr. Super-aware hadn’t even noticed her arrival.

  Worry poured through her as if someone had left a faucet open.

  She walked behind his desk. “Ben.” Not wanting to startle an unhappy vet, she waited until her voice registered and his head lifted before setting her hand on his shoulder.

  A stressed-out soldier would probably have taut muscles. His weren’t. No, his body language read as if he’d checked out.

  “What’s wrong, Ben?”

  “Sorry, Ma’am. I didn’t see you.” Turning away from her, he made a checkmark on the attendance papers in front of him. “Got you down.”

  “Good.” She pushed aside pity and steeled her voice. “Now answer me. What is wrong, Benjamin.”

  “Nothing.”

  She dug her fingernails into his thick deltoid and felt him jolt. “Inadequate response. Try again.”

  “Fuck.” He turned his chair and gazed up at her, his eyes haunted. “Not your business.”

  “I’m making it my business, subbie. Answer me.”

  His eyes held defiance for a second, two, then his gaze dropped. “God, Anne.”

  She waited, watching his endurance disintegrate with her silence.

  “It’s not…” He swallowed. “My team. My spotter and I were attached to a team. They handled the perimeter. And…” His voice frayed, like a shirt ripping apart at the seams. “My spotter. Mouse. We worked together. For years. He’s—he’s gone.”

  Tears burned her eyes. Not only for the loss of good men, but for the almost visible waves of pain from Ben. “I’m sorry, so sorry.” She moved close enough to lean her torso against his shoulder, lending him her body’s warmth, and then ran her hand through his hair. If only she could stroke his hurt away.

  “Thanks,” he said and shrugged, as if rejecting her touch and her sympathy.

  Her hand paused as she regarded his response, his posture, his averted gaze. This was more than mourning. What else was going on in that head of his?

  Unfortunately, it could be anything. He’d been out of the military for years, but emotions weren’t logical. And healing marched to its own beat.

  Her emotions weren’t rational either. She’d planned to avoid him, but now…now all she wanted was to take him into the club and try to help in the way a Domme sometimes could.

  To get him out of his head and into “now” time.

  “Well, Benjamin, you asked for a scene. I’ve decided to give you one.”

  He shook his head. “Ah, no. Thank you, but—”

  “I planned it all day long, brought special toys.”

  Her lie silenced him. He didn’t want to do anything right now—at all—and yet, his own submissive nature wouldn’t want to let her down.

  “Let me call Z and get you relieved.” She pulled her cell phone from her bag and moved out of earshot, pleased when three giggly submissives came in the door to claim his attention.

  “Anne.” Z’s smooth voice was unhurried. “Is there a problem?”

  “Actually, yes. Have you seen Ben today?”

  “No, I haven’t been down to the club yet.”

  As she explained, she kept an eye on Ben. When he forced a smile for the entering members, her heart simply ached.

  “I see,” Z said.

  “Let me have him. However, be aware that if I push him too deep, I’ll take him home and he won’t return to the desk.”

  “Understood.”

  “Can you give me some ideas of what this problem might be?” she asked. “He told me he’d seen you professionally.”

  “I am sorry, Anne, but…no. Anything he says to me is confidential.”

  “Of course.” She shifted her stance as she tried to figure out how to attack from the flank. “I know you’re a veteran. Perhaps you could share what kind of problems soldiers tend to have?”

  She heard his chuckle of approval.

  “Excellent question, Mistress Anne. PTSD is common, but the symptoms are fairly noticeable if you spend any time with a vet.”

  In other words, probably not Ben’s problem.

  “Some feel guilty remaining alive when teammates die. Others feel ashamed about leaving the service, as if they’ve betrayed their friends. The Special Ops community forges strong friendships as well as a sense of duty.”

  Guilt. That might be it. Her worry increased as the pieces fell into place.

  Ben had left the Rangers and then his teammates and best friend had died. He was still alive.

  What if her brother Travis took her place on the recovery team one night and was killed picking up a fugitive? Just the thought was a stab through the heart. She’d believe that if she’d been where she belonged, Travis’s death wouldn’t have happened—or, at least, she’d be there to die with him. She’d feel as if she shouldn’t be alive.

  Yes, that’s what a man like Ben would feel, no matter how crazy.

  Logic wasn’t a factor in a guilt equation.

  “Thank you, Z. I appreciate the quick psychology lesson.” Mourning had to run its course, but irrational emotions…well, maybe she could derail him from the it’s-my-fault track he was on.

  “You may take him with you now. I’ll guard the desk myself until I can call in Ghost,” Z said. “He’s lucky to have you, Anne.”

  Have me? “He doesn’t—”

  But Z had already disconnected.

  By the time Ben finished checking people in, Z had arrived. He must have started down the minute she called. “You’re relieved,
Benjamin.”

  Ben frowned at him. “But—”

  “Let’s go, subbie,” Anne said. As objections rose in the guard dog’s eyes, she pushed her energy outward, bringing her dominance to bear like an invisible battering ram. She held her hand out, pleased when he let her draw him to his feet.

  She led him into the main room and toward the back. “As long as I respect your limits, I can do what I want to you. Is that right?”

  “What?” The question pulled his gaze away from the passing scenes—the glass cups on a submissive’s chest and cock, an exquisite pattern of needles being shaped across a wide back, a Dom using the two-flogger Florentine style.

  After a second of processing her question, Ben nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  A trace of life showed in his face. Not many people could walk through the super-charged ambiance of the Shadowlands and not wake up.

  The subtle threat she’d just delivered added to the effect.

  She started up the circular staircase leading to the second floor.

  He stopped. “Where are you going?”

  “We’re going to play upstairs in one of the private rooms.” Although she’d occasionally used a slave’s penis as a leash, today, she only gathered the front of his jeans, belt and all, and pulled him behind her up the stairs.

  “I’ve never been up here.” He looked down the long hallway. If a room was in use, a red light glowed above the door.

  “After all these years? I’d say it was about time.” She glanced in each unoccupied room as they passed. She rejected the ornate Victorian, which would make Ben ill at ease, and then a depressing Goth-styled room. One with a harem decor had potential, but not today. Barbarian—no.

  The one she was looking for wasn’t where it had been last time. Z’s tendency to rearrange and redecorate rooms annoyed the hell out of her.

  And there it was.

  She led him into the room she’d titled: Cowboy Central—although Z called it the Texas room.

  Dour Nolan had actually laughed when he saw it.

  The walls were paneled with dark wood rather than wallpaper. Cowhide rugs were scattered on the gleaming hardwood floor. An antique chest served as an end table to an oversized black leather armchair. A handwoven Navaho rug in dark-red and black brightened one wall. The other held a mounted buffalo head—and she really, really didn’t want to know if it was real or not. A wagon wheel chandelier provided light. Toys were stored in an aged walnut armoire.

  Barely loud enough to be heard, country-western music came from the speakers.

  She smiled as she saw Ben relax slightly. Big guys tended to prefer rooms without fragile glass and furniture.

  When he saw the decorations surrounding the armoire on the far wall, his eyes widened. Welded horseshoes had been turned into hooks to hold a variety of floggers and whips.

  She’d noticed how Z enjoyed using implements of pain as artwork.

  After setting her toy bag on the chest, she took out some thin Velcro strips. “Strip, then stand under the chains, please.” She pointed and watched Ben’s shoulders tense as he sighted the two heavy black chains hanging from the dark, exposed ceiling beams.

  He silently stripped, still too subdued, still so far into his own head and emotions that he was almost separated from the world.

  She could pull him out of that place. But if she didn’t effect some change in his thought processes, he’d fall back into his funk afterward.

  Her lips pressed together. There were times that being a Domme was like driving up in the mountains. In the dark. On a tiny, curvy road.

  Mistakes could be very, very bad.

  He trusted her not to screw up his body; he didn’t realize she was more worried about his mind.

  She tossed one of her subbie blankets over the leather chair and set a bottle of water on the trunk.

  As she buckled heavy leather cuffs on his wrists and ankles, a tremor ran through him. Being bound was one of his triggers. One she planned to use—not abuse. “Arms up.” She stood on the carved miniature steer footstool to attach his cuff’s D-ring to one chain, using a half-inch-wide Velcro strip.

  “Pull down,” she said.

  He gave a slight tug on the restraint and nothing happened.

  “Harder.”

  The Velcro gave with a ripping sound. Just right. He’d know he was restrained—and that he could get free if needed. Silently, she secured that wrist again as well as the other. Once finished, she wrapped his fingers around the chains. “You can hang on for support.”

  After stepping off the stool, she pushed his feet apart. “Keep your legs wide open for me, Benjamin. I don’t want to see them move.”

  Down on one knee, she ran her hands over his tight calves, the leanly contoured muscles of his thighs, inhaling his masculine musk. His cock was almost flaccid—significant proof of his state of mind.

  Let’s see how long that lasts. She unzipped her leather jacket and skirt. Beneath them, she wore an elastic black tank, a thong with ribbon ties—and thigh-high boots.

  His eyes widened.

  “I intend to beat you, subbie,” she said, keeping her voice husky—which wasn’t a problem. He really did have the sexiest body she’d ever seen. Her usual slaves were classically gorgeous males possessing streamlined, beautifully sculpted musculature. This oversized body in front of her was scarred. With heavy slabs of muscles. With forbidding, blunt features.

  The man simply radiated power and strength.

  And he’s all mine.

  For tonight.

  To erase her own tenseness, she went up on tiptoes, arched her back, and reached toward the ceiling.

  His pupils dilated slightly.

  But the stretching wasn’t all for show. This scene wouldn’t be a short one, and a good flogging took time and work.

  They were both in this for the long haul.

  Leaning against him, she rubbed her body over his and let him catch her scent, as she would with a wild animal. Slowly, she ran her hands over his back and ass, waking his skin up with pats and strokes and scrapes of her fingernails.

  “I do love this body you’ve given me to play with,” she murmured. “Are you ready for me to start?”

  It took a second for him to respond. He still wasn’t fully with her. “Uh. Yes, Ma’am. Sure.”

  He was so not like her Ben, and his palpable despair simply broke her heart.

  Taking his face in her hands, she gave him a slow kiss. Not for the scene, not for control—just because she needed to remind him she cared. And that he was alive.

  Mistress Anne’s lips were a touch of life in what felt like a dead world. Ben knew he was letting her down, but he just…couldn’t…get with the program. He felt as if he were trudging through the Everglades, his boots heavy with mud. The muck pulled him downward, the air was too thick, the dense foliage blotted out the sun. There was no escape. He would walk and walk forever and never get out.

  Mouse was gone. His friend—

  The scent of leather reached him. Softness danced over his shoulders and stroked down his back. He opened his eyes.

  The Mistress was teasing a black, multi-strand whip across his shoulders, his chest, his ass. Soft and fragrant. The flicking of the falls across his back was as light as a spring rain.

  The strands slapped over his torso and legs in a rhythm that matched the beat of the country music.

  Slowly, the slapping sounds grew louder as the blows increased in force. His skin seemed to glow with the heat.

  When she stopped, he was almost disappointed, in the same way a person regretted when a massage ended.

  She studied him for a minute, and her lips curved up slightly. “Better.” Her hand flattened on his chest, and she leaned against him as her tongue ran over his lower lip.

  Then she fisted his hair and took his mouth roughly, driving her tongue inside.

  His body heated with a rush. She tasted of chocolate and peppermint, like sex and sin, and he breathed her in, feeling as if the
sun had shot a ray of sunlight through the darkness.

  Her hands held his face in that way she had, so she could look into his eyes. Hers were a clear gray-blue, like the starkly bare sky after a winter rain.

  “I’m going to hurt you now, Benjamin. If you move, if you tear loose of your restraints, I’ll be disappointed in you.”

  “I won’t, Mistress.” The words emerged before he even thought about them.

  “Your safeword is red, subbie. Use it if you need to.”

  “I won’t.”

  Her hands stroked down his chest, riffling his hair. When she pinched his nipples with sharp fingertips, his blood started to race as if someone were cranking open the floodgates.

  And then she reached between his legs. She cupped his ball sac in her warm palms, squeezing lightly. And forcefully. She rolled his actual rocks between her fingers, increasing the pressure until he felt sweat breaking out on his skin. Felt his cock stir.

  “Such a bad cock, not jumping right up for its Mistress.” Her disapproval made him hang his head. Want to apologize.

  She slapped his limp dick—slapped it, for God’s sake—with the tips of her fingers. To the left, to the right, each smack stinging. Shocking.

  Jesus. He tensed his legs, trying to stay in position as the blows increased to the point of pain.

  To his disbelief, his cock filled and rose.

  Curling her sure fingers around him, she stroked his dick, up and down. The heady reward lasted far too short a time.

  She picked up the flogger.

  The first hits landed on his shoulders, worked down his back, avoiding his spine and kidneys. His ass took some serious pounding. And his skin went past the glow to a burn.

  After a while, she stopped and slapped his cock.

  “Fuck!”

  “Silence, subbie,” she murmured and smacked his dick again.

  He bit back a curse and was rewarded with a long, wet kiss. Jesus, she could kiss. His arms ached to hold her.

  He lost track of how many times she went through the cycle. His back and ass felt as if he’d backed into a furnace; his cock stung and throbbed.

  His hands gripped the black chains as if he were fused to the metal.