Command (Changing Roles Book 1)

by Ellie Masters

  Fuuuck! Just breathe.

  Pins and needles shot to my fingertips. Adrenaline hijacked my heart rate and ran with it. I shook out my hands and imagined my safe place. All techniques taught by a talented team of therapists years ago. Only it hadn’t worked then. So why the hell did I think it would now?

  Because I wasn’t thinking. I was too far gone and too nervous about what waited for me inside, and my gut reacted before my brain caught up.

  Such an idiot.

  I knew what worked, what always worked. Closing my eyes, I imagined a whip in my hand and a naked male in front of me. Three deep breaths and ten rapid-fire strikes of the imaginary whip on heaving flesh later, the tingling around my mouth receded. Warmth flooded my hands. A strong, steady heartbeat thudded in my chest.

  Good.

  Therapists didn’t know what worked for me. Best therapy in the world lay behind the walls of Stripes. Give me a male submissive, a private room, and a whip, and my worst demons disappeared every time.

  This was Mrs. Westmoreland’s fault. Her agonized sobs had activated a trigger and reopened my past. Memories I’d rather keep buried were resurfacing with her daughter’s murder, bringing my past trauma front and center.

  I needed to keep that shit locked down tight.

  I stomped my boots on the asphalt and put the business card in my pocket along with Elizabeth’s photo. My determined strides moved me toward the black-and-red-striped entryway. Last time I’d crossed this threshold, I’d been a dominatrix at the height of my game.

  Tonight, nerves rattled around, uncorked and uncontrolled. Not a good start. That was okay. I’d fake it until I controlled it. I rolled my shoulders back, jutted my chin forward, and narrowed my eyes. Inside I might be a mess, but outside everyone would see exactly what they expected.

  The Mistress of Pain had returned.

  The outer facade of Stripes looked like any typical office building. By invitation only, people had to know the club was here. I opened the front door and entered.

  One of my favorite parts of the club, the foyer had been designed to be a transitional space, open and full of couches, plants, art, and fountains. For the unintentional stranger off the street, the lobby provided a barrier to the private levels above—a place to politely send those who didn’t belong back outside.

  For members, it was a place to shed outside identities. Potential new members and guests waded through mandatory screening protocols and orientation to the house rules before being allowed access to the upper floors.

  A score of people gathered inside, socializing or registering their guests and filling the room with an excited buzz of energy. The deep voices of men anchored the sound, while lilting feminine laughter carried the room, creating an atmosphere unmistakably geared toward sensual pleasure.

  With my first step through the doorway, the hubbub of the room dropped a notch. My third step brought a hush that spread like wildfire. The first whispers floated toward my ears, my moniker, Mistress of Pain, spoken with more than a hint of awe. The tiniest smile lifted my lips.

  They remembered me.

  Each step forward boosted my confidence. I marched straight toward the registration desk, each step firmer than the last. The spike in my heart rate eased. I’d been worried for no reason. My reputation had withstood the intervening years. The arrogance of the Mistress of Pain grew, swelling inside me and stamping out the useless second-guessing from moments before.

  I was here to possess, to claim, to inflict pain. It burned in my veins with an angry intensity. The desire growing in my gut needed to be fed before I could focus on the work that had actually brought me here.

  I cut to the front of the line. Not a single person complained. They parted for me, stepping aside as if it were their honor to give up their space in the queue.

  God, it was good to be home.

  The attendant behind the desk looked up. His eyes widened in the shock of recognition. He opened a bin and handed over a black wristband, the slightest tremor shaking his hand.

  “Mistress Kate, welcome back.”

  The corner of my lip curved up for the second time, bolder now. Worries over my reception had been for naught. I barked out a command. “Reserve me a private room.”

  He clicked through a screen on the computer. “Your usual room is available.”

  My usual? I tried not to appear surprised. “Yes, that will do.” My usual was a room containing a Saint Andrew’s Cross. This was perfect.

  I climbed the sweeping staircase to the second level, which held locker rooms for guests. I bypassed those and punched the elevator button for the sixth floor, where the main open-play spaces were located. The private rooms were located on the fourth floor, but first I needed to procure a willing partner. Someone who could endure what the heat in my blood demanded.

  My plan was simple. Survey, select, and take.

  Work out my demons. Then and only then would I tackle the case.

  When the elevator doors opened on the sixth floor, the scents of leather, smoke, sweat, and sex settled over me in a swirling cloud of a fetish club in full swing. Circling on the currents of the air, moans and cries of pain and ecstasy created a dark symphony of need and want that wrapped me in a blanket of welcome-the-fuck-home.

  Flickering lamps provided the only illumination on the cavernous area that was the main play space. There were no windows. They’d all been bricked in, giving the place the in-your-face ambiance of a dungeon.

  The tall ceiling, painted in flat black, soaked up light, enhancing the gloom. The walls had been painted to resemble stone, with flickering lamps spaced out, providing soft pools of illumination, which faded off into darkness until the next one along the wall cast its eerie glow.

  Speakers hidden in the walls filled the air with a deep carnal beat, bathing me in a wealth of sensations as the music pulled me deep into a private world—a world I anxiously awaited to fill with pain.

  Many new faces greeted me on my initial stroll. I took my time examining cordoned-off private-scene areas. Still early, less than half were occupied. Observers stood quietly beyond the rope barriers watching the exhibition of those at play

  I joined them for a time before moving on, letting my presence be known. Dungeon Monitors with their armbands and black vests circulated among the crowd, answering questions, checking equipment, and ensuring the safety of all involved.

  As in the lobby, whispers tracked my movements. Club regulars who recognized me explained to the uninitiated who walked among them. My title, Mistress of Pain, floated on excited conversations in my wake.

  I politely acknowledged other Doms and Dommes with a fractional nod but did not seek their company. Those who did approach were warned off with an icy glare. After circling, I retreated to the bar area beyond the dance floor and selected an empty table.

  A server approached and took my order. Water, a signal to all I was there to play.

  One man approached. He stopped ten feet away. His chin lifted, and his gaze met and held mine, not skittering away. I arched a brow as he lowered himself to his knees. His eyes locked hard on mine. Unusual for a submissive, who should have lowered his gaze.

  Audacious that he would stare. I let him wait while I took my time to admire him. Impeccable in tight leather pants, the crotch tied in laces. His bare chest provided a blank canvas for my whip. The deep brooding of dark-charcoal eyes showed promise of strength.

  I liked that.

  A bodybuilder too. Muscles bulged in all the right places. He kept his head shaved, which only served to accentuate the deep intensity of the stare he continued to level at me. So incredibly powerful and challenging.

  Didn’t he know who I was? Or what I did to the men who knelt before me?

  What was this? Shoes?

  His sneakers identified him as a Dom. A requirement at Stripes for all submissives was that they remain barefoot or wear signature club slippers. Yet there he was, kneeling and wearing shoes.

  A dominant man requestin
g my consideration.

  Not a single muscle twitched, and his gaze remained fixed, eyes locked to mine. But his resolve didn’t last. Eventually, he lowered his gaze to the floor.

  “Please, Mistress,” he whispered on the huff of an exhalation. “When you disappeared, I thought I’d lost my chance. I vowed never to suffer in the shadows again. Forgive my impertinence, but I need to serve you tonight.”

  He needed to serve me? Interesting choice of words. I chose to ignore him and fixed my focus on a nearby couple swaying on the dance floor.

  Minutes passed while I weighed his resolve. His destruction intrigued me, as did the rebuilding which would follow. His terror, pain, and the euphoric release I would infuse in him were what I came to deliver. If I took him, he would give me the gift of his pain. And some part of my emptiness might be filled.

  Finally, he broke the silence. “I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mistress. Forgive my presumption. I ask your leave to depart.” He remained still, waiting for a dismissal.

  I drank from my water bottle. “You don’t have it.”

  A look of surprise fluttered over his features. Desire burned in his eyes. That was a challenge I could not refuse.

  “How do you know me?”

  He breathed out. “Everyone knows the Mistress of Pain.”

  “You’re not submissive.” My words established power, a foundation from which our evening would progress.

  “No. But tonight if you’ll have me, I am yours.” He toed off his shoes.

  “I bring men such as you so much pain they don’t know where pleasure begins and pain ends. Are you sure this is what you want?”

  The pace of his breaths intensified. “Yes, Mistress, if it pleases you.”

  “I need pain. Can you give me that?” The fire in his eyes gave me hope he could; otherwise, I wouldn’t waste my time.

  “I would endure any torment to bear your mark.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Tyler.”

  “Very well, Tyler. Your safe word is club standard: red. All my sessions are open to the Gallery. This will not be an issue with you.”

  Dominants could choose whether to retract the privacy screens covering the Plexiglass ceilings. Interested onlookers in the Gallery, one floor above, would then be free to watch. I always allowed voyeurs. It off-balanced the submissives, knowing others would witness their torment. He might have a problem with it, considering his status as a Dom. He could refuse. If he did, I’d move on and choose someone else.

  Technically, I was supposed to ask his permission, but why waste my time. If he wasn’t agreeable, I didn’t want him.

  “No, Mistress,” he said with breathless anticipation. “Anything to please you.”

  I enunciated each word, making sure he understood. “Tyler, I am going to hurt you. Mark you. There is no guarantee I will allow you any release. Is this what you want? Do not lie.”

  He licked his lips, and he lowered his gaze, a sign of uncertainty. But then his gaze settled back on my face, his resolve firmly fixed.

  I treasured his ability to hold my gaze. So many submissives averted their eyes. It made it difficult to gauge their reactions.

  “I do, Mistress, but you must know…I’ve never submitted before.”

  “Then why now? And why with me?” I was not a beginner’s Domme.

  “You once played with…someone close to me. He speaks often of what your touch did for him. I wish to understand what he meant.” A tightness in his eyes formed.

  “And what is that, Tyler?”

  “He said you make his pain go away…that you silence the world.”

  I understood that. The calmness that came from euphoria. I craved the same, but I couldn’t have it. Instead, I was relegated to providing those sensations to others and watching them achieve that which I desired most.

  “Be careful what you wish for. What is your safe word, Tyler?”

  The repeating of his name was intentional. I had mere moments in which to bind him to me. Each time I spoke, I imbued his name with a caress. He didn’t realize it, but he was becoming attuned to the sound of my voice. His name became my word of power.

  “Red, Mistress,” he said.

  “And will you use it, Tyler?”

  “Yes, Mistress. If I need to, I will.”

  “Tyler, it’s not a matter of if. You decide to go through with this, and I will drag it from you. We will reach that point slowly, but we will achieve it. You’re not strong enough to bear what I need to give. No man is. But it’s a journey we’ll take together. I’ll test you and judge you. Do you still wish to do this?”

  He didn’t look away. Strong positive sign.

  I sucked in a breath, excited now.

  In a clear, confident voice, he gave his assent. “I’m aware of your reputation. I’m asking for this one session…to…to settle some things in my head. I need this. So yes, Mistress. Please.”

  I nodded. “So be it. We need to discuss limits.”

  While I did not know him, he appeared to know me very well. He breathed out and listed his limits.

  A pre-scene tranquility fell over my mind. I had precious little time to read Tyler and figure out what would push him to the edge, but this was my strength. By the time we finished our negotiation, I knew exactly how to lead him through a perfect scene to achieve the release he desired.

  My blood thrummed with power. Balance would come at the end of a fast-flying whip and on the screams of the man under my control.

  He couldn’t know how much I needed this. In delivering pain to him, I pushed my pain away. Win-win for us both.

  Only problem—no man could take the amount of pain required to absorb all of mine.

  But he would keep the flashbacks at bay.

  All the bottled-up memories would fade with the application of my whip. They always had in the past. Emotions I couldn’t control would dissipate on his strangled screams.

  With Elizabeth’s face in my head, I needed his agony. My trigger hadn’t been active in many years. Tyler would exorcise his demons and mine as well.

  Except mine always came back.

  I needed control now, before I lost my shit completely. Only then could I focus on the primary reason I’d returned to Stripes.

  Chapter Three

  Jake

  Up in the Gallery, in the mezzanine reserved for club regulars, I gathered with the rest of a growing crowd. Rumor had it the Mistress of Pain had returned, and like everyone else, I was there to watch her perform.

  A cute female submissive was leaning too far over the railing a few feet away, her bare feet kicking in the air. I captured her ankles in my hands and gently lowered her to the floor, then gave her ass a light swat.

  “Be careful there. You don’t want to fall over.”

  She responded with a pretty smile and a delicate flush. “Yes, Master Jake.”

  Her fingers gripped the rail, and she obediently kept her feet on the floor. Her abundant cleavage struggled for freedom beneath a tight-corseted top, providing me with a welcome distraction.

  What were the chances this lovely girl hadn’t already been snatched up by a hungry Dom? Exploring my chances, I made small talk. “Interesting scene.”

  The girl glanced up through heavy lashes and smiled. “Oh yes, Sir. It’s just getting good.” She pointed down. “The Mistress just finished whipping him on the cross.”

  “Ah.” Seeing a man tied up and whipped pushed all the wrong buttons for me. Even though I owned this club and it catered to all sexual orientations and fetish flavors, I was very much a hetero-dominant male.

  I was only here to see if the legendary Mistress of Pain did indeed live up to the hype. We had need of a strong female to take the lead in some of our training classes. I traced my finger along the girl’s arm. “Do you like the cross?”

  Her eyes rounded with excitement. More blushing followed, and she curled her shoulders inward, giggling. Definitely interested.

  “Are you with anyo
ne tonight?”

  Her brows drew together. “No, but…” She turned her wrist over.

  Two holes had been punched into the white wristband she wore. The punches meant she’d had two alcoholic drinks at the bar, effectively putting her off-limits to further play according to club rules. One of my safety protocols, which meant no one could touch her. There wasn’t a way to ensure safe consent once alcohol was added to the mix, and I was all about safe, sane, consenting practices.

  In the fetish business, there was no other way. My rules protected not just her, but me as well.

  Such a shame. Perhaps I’d find her another night.

  The buzzing of the crowd swelled around us suddenly, and startled gasps from those nearby had me turning from the beauty beside me to the dominatrix in the room below.

  I knew that she’d joined Stripes a year after it opened. While not a founding member, she had nevertheless secured herself a lifetime membership by depositing start-up cash for our venture capital. I hadn’t paid much attention to the woman clad in white at the time. Dommes weren’t my thing.

  When she’d really started establishing a name for herself, I had already left town—forced out, really.

  Of course, my departure had involved a girl. Like father like son, kink ran in our blood, only my father’s tastes leaned much darker than mine. Not safe. Not sane. BlackJack was a dangerous Dom.

  Our disagreement had ended with my departure, but I had the girl. No love lost there, and I returned after BlackJack Davenport had died. He’d drowned bringing home, of all things, the body of my twin.

  Identical twins, Josh and I shared everything growing up. And while we finished each other’s sentences, that’s where the twin thing ended. His heart had turned dark under the tutelage of our father, whereas mine remained untouched. I pursued pleasure. Josh sought pain. Less than a handful of people could ever tell us apart. Our outward appearances and mannerisms were truly identical. However, our souls marched to an entirely different beat.