L is for… (BDSM Checklist Book 12)

by L. DuBois

  The crisis seemed to have passed, but he didn’t know if he’d gotten through to her.

  Part of him was worried that he’d broken something between them with that scene. An even larger part of him wanted to make sure that she knew that nothing had changed between them. That he didn’t think any less of her for the submission she’d shown.

  If he were in this situation with a different woman he would have approached it from another angle. But this was Vic.

  “What’s really important…” Cain waited for her to look at him. “Is that I won.”

  Her eyes flashed fire and Cain crowed inside.

  “You did not win.” She shook her head. “It’s not a game. Or a competition.”

  “Maybe not for everyone…but I think for you it is. I think you need to win, and being super submissive…well, that looks like losing.”

  Vic propped her chin on her hand. “Oh, by all means, do go on, Doctor Freud.”

  “I think you don’t want to be seen as a submissive, because you don’t understand people who can give in without the battle.”

  “That argument doesn’t hold water. I don’t fight with my rope tops.”

  “Because you are the top in those situations.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “They’re just doing what you want. Helping you get your rocks off.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it.

  “I bet you’d make a scary, dangerous Mistress,” Cain mused.

  Her brows rose and Vic’s gaze slid down his body, what she could see of it at least. “Are you offering to be my first sub?”

  “Sure…I like fighting you for control. I promise that by the end you’d be the one on their knees.”

  Vic touched her tongue to the center of her upper lip. “You’d be begging to lick my boots by the time I was done with you.”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  Cain knew that they hadn’t fully unpacked her feelings. It was enough for now that he knew she’d felt more submissive than she was used to in that scene, and that she knew he didn’t think any less of her because of it.

  This was a good stopping point. A natural end to both this evening and their first weekend together.

  But it was still early.

  Sure they could have been done for the night…But now it was his turn. Time for him to get some satisfaction.

  “You ready to play again?” Cain wiggled his brows.

  “Nope,” she said without any hesitation. “I don’t think I can take any more impact play.”

  “Well then, how about you just roll over and let me get my hands on those pretty tits.”

  And for the next hour, Cain pinched, licked, tweaked, and massaged.

  Chapter 9

  This would be a hell of a lot easier if he could use a rubber dildo with a suction cup base.

  Cain stood back, crossed his arms, and glared at the motorcycle. His Moto Guzzi California 1400 was a touring bike, with a pillion—a dedicated seat for a passenger. He rarely had a passenger on, and only used the MG for long coast rides.

  It was the only one of his personal rides that had an official pillion, though his dual sport and cruiser both had a long enough seat to be two-person bikes.

  The original seat of the Moto Guzzi was off to the side of his workshop/office. He’d carefully removed it, and rather than fabricate a new base, he’d called a friend who worked for MG and had them send over a production line piece. He’d rough cut and shaped the upholstery dense padding.

  Now was the hard part.

  How and where to attach the dildo.

  Then he’d have to piece a pattern together for the seat cover and get it over to his leather guy. Cain would have rather sewn it himself—he’d done some leather work on a few of the custom bikes he’d built—but he didn’t have the tools to cut and sew a complex, detailed piece.

  He set the flat-based ball joint hinge—with the large floppy dildo stuck on it—on the front third of the pillion. He stared at it, then shifted it back two inches.

  Suction cupping a dildo to the original seat would have been so much easier.

  Behind him, his computer rang.

  Cain sighed, rolled his shoulders and turned to his desk.

  His office was in a corner of the former garage. He’d bought the decrepit property in El Segundo for its price and location. It had been a quick oil change and smog inspection place with two bays that went out of business. Then the city rezoned the area away from industrial to more mixed use, and the neighbors had managed to make it untenable for a mechanic to buy it.

  So instead, Cain bought it. It had been a serious financial gamble back when he’d still been working as a mechanical engineer for Raytheon.

  For a long time he’d illegally lived in the former front office, which had a small shower thanks to OSHA regulations. A toilet, shower, hot plate, and Rubbermaid containers for a closet had been good enough. He’d go to work during the day, then come home and build custom bikes or tinker with designs for electric motorcycles.

  Now he had a house—a tiny little place just down the street, though he could have afforded bigger—and his own mechanical engineering consultancy.

  He’d left Raytheon for a job as lead engineer for a startup bike company, back when an electric motorcycle was more a punchline of a joke than anything anyone really thought about.

  Zero Motorcycles was now thriving, turning out beautiful, fast street and dual sport bikes. He’d taken another risk when he left them to go out on his own, but it paid off. As a consultant, Cain had worked with the Harley team on how to make their first electric bike “sound” like a Harley, without the consumers having to depend on aftermarket exhaust slip-ons. He’d traveled all over the world talking about his favorite things in the world—motorcycles and environmental conservation.

  And occasionally BDSM.

  Cain nudged his chair around to face his monitors before dropping into it. He stared at the video chat program.

  Ciro Bianchi was calling him.

  Why the hell was Ciro calling him? They didn’t have a meeting arranged, and Ciro wouldn’t just call him for a consult without some emails back and forth to set it up. Ciro, while highly placed in his company, didn’t have the clout to arrange meetings with consultants who charged by the minute. That meant this was a friendship call.

  He and Ciro had more in common than a love of electric motorcycles.

  Cain smiled as he answered. “Ciro.”

  Even without knowing his name, it would be easy to guess Ciro was Italian. Dark hair, dark eyes, Mediterranean skin tone, a thick accent when he spoke English…and he wore skinny pants. As far as Cain was concerned, skinny pants and a polo with a race car maker emblem were the national dress of Italy.

  There was a blond man with Ciro, off to the side of the image. Maybe this was a work call. Cain nodded to the stranger even as his curiosity spiked.

  Ciro was sitting in what looked like his living room. The blond man was leaning against a wall to the left and slightly behind the chair where Ciro sat.

  It was probably the angle, but the Scandinavian-looking dude seemed huge. The stranger wore slacks and a dress shirt and tie. The attire screamed stuffy and formal, at least the way he was wearing it, but the man was…dangerous. Cain narrowed his eyes. He had good instincts, and that guy was giving off I’m-trying-not-to-seem-threatening-but-really-I’m-dangerous vibes.

  There was a window visible in the background, and it was dark. The lights of Modena, Italy, sparkled in the night.

  “Cain, it is good to talk to you.” Ciro’s accent was more elegant-perfume-ad than mob-movie, though Cain always had to resist the urge to start quoting The Godfather.

  “Yea, long time.” Around this time last year when he’d been in Italy to close out their latest project. Ciro was a lead engineer at the Energica Motor Company—the premier maker of Italian electric motorcycles. All EMC’s bikes were racer styles, as befit anything born in Italy. Cain had met Ciro when he first went to Italy to consult s
everal years ago, and they’d worked together on two different projects since then. EMC had been one of Cain’s first big international clients when he went out on his own.

  That last time he’d seen Ciro in person, it had been for three days of meetings, which were mostly just to wrap up the designs and present the prototype, then a weekend partying with the younger Italian man.

  “How are you?” Ciro asked with a smile.

  “Good. This a social call?” The blond wasn’t someone Cain recognized from EMC, though Cain could hardly claim to know everyone. Still, it was late in Italy, and Ciro was at home. This wasn’t business.

  “Not social, but…personal?” Ciro lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

  Cain crossed his arms, his gaze flicking between Ciro and the stranger. His arms were bigger than the blond man’s. Heh.

  “Spit it out,” Cain grunted.

  “My friend here…he’s starting a club.” Ciro gestured to the blond, who pushed away from the wall.

  “A club club?”

  “Yes. And he is looking for established members of the community. To consult.”

  The blond man pushed off the wall and sat beside Ciro. It hadn’t just been perspective. Seated, he was half a head taller than Ciro. Dude was big.

  “Rolf,” the man said in introduction. “Rolf…Pedersdotter.”

  He said his last name slowly, as if he were reluctant to give his full name. Once again name, plus accent, plus looks made it easy to peg origin. Rolf was Scandinavian. Cain didn’t know enough to pinpoint a country, but the dude looked and sounded Nordic.

  Cain glanced at Ciro, raising one brow. That weekend he and Ciro had spent partying…most of that had been at either a fetish themed nightclub, or at the private BDSM club Ciro was a member of. The men had bonded over a mutual love of putting a pretty woman on her knees and taking care of her in the dirtiest, most taboo ways possible.

  “I’m a consultant, but I don’t know shit about setting up BDSM clubs. You want to design an electric motorcycle that’s pretty and fast, I’m your man.”

  “I am aware you are an engineer.” Rolf was smart enough not to look dubious, but there was a hint of it in his voice.

  Cain looked like a guy who rode motorcycles. He maybe even looked like a guy who built them. He did not look like the guy who designed the engines, created schematics that would control the machining needed to produce never-before-created parts, and calculated weight output ratios with an eye towards not just function, but form and feel.

  Cain leaned forward, arms braced on his knees, ready to say something about how if this guy was trying to hire consultants, backhanded insults were a shit first step.

  “But what I am most concerned with,” Rolf went on. “Is that you are…out.”

  Cain closed his mouth, glanced at Ciro, then back to Rolf. “Out.”

  “You are known, publicly, as a Dom.”

  Cain sat back, elbows on the arms of his chair, hands resting loosely on his thighs. “I’m not ‘out,’ I just don’t…hide it.” Cain saw no point in hiding what he liked.

  “Isn’t that the same thing?” Rolf raised his eyebrows, the intensity of his expression reinforcing the idea that this man was dangerous, and not just because of his size.

  Cain snorted. “If you want someone who is out, then go find a professional. Professional Doms are harder to find than Dominatrixes, but they exist. I don’t know shit about setting up clubs.”

  “I have spoken with professionals. Now I need the perspective of someone who is a member of a private club. I want your opinions on what works, what you enjoy.”

  Cain thought about the checklist game. There had been a lot of grumbling at the meeting where it was announced, but the checklist game was how he’d finally gotten his hands on Vic. Vic who was both exactly what he’d expected and so very different.

  Thinking of Vic brought his mind back to the MG, and he smiled.

  “You are not ashamed of what you are,” Rolf said. “You speak publicly about your needs.”

  This didn’t quite add up, though he thought he knew where it was going.

  Cain raised a brow. “And you can’t find anyone closer to home?”

  Rolf didn’t answer right away. “I take it that you’re not interested in speaking with me.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Cain wanted to poke at Rolf until he dropped the formal, stiff attitude. He wanted to see the wolf under all that wool. “I just don’t know why you’re asking me.”

  “Rolf, Cain is…is…” Ciro seemed to be at a loss for words, but then grinned. “He’s cool.”

  “Cool.” Rolf’s expression was a mix of resigned and irritated as he looked at Ciro.

  Some of Ciro’s easygoing manner slipped when he looked at Rolf. “Tell him.”

  Cain grunted in agreement. “Spit it out.”

  Rolf sighed and shook his head, then seemed to relax. The stiff business-like formality melted, and it wasn’t a change in appearance, but in a way he held himself. His shoulders relaxed, his head tipped to the side and Cain’s instincts were now flashing red lights and warning bells at the undefined danger he presented, despite the far more relaxed body posture.

  “I hope that when my club does open,” Rolf said. “You will be a member. Our first notable American member.”

  So it was that kind of ‘consultant.’ The kind where the consulting fee was really just a way to get someone with name recognition attached to the project.

  “Notable,” Cain said slowly. He’d never thought of himself that way, but the term wasn’t inaccurate.

  Las Palmas had a website, according to which it was an elegant property that could be rented for events, conferences, and filming. It just so happened that it was always booked when anyone inquired.

  There was no website for Las Palmas Obscuras—the formal name of the club itself. For most members, their BDSM needs were a closely guarded secret. Vic…she was definitely undercover.

  He twisted in his chair just enough to glance at the bike, and his as-yet unsuccessful dildo-seat.

  “I’m not famous.” He swiveled back to face the screen. “You know that, right?”

  “You are known, where it counts.”

  Among motorcycle enthusiasts he was a bit of a celebrity, though that didn’t mean everyone liked him. Plenty of bike people weren’t sold on the idea of electric motorcycles. Cain thought they were dumb assholes, and had no problem saying so. His comments to various magazines and blogs—mostly some variation of “anyone who disliked the very idea of electric vehicles simply because they were better for the environment is a fucking moron” had gotten him fifteen minutes of fame. His interview on Good Morning America was a human interest piece—the heavily-muscled, hog-riding, frank-speaking engineer who designed environmentally friendly bikes.

  Those 15 minutes of mainstream fame hadn’t been enough to make him famous anywhere except among the bike community, where he was already known, thanks to some custom projects that got a lot of attention.

  And none of that was what Rolf was talking about.

  Cain had made a ton of videos, especially as he was starting his consultancy. Some were time lapse videos of him building bikes that he produced and edited himself. Some were him out riding prototype electric bikes. Others were interviews, primarily with heavy-hitter YouTubers who had channels dedicated to motorcycles, be it the bikes or the lifestyle.

  In several videos interviews, he’d worn his leather vest with a BDSM patch on the back. A form of triskelion, the BDSM symbol was a circle divided in three by curved lines, with a dot in the center of each third. One of the YouTubers had asked him about it. After all, what you wore on your back was damned important.

  And he’d told the man. He’d told him exactly what the symbol meant. He wasn’t ashamed, and frankly didn’t give a shit what people thought—though the marketing company he’d hired to help with branding for his consulting business had nearly come unglued.

  The next time he’d been interviewed, there had
been some questions about his sex life, which Cain ignored, and a few about BDSM itself, which he answered. After that, he’d ended up doing Q&As, interviews, and even one or two scripted videos for the BDSM community.

  All without ever mentioning Las Palmas, or giving any specifics about his partners. He’d never even confirmed that he was heterosexual or a Dom, but no one had seemed to have a problem figuring out that was his deal.

  “Okay, fair enough.” Cain let the corner of his mouth kick up in a smile. He wasn’t famous, but he also wasn’t hiding what he was.

  But he was hiding from Vic. Hiding the truth and manipulating the situation to get what he wanted. Whom he wanted.

  “This isn’t a place for beginners, I’m guessing,” Cain said.

  “It will have some accessibility to the BDSM club for those who are curious. Also a section of the club will be open to the public, and function as a standard nightclub.” Rolf sounded like he was reading from a business plan. “But it is important to me that it be known in the community. To have…validity.”

  “I don’t know if you’re going to have a ton of people flying over from the States to Modena.” Some people might. Sex vacations weren’t unheard of, and combining an Italian vacation with visiting a good BDSM club made sense the more he thought about it. “You’ll have some,” Cain conceded.

  “That is my hope.” Rolf inclined his head. “But no, it will not be in Modena. I am considering modeling it on another club I know. It will…travel.”

  A traveling BDSM club. “Orchid Club?” Cain asked.

  “You know of it?” Rolf didn’t exactly look shocked, but he clearly hadn’t expected that.

  “A club owner in New York told me about it,” Cain replied. “Apparently the membership fee is seven figures.”

  “Eight,” Rolf countered.

  Cain arched a brow. He was doing damned well for himself, and Las Palmas’ annual fees cost more per year than the median house prices in some parts of the country. But spending a minimum ten million dollars for a membership at a BDSM club that met once a month… That was rich on a whole other level.

  If Rolf was a member, than meant he had deep enough pockets to finance a nicely outfitted club. And then pick it up and move it.