The crowd broke into noisy, raucous applause and Owen whipped his head toward them with a startled expression on his face, as if he’d truly forgotten they were there. He looked back at Sylvie, his smile at once embarrassed and pleased. Sylvie cupped his face in her hands and it took every ounce of self control not to bend down and kiss him.
~*~
It took a while before Sylvie and Owen could extract themselves from the crowd that gathered around them after the demonstration. Owen mostly just stood there, still trying to come down from the incredible place she’d sent him to with her flogging. Sylvie handled the crowd well, accepting compliments with grace and easily deflecting offers to participate in private scenes with some of the eager onlookers.
Finally they managed to slip away, and were left alone to sit at the bar. Though Sylvie was sipping a glass of cold Chardonnay, she’d recommended Owen just have water until he had calmed down, and he’d agreed. Owen’s back and shoulders still stung from the flogging, but mercifully his erection had subsided. He’d been terribly nervous when the scene first started, glad he was facing the wall, and praying he didn’t make a fool of himself in front of a bunch strangers. He wanted to please Sylvie, to impress her, to show her the “grace and courage” she had ascribed to him.
What he hadn’t expected was to fly. It had only happened a few times before during their sessions, and then only after an intense buildup beforehand. He’d never dreamed it could happen in such a public forum, and within just a few minutes. Or had it been hours? He had no idea—he had stepped out of time, truly becoming one with the sensations—part pain, yes, but also part pure, perfect pleasure.
“You okay?” Mistress Sylvie’s sweet voice penetrated Owen’s thoughts.
“Oh yeah.” Owen smiled at her. “Better than okay. That was amazing. Thank you, Mistress Sylvie.”
“Thank you, Owen. You made me very proud tonight.”
The background music was again interrupted by the chiming of bells. A different voice came over the speakers. “Master H. will present slave Mark tonight, in celebration of their recent engagement. You will get a firsthand taste of Master H.’s expert knife play. Be warned, the play is real, so if the sight of blood makes you squeamish, you might want to give this one a miss. If you dare, they will be at the marble pedestal in five minutes.”
The man they’d met earlier named Rick was sitting on Sylvie’s other side at the bar. “Oh, goody—knife play! Mark is absolutely to-die-for gorgeous and a perfectly trained pain slut.” He rubbed his long, thin hands together, his expression eager.
“Come on.” Rick stood, gesturing with his head toward an area where a crowd was already gathering. “You won’t want to miss this. Master H. is super talented with a knife.”
As Rick moved away, Owen turned to Mistress Sylvie, his stomach clenching. “Blood play? Is that even safe?”
Mistress Sylvie shrugged. “I’m sure if Master H. is the one in charge, it will be safe. He wouldn’t have the reputation he has if he didn’t know what he was doing.”
“But blood…” Owen trailed off. It wasn’t that he was squeamish per se, but the sight of blood, at least his own blood, sometimes had the unnerving effect of making him dizzy.
At the same time, he couldn’t deny the sudden, urgent tug in his cock, as a dark and rarely tapped fantasy involving being whipped until he bled suddenly surfaced with uncomfortable clarity in his mind. “I don’t know,” he began again, but Mistress Sylvie slipped her arm through his.
“Come along, slave Owen,” she said, draining her glass and setting it on the bar. It was more of a command than a request, but she was smiling. Owen drained the last of his water, wishing suddenly for a double whiskey, neat, to offset the nervous churning in his gut. He found himself moving alongside Mistress Sylvie, loving the feel of her hand tucked into the crook of his arm as they approached the crowd gathering in the corner of the room.
No doubt recognizing them from the flogging, the crowd parted for Mistress Sylvie and Owen as they approached, allowing them to move to the front of group. Owen would have been happier hovering at the edges, but Mistress Sylvie’s grip on his arm was firm.
A broad-shouldered man with dark skin was already in position, kneeling up on a dais that appeared to be made of solid marble. Resting on a sturdy pedestal, the dais was about four feet from the ground. The man’s muscular arms hung loosely at his sides. He was naked, save for a leather codpiece covering his cock and balls, held in place with leather strips slung over his narrow hips.
Master H. appeared beside him. Facing the crowd, he flashed a white smile. “Greetings, my friends and guests. For those of you I have not yet met, I am Master H., and I welcome you to my club.” He smiled, red lips against very white teeth, reminding Owen, with his silk shirt and rakish smile, of a pirate. Owen noticed he now wore a leather holster on his belt, the handle of a knife protruding from it. “Allow me to introduce to you slave Mark. He is my most prized possession, and it pleases me tonight to display his utter obedience and willingness to suffer for me.”
Owen glanced toward Mistress Sylvie, wondering if it was too late to sit this one out, but her gaze was fixed on the man on the dais.
“Without further ado,” Master H. said as he gripped the knife handle at his waist and pulled the blade from its leather sheath. He pressed the flat side of it to slave Mark’s lips. Mark kissed the blade and Master H. drew the flat edge along his chest. It glittered brightly against his dark skin.
Owen drew in a breath and pressed his lips together. He glanced down at Mistress Sylvie’s hand, which still lightly gripped his arm. Leaning close, he whispered, “I’m not sure I can watch this.”
Sylvie leaned close as well, her soft hair brushing against his cheek as she murmured into his ear. “I want you to watch it, Owen. Then we will talk about it after, okay?” Her voice was silky smooth, but her tone was firm. In spite of his fear, perhaps partially because of it, Owen felt the hard press of an erection rising at his groin.
As the crowd gaped, Master H. stepped back and touched the tip of the knife to Mark’s bulging biceps. Several gasps rose from the crowd as he drew the point down, leaving a long thin line of pink in its wake. Little droplets of bright red blood beaded along the cut. Owen found himself wincing in sympathy, but slave Mark didn’t so much as flinch.
Mistress Sylvie’s grip tightened on Owen’s arm and she moved closer.
Master H. drew the tip of the blade along the other arm. The slave remained still, his eyes always on his Master, seemingly impervious to the bloody cuts dripping to the white marble at his knees. Master H. focused his attention next on slave Mark’s thighs, drawing several more welting lines along the skin, each of them beading with blood.
It was as if he were cutting on a living, breathing statue. Throughout the ordeal slave Mark held himself still as stone. Owen breathed a sigh of relief when Master H. finally wiped the bloodied blade on a piece of cloth and returned it to its sheath.
But apparently Master H. wasn’t done yet, because he pulled something from his pants pocket and held it out for the crowd. Owen saw it was a small pocketknife. With a push of an unseen button, the razor-sharp bladed whipped open. Master. H. stepped to the side so the onlookers could get a better view as he raised the blade to Mark’s groin.
Owen turned away. “Shit,” he whispered, his balls tightening, his stomach clutching. “I can’t watch this.”
Mistress Sylvie took her hand from his arm and placed it on his neck, her cool fingers stroking him. “It’s okay,” she murmured softly in his ear, her tone at once authoritative and comforting. “He knows what he’s doing. I feel your resistance, but also your fascination and desire. Give in to it. Feel what you are feeling, instead of fighting it. Watch slave Mark’s grace. Look at his eyes, Owen. Look at the way he adores his Master and what is happening to him.”
Owen obeyed, pulling his eyes from the blood on the dais and looking at the kneeling man’s face. He was staring at Master H. with such nake
d, raw love and adoration it was almost embarrassing—as if they were witnessing something too personal for a public display. Owen could see Sylvie was right—slave Mark loved what was happening as much as Owen loved what Sylvie gave to him, and he loved the man who was giving it to him.
Sylvie hadn’t taken her hand from Owen’s neck. Her touch electrified him, moving in warm, eddying currents through his body. As much to keep her there as anything, Owen focused on the scene unfolding before them.
The room was deathly silent, all eyes riveted to the man standing on the dais as Master H. slipped the tip of the knife beneath a strip of leather that held the codpiece in place and jerked it forward, easily slicing the material. With practiced ease, Master H. cut away the remaining strip, and the codpiece fell away, revealing slave Mark’s erect shaft over his shaven balls.
Master H. gripped the base of slave Mark’s impressive erection with his free hand. A murmur moved through the crowd when Master H. lifted the hand holding the knife and touched the tip of the blade to the head of slave Mark’s penis. A small dot of red bloomed against the engorged shafted and dropped with a silent splash to the white marble below.
Without turning to the crowd, Master H. put the knife away. “I love you,” he murmured. In a louder voice, he said, “What do you say, slave?”
“Thank you, Sir,” Mark replied, his voice husky.
“You’re welcome, slave.” Master H. ran the tip of his index finger along one of the bloody welts on Mark’s thigh and touched the finger to his own lips. He wrapped his hand around slave Mark’s thick shaft and began to stroke it.
Owen shifted uncomfortably, but stilled when he felt Mistress Sylvie’s grip on his neck tighten. She wanted him to watch, he reminded himself. He would watch—he would do this for her.
Master H. was speaking loudly now, orating for the crowd. “You did such a good job for our guests. Show them how much you appreciated the attention. Come for us, slave boy.”
Mark began to shoot his load on cue, long streams of ejaculate, some of which landed on the dais, mingling with droplets of red blood. Owen could hardly believe the man could be so disciplined, so trained, to come like that on command, especially after what he’d just been through.
Master H. pointed toward the dais platform. The slave dropped his shoulders at once, bending forward to lick the come and blood from the smooth surface. When it was clean, he knelt back on his haunches, his puppy dog eyes again fixed on his Master.
Master H. held out his arms and Mark jumped nimbly from the dais and moved into them. Amidst thundering applause, they embraced for a long moment and then Mark knelt at Master H.’s feet, showering them with kisses. After a moment, Master H. pulled him up again. He turned to the still-applauding crowd and Owen saw that his white silk shirt was spattered with his slave’s blood.
“Thank you for witnessing slave Mark’s extraordinary grace and discipline. If you’ll excuse us, I need to take proper aftercare so my slave heals properly. Please, continue to enjoy yourselves. The night is young!”
Owen’s heart was racing, his cock throbbing, his mouth dry. He couldn’t stop the sudden, vivid image that rose in his mind of himself, naked and suspended, the lovely Mistress Sylvie dancing around him with a single tail whip, each stroke cutting a long, bloody line of fire against his skin. He wanted to fall to his knees and wrap his arms around Mistress Sylvie’s bare, beautiful legs. He longed to submit to her, the woman, not the paid pro. He ached to experience the intensity and passion that had just passed between these two men.
“Owen? Are you okay?” Mistress Sylvie’s soft hand slipped away from his neck as she peered up into his face. “Come, let’s sit down. You will tell me everything you were experiencing as you watched. I can see it affected you strongly. There are things we have not yet touched upon, you and I. Secrets, dark secrets that you will need to share with me, if we are to explore the true nature of your submission.”
Owen stared into her eyes, imagining he saw past them into something deeper, something beyond the pro Domme, even beyond the friend she had introduced him as. What was she offering? Was it more than just a paid service? Was he about to break through the barrier of their professional relationship?
As he stared into her eyes, he saw the color creeping up her cheeks and realized she was blushing. He leaned toward her, certain she was going to kiss him, when all at once she gave a sudden, small cry, and turned away from him, moving quickly toward the bar.
Owen followed, wondering what the hell had just happened, or not happened, between them.
Chapter 9
They sat down at a small table away from main area. Sylvie knew she’d behaved like an idiot, blushing and running away from whatever it was that was happening between them. She felt bad for interjecting her own confusion into the mix, when clearly Owen had enough to deal with at the moment.
Sylvie found herself strongly moved by the experience, not so much the blood play itself, but Owen’s powerful, visceral reaction to it. As the scene had progressed, Sylvie had felt Owen’s body begin to tremble beneath her hand on his neck, his skin dampening with sweat. He’d jerked when the tip of the knife had touched slave Mark’s cock, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
Had she been mistaken to make him watch? Had she pushed him to a place he wasn’t yet ready to go? She realized she’d exerted her dominant will over him in a way that wasn’t entirely appropriate for the evening. It must have been the residual effect of the flogging. Their connection then had been so immediate and intimate. It had allowed her to move to a place she probably shouldn’t have. Yet she was sure she’d read Owen’s signals correctly—the way his eyes had dilated when Rick mentioned the blood play, his breath catching, and the most obvious clue of all, the sudden bulge at his groin. Despite his protests to the contrary, he had wanted, even needed, to see that scene, to become a part of it in a way.
“Owen, talk to me.” Sylvie leaned toward him over the small table. “That scene was powerful for you. I want to understand better what it was in the scene that so affected you.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the pulsing disco beat.
Owen shook his head. “Not here. I can’t talk here. I can’t even think here. There’s too much going on.” He ran his hands through his hair, leaving it ruffled and standing up in tufts around his head. He looked at her, pleading with his eyes.
Sylvie nodded. “D’accord. We should go somewhere we can talk.”
As she reached for her purse, Owen pushed back in his chair and moved toward Sylvie, placing his hand on the back on her chair in a gentlemanly gesture. How remarkable, Sylvie thought, that even in the midst of his near-panicked reaction to the scene, he was still so polite and thoughtful. She knew at that moment she could trust Owen, not only as a sub, but as a man.
The doorman escorted them to the top of the stairs. They stepped out into the night, and Owen used his cell phone to call a cab.
As the cab driver maneuvered through the busy streets, Owen turned to Sylvie. “You probably think I’m nuts.” He smiled ruefully. “I’m okay now, really. I can just drop you off at your place if you want and I’ll be on my way—”
“No.” Sylvie interrupted him, placing her hand on his thigh. “I don’t think you’re nuts at all. Listen, I feel responsible. I’m the one who encouraged you”—she gave a small, embarrassed laugh—“well, forced you, to watch. What kind of Domme would I be if I just sent you on your way after that?” She shook her head for emphasis. “No. You will come home with me. We will talk, okay? I will help you process what you’re feeling.”
Owen nodded slowly. “Okay. Thanks.” A sudden, sharp turn by the cabbie caused Sylvie to slide over on the seat, so that her leg was touching Owen’s. She made no move to pull away, liking the feel of his firm, muscular thigh against hers.
They were silent the rest of the ride back to her place. Owen stared out the window while Sylvie watched him from the corner of her eye.
In front of her brownstone, Owen lea
ned forward to the pay the driver while Sylvie climbed out and found her keys. They walked together to the front door. She put her hand on Owen’s arm and smiled. “What you need, Mr. McCarthy, is a glass of fine French Cognac. Please come inside.”
~*~
Owen followed Sylvie into the townhouse, waiting as she deactivated the alarm and switched on the lights, curious where they would talk—in the sitting room where he’d been interviewed by Isabel? In Sylvie’s office? In the dungeon with him kneeling at her feet?
As if reading his mind, Sylvie surprised him by saying, “We will go up to my apartment.” At the top of the stairs, instead of turning right toward the dungeon, Sylvie led Owen along a short hallway to a second set of stairs. At the top, she opened the door and turned on the lights, revealing a warm, welcoming room with old but well-preserved furniture, brightly patterned throw rugs scattered over wide-planked hardwood floors and scenic watercolors framed on the walls.
Sylvie took off her shawl and draped it over the back of a chair. She dropped her purse on the chair and turned to Owen. “I realize I should not have assumed. Would you prefer coffee to Cognac?”
“Cognac would be great, thanks,” Owen said. He sank into a deep sofa, feeling the kind of exhaustion that comes from running a marathon. At the same time, he remained agitated, not only by the blood play he’d witnessed, but by the mixed signals he kept getting from Sylvie.
He was silent as Sylvie moved toward an antique armoire, pulling it open to reveal shelves lined with bottles, glasses, neatly stacked piles of hand towels and various other household items. She reached for a bottle and two snifters. Returning to Owen, she set them on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
Owen tried not to stare at her alluring cleavage as she bent over the table to pour the brandy. She handed one of the snifters to Owen and, kicking off her sandals, she curled into a chair catty-corner to the sofa on which Owen sat.
The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey Page 9