She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing deeply until her panic quieted. Opening her eyes, she met his gaze. He could make this so much easier without even lifting a weapon. If he’d made a direct order that she should endure whatever they did, then she would still be able to find pleasure in the punishment. She’d have a purpose for letting them hurt her. But he was tense, his face dark, his eyes hard. She knew he didn’t relish this at all.
Maybe he’ll punish me himself later.
Patrick blocked her view, drawing her gaze up to his face. “How much can you take, Gift?”
“That depends, sir.” She tried to be polite and not snide, but she couldn’t pretend that he frightened her, let alone turned her on. “How strong is your arm?”
“Strong enough that my subs can usually only take a handful of strokes before they’re crying out their safeword, and they have the benefit of play before and after. You’re getting nothing but punishment, honey.”
“If they can take five, then give me ten.”
His eyebrows climbed. Shiloh was particularly grateful that she couldn’t see Victor’s reaction. “Are you sure? I don’t intend to do damage, Gift, but the whip is a precision weapon with a great deal of cut. I won’t allow the leather to break your skin, but I’m not going to start gently, either.”
“Ten, sir.” She dropped her gaze and tried to show sincere regret. Thinking about Victor’s reaction to this display helped dramatically. “I deserve punishment for failing the quizzes.”
Patrick stretched his arms, opening his chest and warming up his muscles as he stepped behind her.
“Her safeword,” Victor said in a voice that made cold chills race down her spine, “is Christmas. I expect you to use it if you need to, Gift. That’s an order.”
She kept her head down for him, giving him the respect even though he wasn’t participating in the scene. “Yes, Master.”
“Christmas,” Patrick drawled out. “Very well. Count them out, Gift, so I’m not forced to start over at the beginning.”
The long leather tail snaked on the floor, rasping against the wooden planks, promising agony. He gave a trial snap that made her flinch, but the whip didn’t touch her. Not yet.
He laughed softly. “Ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
She heard the sharp crack of the lash before she felt the cut of his blow on her left shoulder. Her breath rushed out and she twisted her wrists in the bonds, but she didn’t cry out. Damn, that hurt. He must have managed to hit one of Victor’s bruises. “One.”
If it’d been Victor delivering punishment in a formal scene, she would have thanked him for it, but not Patrick. Not unless her Master ordered it.
Panting, she opened her mind to the pain. She didn’t fight it or tense her muscles. In fact, she relaxed everything. Her knees sagged, but the bonds kept her upright. She fought her eyes back open and sought Victor.
Don’t you understand I’m doing this for you? This is nothing compared to what I want—need—you to do.
He gave a slight nod of his head but his face remained stiff and remote. An order, or encouragement? She couldn’t tell. His face was too hard, his eyes too dark.
As a consummate showman, Patrick trailed the leather across the floor, drawing out both her tension and the viewers’. When her breathing had steadied, he pulled his arm back and sent the whip whistling through the air again. Pain bloomed on her opposite shoulder.
She sucked in her breath and clenched her jaws to keep from crying out. She wouldn’t make a sound for him. Screams and moans were rewards for the Master wielding the weapon, and she refused to reward anyone but Victor.
When she trusted her voice, she whispered, “Two.”
“I’m impressed, Gift. I thought surely you would be whimpering by now. Maybe you’ll endure ten strokes after all.”
Her back burned so fiercely she did want to whimper, but she looked at Victor—his hand clenched about the crop that was laid in his lap, his other hand wrapped around his wineglass so tightly she thought it might shatter—and she clamped her mouth shut.
Blowing out a shaking exhale, she drew in another long breath, filling her lungs in a slow, controlled breath. She didn’t want to hyperventilate and pass out. Patrick would be insufferable, and she couldn’t bear to hear him teasing Victor about it later. He threw back his head, drained the glass and signaled Brandon to fill it again.
She’d known this would be difficult for Victor to watch. Did he yearn to punish her himself? Would he see that pain didn’t scare her? Could he see the difference in how she felt while Patrick did this, and how she’d react if it were Victor delivering the blows? Because just the thought of him standing and striding over to deliver a single blow with his crop was enough to make her suck in her breath and fight back arousal.
It would be so easy to let the pain melt into something else; hot, molten need coursing through her veins. But only if she had Victor at the other end of this punishment. For Patrick and Mal, it had to remain pain. She didn’t trust them like she trusted Victor.
She didn’t need—let alone love—them like him.
The blows continued, one by one. She had to admit that Patrick was a skilled Master. He timed each blow so that she anticipated it. She had plenty of time to think about it and know that the next blow was going to hurt more than the last. He never hit the same spot twice, so by blow seven her entire back felt blistered and charred with pain.
With her eyes clenched shut, colors burst behind her eyelids, whirling and dizzying fireworks. Pain became red and orange, the fire of the sun blazing on her unprotected flesh. The ice-blue of flame. The dark purple of a fresh bruise.
Sweat dripped in her eyes, her muscles quivered up and down her back like a twitchy horse tormented by flies. Her jaws ached from the strain, but she refused to release a single scream, even though it would make her feel better. Fuck, it hurt. It felt like he was peeling her flesh off her bones strip by strip.
If Victor were behind her, she’d know she was pleasing him. He’d be punishing her with his body, tormenting her with what she couldn’t have until he decided she’d had enough. And bliss, he’d touch her. He’d speak to her. His voice alone right now could send her screaming into release.
For this Master, all she felt was the vicious strokes with no relief, no pleasure in sight.
“Ten,” she gasped.
And now Mal gets to do the same thing. A soft sound escaped her lips. Not a moan, thank God, but a small crazed laugh. This has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
“Very impressive.” Patrick circled her so she could see his face. “You’ve fully satisfied your punishment, Gift.”
She’d been creeped out by him and his pony shit, and there was obvious tension between him and Victor, but for the first time, she really appreciated his skill and dedication. The whip had been like an extension of his hand, and he’d timed and placed each blow exquisitely.
She tried to smile but her muscles were jumping and trembling too much.
Georgia stepped in front of her, fluttering a fan frantically before her face. “Our viewers certainly know not to fail such a challenge when playing with one of our Masters. Well done, Master P.”
“Cut.” Victor pushed up from his chair, his voice as harsh as though he’d shattered that goblet and swallowed the shards of glass. “Mal.”
The Mistress became producer in a heartbeat. “Let’s get Shiloh out of these bonds and continue filming with Peppi on the cross while Shiloh takes a break.”
As Victor approached, the other Dominant inclined his head and stepped back with a grand flourish. Without another word, Victor loosened a cuff and caught her against him effortlessly, supporting her weight while he unbuckled the other.
Now, she moaned. Yes, her back was on fire and his touch made those marks sting, but the torment came from his body, his nearness, and most of all, his control.
He locked his hands on her arms and swept her off her feet. She couldn’t help but moan again. She clu
tched his shirt and buried her face against his neck. Just the scent of his skin and the heat of his body were enough to feed the pain blazing on her back, twisting it toward pleasure.
Yet he still didn’t speak. Despite the fact that they were both dressed in period clothing, he strode out of Silken, tossed her in the front seat of a red sports car so quickly she didn’t even see its make, and tore out into traffic.
“Victor—”
“No,” he growled. “Don’t you dare speak to me right now.”
Shame flooded her face and hitched her heart in her chest. Was he that angry? Tears dripped down her cheeks, where she hadn’t cried while being whipped. She’d endured that pain for him.
I would endure anything for him.
He jerked the wheel sharply and pulled into the underground parking beneath VCONN Tower. In moments, he hustled her out of the car and into the elevator, still grim and silent, his fingers locked about her arm so hard she’d have bruises tomorrow.
More bruises that would ultimately torment him with more guilt.
He dragged her down short hallway to his private penthouse, threw open the door, and marched her straight into his bedroom where he threw her flat on her stomach across the edge of his bed. Planting his forearm on her neck, he pinned her, his breath rasping in her ear.
“So you want to be punished? Let me show you what I think about your little display with Pat. Maybe next time you should put on a bridle for him.”
The crop cracked against her ass so hard, so fast, she couldn’t help but scream. All the pain she’d taken from the other Dominant’s whip suddenly boiled back to life. She remembered every stroke, every whistling blow, and now Victor augmented that pain with his own. The pent up need she’d kept bottled deep inside exploded out of her. Shuddering, she came so hard she bit her lip and tasted blood.
The crop lashed her again and again, building that fire until she sobbed and moaned his name, fighting his grip. “Please, V, God, please!”
“What do you want, Gift?”
“Please, fuck me, Master. Fuck me so hard that I can’t think, I can’t breathe, I can’t move without remembering you inside me.”
He ripped and tore his way through her clothing and slammed inside so hard that he stole her breath. Her vision wavered and pain speared through her. He wasn’t a small man, not at all, and he took no care to ensure her pleasure. This wasn’t about her. This was about the Master taking what was his, imprinting himself on her psyche so deeply that she couldn’t imagine ever having sex with another man ever again.
The crop came down again on her hip and outer thigh, the pain a red-hot brand to tie her to him forever.
Nobody will ever hurt me as good as Victor.
Her mind felt fuzzy, disconnected from her trembling, wracked body. She cast herself higher, giving him the screams he needed to hear, the pain he needed to know she felt and enjoyed, and yes, the pleasure that shattered her mind and left her sinking into warm, velvety darkness.
She made herself a gift and gave her heart and soul to him.
Chapter Seventeen
V’s Gift Blog
I’ve been thinking a lot about V’s desk. It’s a shiny black monstrosity nearly as wide and long as a king-size bed. Now if you’re thinking that I’m fantasizing about stretching out on top of that desk, then you don’t know me very well at all. No, my fantasy would be to hide beneath the desk.
Can’t you just see some snooty high-society lady droning on and on about whatever fundraiser she wants Him to support, while I unzip His pants with my teeth?
As a Master, He’ll be able to control Himself for a very, very long time, and I’m a damned good submissive. I can play for a very long time.
I love His cock, every inch of it. I’ll lick it, kiss it, simply put my face on it and breathe His scent. Only when He puts His hand in my hair and shoves deep into my throat will I start to suck.
I’m terrible, I know, but it makes me laugh every time I think about it. If you’re ever lucky enough to enter V’s office and He doesn’t rise to shake your hand, maybe my fantasy just came true.
The crop lay on the mattress, mocking him. He’d broken his promise and brought the damned thing into his bed. Furious, he slung the crop across the room, unable to bear the sight of it.
Curled around her protectively, Victor held her in his arms, waiting for her to awaken. He listened to her breathing and watched her face for any wincing or indication of pain. Dear God above, what had he done? The great Master had so little control that he couldn’t bear to see his sub play with another Dominant?
Patrick had played cleanly. He hadn’t copped a feel or made any inappropriate comments, but jealousy still ate a hole in Victor’s gut every time he thought about that damned whip.
Her face had twisted in pain, straining, he knew, not to cry out. Not to indicate any passion behind those blows. Had that pain been the sick, hurtful kind of pain, like pulled muscles and torn tendons? Or was it the damned good kind of pain that heated her blood and made her wet?
Damn it, he knew the answer, and that’s why his belly burned with acid.
He’d never been so possessive of a sub before. Even after they’d become engaged, Kimberly had often done scenes at Silken with other Dominants, and he’d thought nothing of it. Maybe it was the pain aspect, which he himself associated with arousal and sex. The kind of pain one received in a scene was the kind that got him off. No Dominant had ever gotten Kimberly off while he watched, at least not that he knew about.
Murmuring beneath her breath, Shiloh turned in his arms and nuzzled deeper into his chest. “That was fantastic.”
“I didn’t hurt you?”
“Mmmmm,” she nibbled and kissed his throat. “You hurt me so good.”
He squeezed her tighter, fighting to keep his voice calm and even. “You weren’t scared?”
She drew back so she could look up into his face. “Are you kidding? Hell no, I wasn’t scared. I loved it.” She bit her lip, searching his gaze, and then blurted, “I love you. I trust you. Don’t you know that?”
“How…” He swallowed the ragged edge in his voice. “How can you trust me?”
Shadows flickered through her eyes that he couldn’t name. Doubt? Concern? Anger? “Are you saying I shouldn’t?”
Releasing her, he stretched out on his back and stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I don’t know how far I’ll go. I don’t know what my limit is, and if I don’t know mine, how can you trust me not to cross yours?”
“I don’t know what my limits are either.” She laid her head on his chest and stroked her fingers up and down in lazy swirls, teasingly giving a light pull on his chest hairs. “Are you scared of me?”
“Hell, yes, I’m scared of you. Baby, you push me so hard I’m afraid I’ll drag us both off the cliff.”
“Well, as long as we go together, I don’t care.”
She said it so lightly, as though she really didn’t care, while the very thought made him ill. How could he love and protect her if he was the one who’d hurt her the worst?
“I suppose we ought to get back. Mal still needs to punish me.”
Stiffening, he fought for a calm and reasonable tone of voice. “I really don’t like another Dominant to punish you, even for the show.”
She propped her elbow on his chest so she could stare down into his eyes. In a somber, gentle voice, she said, “You know you’re the only one who can ever truly punish me, don’t you? What Patrick did was just a show. It didn’t mean anything.”
“It meant a big fucking deal to me to sit there and watch him hurt you.” When I wanted to hurt you myself.
“It hurt, sure, but it certainly wasn’t as glorious as what you just did. I’d much rather have you hurt me.” She shrugged, so nonchalant that he wanted to shake her. “It’s sort of like prostitution.”
He blinked, trying to follow her reasoning. “You’re not a whore.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Nibbling on his ear, she whi
spered, “But I’d be your whore, your slut, yours to take however you want. There’s absolutely nothing I won’t do for you.”
Lust speared through him so fiercely he thought seriously about rolling her over and beginning all over again. Mal could handle the afternoon’s taping. Hell, why not the whole evening?
“What I meant is that when a whore has sex for money, she might enjoy it sometimes, but it’s work. It’s a job. If she gets any pleasure out it, that’s a bonus.”
“I still don’t see how that applies to what you did with Patrick today.”
“It was a job. I didn’t take pleasure in it. It hurt, but I didn’t let it become pleasure, not like I would have if you were at the other end of that whip. Does that make sense?”
“Pain is pain, and for us, that means pleasure.”
She made a disgusted noise and sat up, sliding to the side of the bed. “Don’t be obtuse. You know that’s not true, or else why don’t you come every time your knee hurts? Patrick whipped me today. It was like your knee surgery. It was necessary. I felt no enjoyment in it.”
Snagging her arm, he squeezed until she turned and looked at him. “I don’t like it.”
She leaned down and brushed her lips against his. “After Mal’s done with me, drag me off set, slip your fingers under my petticoat, and see how much I liked it. Okay? And then, Master V, you should definitely punish me yourself.”
Mal met him at the door to Silken. “All hell’s breaking loose.”
Sighing, Victor reached back and tightened his ponytail. All hell’s breaking loose inside me too. “What’s up?”
She gave a hard look at Shiloh that made him wrap his arm around her, instinctively drawing her closer. “You may not want her to hear the details.”
“She hears everything, especially if it’s about the show.”
Mal flipped on the television above the bar. “Oh, it’s about the show all right.”
As soon as he saw KDSX sleazeball, Frank Firkuss, Victor knew it was bad news. They employed only the worst kind of backstabbing, vicious mudslingers and dirt-mongers.
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