The Unicorn

by Delphine Dryden

  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 1537

  Burnsville, NC 28714

  www.riptidepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

  The Unicorn

  Copyright © 2011, 2015 by Delphine Dryden

  Cover art: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  Editors: Sarah Lyons, May Peterson

  Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at marketing@riptidepublishing.com.

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-372-8

  Second edition

  February, 2016

  ABOUT THE EBOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED:

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  Delia and Daniel have a picture-perfect life. They like their jobs. They love their house. Everything is coming up roses . . . but in private, they’d rather have the thorns. Their recent forays into kink have brought them closer than ever, but there’s still something missing, and they can’t quite work it out.

  Mara knows what she’s missing: a significant other. She tried vanilla, and it was a total bust. But when she and her last girlfriend took things out of the kink club and into the “real” world, they fizzled. Even their friendship is on the rocks now. Mara feels like a lost stray, looking for a forever home.

  When the three of them meet up at the brand-new club Escape, their connection is instant. And surprising—none of them were expecting more than a few hot nights. But now they might be ready to bring their kinky threesome into the light of day and build a life together.

  About The Unicorn

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Delphine Dryden

  About the Author

  More like this

  Scenes in the main room at Club Onyx weren’t Mara Tyndall’s favorite thing. But they served their purpose.

  Tonight, that purpose was to make her forget her very stupid recent attempt to date outside her flavor. He was vanilla, she was rocky road. She should have known it could never work.

  She could also stand to forget her entire week at work. The developers who’d been late with their specs, then thrown her under the bus when she couldn’t get her portion of the manual written and delivered on schedule. Her supervisor, who knew she’d done her best with the limited time she had, but hadn’t backed her up to his boss because he didn’t want to “make waves” and throw off the production cycle even further. Mara had been forced to take one for the team—another of her least favorite things. And it was becoming a regular feature of the job. That afternoon, for the first time ever, she’d spent more time job hunting on her phone than working on her computer.

  Most people could achieve their Friday oblivion with a few beers and a movie, but she’d always needed something a bit more esoteric. In many ways her life had been easier, less stressful, when she had someone to provide that oblivion regularly.

  “I think this side’s done. Time to turn you over and toast the other side, slutski.”

  Mistress Amie was relentlessly perky. Her kitten-with-a-whip insouciance struck a particularly acute note tonight, because she knew exactly why Mara was there. She knew what Mara needed. And in her relentless, perky, cruel way, she was not saying I told you so.

  She was not saying it very loudly, with everything she did and every expression on her face. I told you you’d be back for more the minute your life turned to shit again. You need this too much to walk away. You need somebody like me.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  Amie always, always thought she knew best. And she was right often enough to make it really annoying. Which was one of the reasons she and Mara had split up. Except for their irregularly scheduled trips back down memory lane at the club.

  Mara gasped as Amie loosened the leather cuffs around her ankles. “Fucking . . . cheerleader from hell.” For her sass she received a brisk slap on the upper thigh where she knew the flogger marks were still flushing, blending into one blotchy pink map of the pain she’d endured thus far this evening. She groaned when the mistress released the restraints around her wrists and she lowered her arms too suddenly.

  “I can see we’re not quite there yet. Okay, stretch it out, then face the cross.”

  Amie really did sound as if she were leading an exercise class. Which was appropriate, since she was a Pilates instructor and personal trainer by day. The kind who made a lot of money making wealthy people hate her guts—they despised her, but loved the results she helped them achieve. Amie was an expert at getting people to take more pain than they ever thought they could tolerate.

  Mara knew the heights Amie could inspire her to. They had spent close to a year, off and on, exploring those heights, and although her mind might resist returning, her body was already responding all too eagerly to the cheerful mistress’s wicked ministrations.

  Mistress Amie was still her usual chirpy self as she shackled the leather back into place. “And now, let’s work that rear!”

  Mara inspected the top crotch of the St. Andrew’s cross she was now facing. The paint’s chipping. Tad needs to touch this thing up.

  “Count off.”

  The flogger cracked against her butt, and she reflexively shouted, “One!” before her brain caught up. “How high, Mistress?”

  “I’ll let you know. You know math isn’t really my thing, sweet cheeks.”

  Against the upper thigh. “Two!”

  Really hard across the shoulders. “Three!”

  The unpredictability slowly lost its edge, ceased to engage her mind and instead forced her to relax, to accept that there was only one important piece of knowledge here: there would be a blow. She wouldn’t know exactly when or how hard; she wouldn’t know where the pain would land next. She was buffeted this way and that, merely a leaf, and Amie’s flogger was the wind.

  “Do you need to come?” The chipper, smug voice in her ear was accompanied by a surprisingly gentle hand tracing the line of her spine from n
eck to ass. “Hmm? You want me to make you come for me, Mara?”

  The hand dipped lower, following the curve of one cheek, ending up cupping the top of one inner thigh. Amie wouldn’t touch her pussy unless she asked for it. That wasn’t the way things were between them anymore. Tonight was merely a favor, and an orgasm would be another favor. Another way for Amie to avoid saying I told you so. And they both knew it.

  She hated acknowledging that Amie was right. But she needed this too much. She needed to come in order to feel as if the scene was over for the evening. Submitting to her own needs was more important than submitting to Amie. It took more humility.

  She nodded. But even if things had changed, Amie hadn’t.

  “No. You know better. Say it.”

  “Please make me come.”

  “No. You know what I need to hear, slut.” Amie paused, then added more quietly, “You know what you need to say.”

  “Mistress. I need to come, please make me come, Mistress.”

  “Thank you. My hand or the flogger?”

  Oh, a touch. A touch was so nice, so personal. She knew Amie would do it just right, apply exactly the right amount of pressure. Press her perfect, leather-corseted breasts against Mara’s back as she slid two fingers inside her to tease, then finished her off with that brutally, beautifully merciless stroke against her clit. With her strapped to the cross on the dais, in plain view of everyone in the club. And she knew, with the part of her mind that remained aware of such things, that everyone was watching. Everyone. Watching the adorable cheerleader pinup whipping the naughty little Goth girl. It had once been the highlight of everybody’s week at Onyx, watching the two of them go at it on the cross.

  “The flogger please, Mistress.”

  It wasn’t really what she wanted. But it would be enough to get the job done.

  Amie paused, squeezed her thigh briefly, then backed off. She would never touch without permission. She loved rules, enforcing them as well as following them. She would never come anywhere close to crossing lines, and Mara had always found her predictable. The mind-fuck had never been Amie’s strong suit.

  Amie had never been able to push her the way she needed to be pushed. The way that had nothing to do with physical pain. Not that anything Amie did in their scenes was wrong . . . just that her words had never struck quite the perfect note that her actions had.

  But she knew how to work a flogger. Her touch with that was as exquisite as it had ever been. The snap of the leather between Mara’s legs was gentle—a caress, a tease. Not quite hard enough. Because Amie was a Dom, after all, and enjoyed the control that withholding afforded her. Mara enjoyed it too. She moaned and worked her hips, trying to push her ass out to present a bigger target. The next flick of the whip wrapped under and up a tiny bit, a zap of high-voltage pain over her clit and pubic bone, drawing the first true scream of the evening from her lips.

  Amie hit a rhythm a few strokes later, slap and swing and slap and swing and slap and oh . . . there.

  It hurt to come, and Mara screamed again as the flogger continued to drum against her. She craved the feel of fingers or a cock or something inside her, and the climax ramped higher and higher and felt almost spiteful because it wouldn’t let her go and it didn’t satisfy.

  It was a resolution of sorts, but wasn’t quite the relief she had sought.

  Amie pulled her down from the cross and into her arms, letting Mara weep into her honeysuckle-scented curls.

  And she didn’t say I told you so.

  A few minutes later, Mara was seated on the floor next to Amie’s chair, wrapped in the soft, fluffy throw she’d brought with her for that purpose. As Mara dutifully finished off a bottle of water and plucked idly at one of the Dom’s bootlaces, Amie leaned down and pressed an unexpected kiss to the top of her head. Then she handed her a business card. Mara took the card and stared at it for a moment before looking up at Amie.

  “Mistress?”

  “My friend Dru’s new club. You have to call for directions, and to get your name on the list. I know you don’t like new places, sweetie, but I think it’s time. You’re barely holding it together, aren’t you? Maybe you can find somebody new to play with there, who can give you what I can’t. Besides, I think it might be good for you to have a change of scene. I’m gonna tell Dru to expect your call.”

  She wanted to crumple the innocent white oblong into a ball and throw it back at Amie, but she knew her frustration wasn’t the Dom’s fault. It was her own. She looked at the card for another long moment before answering carefully.

  “I’m sorry if I didn’t please you tonight, Mistress. It was very kind of you to—”

  “Don’t. Don’t bullshit me. We were never like that.” Amie gave a sharp sigh and pulled her ankle from Mara’s reach, then stood and tucked a finger under Mara’s chin to force her eyes upward. She was too well trained to jerk away, no matter how much she wanted to.

  “Honey, we always did have a good time here in the club. It never worked outside, and we both knew that. But we gave it a good try, and I can respect that. What I cannot respect”—Amie landed a soft faux slap against her cheek—“is a sub who plays passive-aggressive bullshit games, and won’t let herself get what she needs from the arrangement.”

  Mara knew better than to apologize. She bit down on the automatic I’m sorry and nodded.

  “I’m not sure what you need, Mara. And I don’t think you’re sure either. But there’s no reason to feel bad about that. It’s brave to be out there trying. You don’t need to beat yourself up for not figuring it out faster.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “Especially not when there are so many people who would be thrilled to do that beating for you.”

  She couldn’t help but smile, and Amie grinned back—the million-megawatt, slightly evil smile that attracted subs from miles away. The prom queen has decided she wants to whip your ass . . . you’ll take it and like it, so bend over. Mara had been one of the first in line when Amie’d arrived on the local scene, and she would never regret the experience or their time together.

  But Amie really had been a popular prom queen, and Mara really had been a disaffected, Indie-rock-listening Goth girl. Similar ages, similar backgrounds on paper, but in reality they might as well have been from different worlds. Though they’d tried to find some common ground outside their scenes, it had simply never gelled. They shared one big negative: each of them had been on their own from the time they left high school. Amie’s fundamentalist family had kicked her out after catching her with another girl. Mara’s parents had divorced when she was young, and she had never felt at home in the apartment she moved into with her mom and brother afterward. She’d gone to another state for college and never returned. But “lacks a sense of family” wasn’t a solid basis for a relationship. Really, they should have figured it out as soon as they realized their entire music libraries had only a dozen songs’ worth of overlap—all Christmas music.

  Whenever things had gotten tough, they’d tried to solve it on the play floor at the club. In the end, that hadn’t been good for their relationship or their scenes.

  “Mistress, may I worship your boot?” A groveling young man in a studded black leather thong had knelt down near Mara at Amie’s feet. It happened all the time, and she knew to wait while Amie dealt with it. She didn’t blame the guy. She felt much the same about Amie, even though they were no longer together and she wasn’t a boot fetishist. Her ex-mistress had a magnetic vibe, drawing subs from all directions like so many helpless iron filings.

  This one made the mistake, though, of starting his move before he had received permission. He was already leaning in, mouth open, when Amie spoke.

  “Move that tongue any closer to my boot, worm, and you’ll be thrown out of this club for a month. Drool on the leather, and I’ll rip that fucker out of your damn mouth. You do not have my consent.”

  Then she turned back to Mara, ignoring the man, who was smart enough to squirm away without anothe
r word. He did whimper, however. He had almost certainly enjoyed the rebuke on some level.

  “Pushy asshole. Look, just call the number. I haven’t been yet, but I’ve heard the place is amazing. Dru . . . she has the best taste, so it’s sure to be awesome. And I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think it would help. It’s worth a shot, anyway. So be brave, okay? Now how are you feeling? Are you good to be on your own now, or do you need me to stay with you awhile longer?”

  Aftercare hadn’t been Amie’s strong suit even when they were still together. She tried to hide it, but Mara had always sensed she had a limited patience for cuddles. Now, without even perfunctory postscene snuggling, the care felt downright clinical. It would have amused her if she weren’t already feeling the dangerous drop as her endorphin high started to fade. As it was, she thought an attempt to keep the connection going would only weary and depress her further.

  “I’m good. Go play, have fun. And thank you.”

  “You know it was my pleasure. And a perfect warm-up for me, too. I’ll go play, but I’ll stay out in the main room in case you need me before you go, okay? And I’ll call you tomorrow to check up on you.”

  With another pat to her cheek, Amie was gone, strolling away across the main floor of the club like the Queen of the Doms, off to review her subjects.

  Leaving Mara alone to consider the merits of calling the number on the innocuous white card.

  There came a moment for Delia when it all balanced perfectly, suspended in time, fragile and magical. The pleasure and the pain, the need to come and the desire to cling to delicious arousal. The struggle, and the sweet inevitability of submission.

  That was the moment that always made it worth doing in the first place. What it was all about. And lately, she couldn’t seem to get there.

  Daniel was a wonderful husband, and when Delia had finally confessed a few months earlier that she needed something edgier in the bedroom, he’d gone along enthusiastically. He’d seemed relieved, even, that she’d brought it up. Because it had always been there, a silent factor they both hinted around but had never spoken aloud. He’d had the impulse but hadn’t known how to raise the subject, because it wasn’t his native tongue—dominance. He was still learning, as was she. Usually the knowledge that they were in this together, learning this for each other, was more than enough to compensate for any momentary lapses into awkwardness. They could laugh it off, work it out. The past few weeks, though, the timing had been off.